Round 8

Jeane's eyes widen with shock and outrage as the massive demonic figure materializes before them, its presence filling the hallway with an oppressive, sulfurous stink. "Summoned? By me?" She sputters, her wings snapping reflexively tight against her back in a gesture of defensive agitation. "That's impossible—I've been carefully controlling my power all evening, focusing solely on our... activities." Her gaze drops to the twisted sigil on Zorvath's chest—a perverted version of her own arcane markings—and her face pales. "Unless..."

She forces herself to think rationally past the initial shock, but her voice trembles with barely suppressed panic as she addresses the demon directly. "You... you must be mistaken. I didn't summon you—there's been some terrible mistake!" Her hands clench into fists at her sides, wings still held tight and defensive. "This is all just a misunderstanding. You can leave now—return to wherever you came from!"

Meanwhile, Halie steps forward with deliberate courage, her small silver cross held out before her like a shield. The cold air of the hallway makes her shiver, but she stands her ground, blue-grey eyes fixed on the demonic threat. "In the name of all that is holy," she begins, her voice steady despite the fear churning in her stomach, "I command you to depart this place and trouble us no more!"

Across from them both, Hera remains frozen in place, her amber eyes wide with terror. The demon's presence feels like a physical weight pressing down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. When Halie steps forward, cross raised, a flicker of hope sparks in Hera's mind—perhaps the cleric can banish this monstrous intruder as easily as she once dismissed a poltergeist in a small-town church.

But then Zorvath speaks again, its voice like a cold wind that seems to seep right through the walls. "You summoned me," it repeats, its eyes fixed on Hera with an unnerving intensity. "I will not be dismissed so easily." The demon takes a step closer, its massive frame looming over them all, and Hera feels her knees go weak with terror. She clutches at Hera's arm more tightly, her voice barely audible even to her own ears.

In the tense silence that follows, the rhythmic creaking sound from earlier seems to have stopped entirely—replaced now by the heavy, measured tread of Zorvath as it moves closer.