Round 107

The bathroom air grows thick with each wardstone pulse, the rhythm accelerating like a heartbeat racing toward death. Jeane backs away from the door, her eyes locked on Hera across the room, fear and something darker swirling in her crimson gaze. Her wings twitch with each beat of corrupt energy bleeding through the barrier—leathery appendages straining against the confines of the small space.

Halie braces herself against the door, mirror frame digging into her palms as she fights to maintain the barricade. The glass vibrates with every pulse, sending sickening waves up her arms and into her chest. She can feel it—the wrongness of that energy trying to force its way through, seeping around the edges of their makeshift barrier like poisonous fog.

Silra slides down the wall opposite Jeane, mechanical hands flexing uselessly as she watches the sorceress's bleeding palms. The floor beneath them groans with each pulse now—structural integrity failing faster than they can react. Water from the broken shower stall mixes with spilled lubricant across the tile, creating a treacherous sheet of wetness that reflects the emergency lighting in oily patterns.

Jeane speaks first, voice tight with barely controlled panic: "Hera. Stay where you are." The command cuts through the groaning building like a whip crack—no room for argument. Her eyes never leave the huddled figure across the bathroom as she backs away from immediate danger at the door.

Halie grits her teeth against the vibrations, mirror frame creaking under strain. "Silra," she manages between pulses, "help me hold this side." The door groans in response—wardstone energy pushing outward, structural timbers protesting. More dust sifts through cracks as the frame warps visibly.

Silra's voice comes sharp and fast: "Jeane, those cuts aren't helping anything." But the succubus ignores her completely—too focused on Hera's huddled form across the room. The air between them crackles with unspoken tension, something predatory in Jeane's stance despite her fear.

The next wardstone pulse hits like a physical blow—all three women stumble, clinging to walls and door frames for balance. The building moans around them, concrete cracking somewhere above their heads. They have minutes at best before the entire floor collapses.