Round 115

In the corridor of the collapsing New York penthouse, the building's groans grew more insistent with each passing moment. The wardstone pulsed beneath them like a heart about to burst, its energy bleeding through the wood in visible waves of sickly blue light. Halie pressed her palms flat against the barrier, feeling the corruption seep into her skin like molten honey, blistering her flesh where it touched. Every wave made the wood groan louder, buckling inward inch by agonizing inch.

"Jeane!" she shouted over her shoulder, voice cracking with urgency. "Get Hera out of here now! The whole building's about to come down!" In the dark corridor behind them, Hera crouched against the wall, amber eyes wide with terror as she watched the door buckle inward. The sound of water rushing filled the air—broken shower stall flooding into the hallway.

Jeane stepped closer, pressing her palm against the wood—not to brace, but to feel what was happening on the other side. The wardstone pulses weren’t just rhythmic now; they were accelerating like a heartbeat before cardiac arrest. "Hera, move back," she snapped, her voice sharper than intended. "Everyone except Silra, get behind that dresser." The wood creaked ominously under her hand as another pulse hit.

Silra moved fast, grabbing for any leverage on the cursed door before it gave way completely—it was slippery enough as is without adding more lube to the equation. She found a gap between the frame and the wall, wedged her shoulder into it, and braced her feet against the opposite side. The wood screamed in protest but held for now.

"Everyone except Hera," she corrected sharply. "She stays behind me. And Jeane? Touch that wardstone and I swear to every deity I've ever heard of, I'll put a bullet between your eyes myself."