Round 111

Silra watched the walls' movements with a rogue's cold calculation, her teal eyes tracking every quiver of the fungal growths that crawled across the ancient stone. The pressure eased for a moment as the walls seemed to pause, their pulsing intensity faltering in anticipation of Jeane's next move. The low hum that filled the corridor grew louder, matching the rhythm of Jeane's racing heartbeat with unsettling precision.

The elf woman's right arm hung at her side, the dead tissue covering nearly sixty percent of it now. She could feel the cold spreading further up her shoulder blade, the permanent nerve damage already confirmed by her own medical training. But tactical focus held back the rising panic—barely.

"Six meters," she said, voice steady despite the desperation clawing at her insides. "Maintain distance at all times. The walls are learning our signatures—probably every six seconds now, given their synchronization pattern." She glanced at Jeane's flame, noting how it flickered at barely fifteen percent output. That meant Halies' barrier magic was already straining against the corruption that seeped through these stones like poison.

Every moment counted. The grinding noise from below grew closer with each passing second—whatever mechanism controlled this room was preparing to crush them between walls that now pulsed with malevolent intelligence. Silra's fingers twitched, her good hand itching for a weapon that could actually damage something in this cursed place. But she knew better than most: some problems couldn't be solved with steel or firepower.

For now, the only solution was movement—maintaining distance while navigating this deadly gauntlet. And reporting what she'd learned about the walls' adaptation pattern as soon as they found safety. If such a thing existed in this hellhole.