Round 77

The entity's voice echoes through the grand foyer staircase, each word a chill that seems to seep into their bones. Your threads are woven, it hisses again, its tone carrying an unsettling certainty. I will unravel them. The blue containment sigils surrounding them pulse erratically in response—magic responding to magic with visible distress.

Jeane's crimson eyes narrow dangerously as she listens, her demonic instincts screaming warnings even as the tactical part of her mind assesses options coldly. She speaks softly but there's an undercurrent of barely restrained power in her voice. Careful now, she warns, more statement than suggestion. Whatever is at top of those stairs just went from testing boundaries to measuring our defenses for exploitation.

She turns her attention specifically to Halie, noting the way the human woman braces herself against the wall—fear making her movements jerky but the set of her jaw showing determination through it. Five layers established, she reports clinically, voice professional despite obvious concern. The barrier should hold against direct magical assault, but that doesn't mean whatever's upstairs won't find other ways in. Her eyes narrow further as she watches Silra crouch lower with daggers ready—rogue instincts sharp enough to cut through bullshit even when exhausted.*

The air grows heavier, the silence between pulses of magic more charged than before. You think to contain me?, Zha'thik's voice comes again, softer now but somehow more menacing for it. Such hubris. The threads you weave are already fraying—can't you feel them unraveling?