As the silence takes hold, Iromae realizes someone will likely come any moment. They have to do something! Already holding Vorenus' hand, she pulls him gently towards whatever nook or out-of-the-way spot she can see. She doesn't risk saying anything as she tries to keep as silent and motionless as possible. 

(Stealth: 8)

The silence inside the old tribunals is absolute. Too absolute. Every shuffle, every breath feels magnified. When Shenua’s boot slips, when Vorenus bumps the wall, when Iromae tugs him quickly into the shadow — it’s already too late.

From deeper in the passage, there is a ripple of sound — not boots, but cloth, soft and precise. Then the faint hiss of air displaced as a ward is broken. You hear a sharp click — not of steel, but of something arcane, deliberate.

And then the shadows move.

Figures detach themselves from the walls ahead and behind, dark silhouettes gliding silently on practiced feet. They do not speak. They do not draw blades. Instead, something cold and metallic presses against Iromae’s throat — not a sword, but a hooked iron rod, fixed with a shimmer of runes. Another clamps across Shenua’s wrists with unerring precision. Vorenus feels hands seize him from behind, far too many, far too strong to fight off in silence.

“No sound. No light,” a voice breathes in his ear. A whisper so close it vibrates against his skull.

And then comes the final command, quiet and deadly certain:

“Move.”

Iromae's heart pounds at the sudden movement and feel of metal against her throat. As much as she wishes she could object, their trio seems to have been overwhelmed.  She does as the voices say, keeping quiet, not producing any light, and moving as directed. She tries to calm herself, to get her pounding heart back to normal, and to think clearly.  While following every order, she tries to observe whatever she can about those who have captured them, and anything she can glean about their surroundings. (Perception: 8)

Vorenus feels the hands clamp and force his hands backward, he loses his connection to Iromae and he’s in the dark.  He has no option but to comply, he tries to get a gauge by sound and feel of how many are around them, how many hands are clamped down, how many voices and locations of movement.  He runs through quickly in his mind options of what he can do, there are some, but they all seem desperate.  Now does not seem like the time or place for action, but if matters grow more desperate, he will act.  He lets his limbs go limp, perhaps to give the assailants the impression of complete surrender, to build up their hopes of helplessness of their captive.  His mind is working furiously.  He walks forward in the manner that they lead him, practicing certain combinations and moves, spells in his mind as he walks, limbs limp and head down in submission as he does so.