The room held its shape.
Malox's arm stayed locked around Aline's shoulders, forearm hard across her collarbone. The knife rested beneath her jaw, edge angled up, unmoving. Therell's hands worked the device with practiced certainty, fingers confident, eyes down. Seris stood several paces away, held there by the idea of that blade rather than its reach. Vencian lay crumpled in the corner, face turned toward the wall, body slack and unclaimed by anyone's attention.
Time had settled around them. Long enough for breathing to fall into rhythm. Long enough for the strain in Malox's grip to become habit rather than effort. Long enough for everyone to accept the arrangement as fixed.
Vencian returned to himself slowly. He kept his eyes closed. He kept his breath quiet and counted it by pressure against his ribs and the grit of stone under his cheek. Sound arrived first. The faint scrape of metal from Therell's work. Cloth shifting at Malox's chest. Aline's breath, shallow and controlled.
