Round 94 Transcript

Halie's hands tremble as she holds the mirror against the doorframe, the wooden frame creaking ominously under the force of the structural collapse. The mirror wobbles, and for a moment, it seems to lean toward the wardstone energy, as if drawn to its pulsating power. Hera's sybian hums in sync with the wardstone's energy, the two creating an unsettling harmony that sends a shiver down Jeane's spine. The air is thick with tension as the group waits for the inevitable. In the corner of the room, Abby's eyes widen as she spots a small, leather-bound book on the floor, partially hidden under the spilled lubricant. It's an old diary belonging to the penthouse's former occupant, and it seems to be emitting a faint, pulsating glow. The wardstone's energy surges, and the mirror shudders in Halie's hands. The group's collective breath catches as the floor gives a final, desperate creak before tilting violently, threatening to send them all tumbling into the unknown.

The mirror shifts again. I adjust my grip, muscles straining against whatever force is pushing from the other side of that door. The wardstone's energy pulses like a sick heartbeat, and each time it does, something inside me responds—a twist of nausea or a flicker of unwanted heat that has nothing to do with fear. I glance at Hera on the sybian, her eyes closed, rocking in rhythm with whatever dark magic is flowing through this room. I don't want to look, but I can't seem to stop myself. "Please," I say without meaning to. "We shouldn't be doing this."

Jeane snaps, "What choice do we have?" She's right, of course she's right, and that just makes it worse—that we're trapped in a loop of necessity and corruption, using the very thing that terrifies us as our only lifeline. The floor tilts again, more dramatically this time, and I feel the weight of the building above us shift. I adjust my stance, feet spreading for better balance on the slick surface. My hands ache from holding the mirror in place, but I don't dare let go. "Abby," I call out, not turning to look at her—I can't handle another distraction right now—"see if you can find anything else heavy. A chair leg or something."

The wardstone pulses again, and for a moment it feels like the door itself breathes in and out with the rhythm. The mirror slides an inch toward me before I shove it back into place. "Steady," I mutter under my breath. I should be praying—praying for strength, for deliverance, for any sign that this is the right path—but every time I try to form the words, they dissolve in my mouth like ash. Instead, I focus on the physical: the burn in my arms, the cold metal of the frame against my palms, the wet floor soaking through my boots. Jeane's voice cuts through again, sharp with barely contained panic and something else, something darker that makes my skin crawl. "Hera, harder." The sybian hums louder. I want to close my eyes—to block out Hera's face as she chases whatever twisted salvation the wardstone offers—but I know if I look away for even a second, we're done. So I stare at the door instead, at the gap between frame and panel where shadows writhe like smoke, and I hold that mirror with every ounce of strength left in me. The building groans around us—a sound so close to human suffering that I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Another pulse from the wardstone, another shift from above, and I feel the moment when our makeshift barricade becomes a question of sheer will rather than physical strength.

I crouch down in front of Abby, my hands shaking as I try to steady her. "Hey, it's okay," I murmur, more for myself than for her. "We're going to get through this."

My eyes flick to the wardstone, its pulse throbbing in time with Jeane's spell. I can feel the energy washing over me, raising goosebumps on my skin. It's like nothing I've ever felt before - raw power, barely contained. "Abby," I say, my voice low and urgent. "I need you to focus. We need to find something heavy to brace that door. Can you help me look?"

She nods, her eyes wide and scared. Together, we start rifling through the cabinets under the sink, searching for anything that might help. In the back of my mind, a small voice whispers that this is all wrong. That we should be praying, not... whatever it is we're doing. But I push those thoughts aside. Survival comes first. Everything else can wait until we're safe. I grab a heavy metal pipe and hold it out to Abby. "Here," I say. "This might work."