Round 106 Transcript

At bathroom in a New York high rise penthouse suite, the pressure shifts from waiting to immediate risk. The ward answers the party's presence with a fresh pulse through the stone and no one can mistake it for safety. The nearest sign of danger is now structural collapse imminent. Someone has to answer that change now.

I back away from the door, blood dripping from my palms onto the tile floor mixed with water and whatever lube is still here. The wardstone pulses through my boots like I'm standing on a demon's heartbeat—faster now, insistent. Hera's breathing is too loud from where Silra pushed her back. My voice keeps cracking as I shout orders no one's following properly because they're all about to panic and make things worse. This whole situation is fucked—the building's groaning like it wants to collapse around us, the wardstone's answering with pulses that feel like teeth scraping inside my skull, and now I'm bleeding on the floor in a penthouse bathroom that probably cost more than my entire education. I need one person stable to prevent this room from becoming our tomb. So I make eye contact with Silra—she's got competent hands but her eyes keep drifting down when she thinks I don't notice, which is fine because we're all going to die if I can't maintain this barrier and the building gives out. But that kind of distraction right now? Not helpful. "Silra," I snap, sharper than intended, "Focus on bracing that door. Hera—stay in your corner and breathe." My tits are starting to leak again from the exertion of holding this spell together while standing on a wet floor with my hands bleeding onto the tiles. Great. One more thing to deal with before we all die. The wardstone pulses accelerate further—I can feel it in my teeth now—and I know we've got minutes at best. Maybe less if Hera starts screaming or Silra decides to get creative with our makeshift barrier instead of following direct orders.

The wardstone pulses against my palms like living metal, each beat driving fear deeper into my bones. I can feel it through the barrier—through the door frame and the mirror glass and my own skin—the wrongness of it seeping in with every breath. It's getting stronger, faster. Hera is huddled against the far wall, her breathing too fast, too loud. Her corrupted skin gleams faintly in the dim light, a reminder of what we're risking by staying here. But I can't leave her alone. Won't leave her to whatever awaits us beyond that door or in the collapsing building. "Silra," I say, voice steadier than I feel, "help me hold this side." The mirror is heavy, but not enough—not nearly enough against what's on the other side. I press my shoulder to it, feet braced wide, trying to ignore how the slippery floor makes every stance precarious. Jeane has backed away, bleeding from her hands now, and I can see the strain in her face even through the haze of fear and wardstone energy. She's trying to keep control, but we all know what happens when a Sorceress loses it around something that feeds on magic and panic. I glance at Hera again—can't help myself—and feel that protective heat rise despite everything else. "Hera," I call out, voice softer than I intend, "stay back there. Against the wall."

The wardstone pulses again, harder this time, like it's answering my words with a challenge. The whole building seems to groan in response, and dust filters down from the ceiling in a fine, choking haze. We're trapped between two threats now—the collapsing structure above us and whatever corrupted entity below—and I don't know which is worse. But I do know one thing: we can't stay here much longer, doing nothing while everything comes apart around us. I meet Jeane's eyes across the small space, see the same desperate calculation there that must be showing in my own face. We need a plan—a real one this time—and we need it now before fear makes decisions for us. "Jeane," I say, pushing through the tightness in my throat, "what if we—"

But another wardstone pulse cuts me off mid-sentence, sharp enough to make my teeth ache and Hera whimper. The floor beneath us shifts slightly, just a fraction, but enough to send a fresh wave of panic through the group. We're running out of time. Literally.

Hera's heart races as the bathroom door groans ominously, the wardstone's energy pulsing through the frame like a malevolent heartbeat. She presses her back against the far wall, breathing hard, and watches as Halie and Silra struggle to brace the door with makeshift barriers. The room feels smaller, more claustrophobic with each passing second, and Hera fights the urge to scream as another wave of energy washes over her. "Please," she whispers, more a plea than a prayer. "Someone please do something."