Round 18

The clock on the wall ticked with maddening precision—5:07, 5:08, 5:09. Each passing second a countdown to Hera's arrival, a deadline that hung over them all like a guillotine blade poised to fall. Jeane stood tall and composed, her crimson eyes fixed on Silra with an intensity that made the air crackle.

"You wish to discuss... remorse... in private?" The sorceress' voice cut through the tension like a rapier, each word measured and deliberate. "How very convenient." Her wings shifted slightly behind her, the dark leathery membranes rustling softly—a sound at odds with the violent energy coiled in her posture.

This little elf thinks she can outmaneuver me? I'll show her what happens when you bite the hand that feeds you.