Round 155

The building's death rattle crescendoed into something that sounded like a mountain groaning its last breath. The wardstone pulse slammed through the structure like a physical blow—timbers screamed, concrete wept dust, and everything not nailed down decided to relocate sideways. Jeane stumbled forward, her barrier spell flickering so violently that the air itself rippled with distortion.

"FUCK!" she snarled, hands flying out to catch herself against the wall. The motion pressed her breasts hard against her arms—trapped milk leaked through her shirt in fresh streams, soaking into the fabric between her tits and armpit. The spell was shredding her concentration cell by cell, each pulse demanding more energy than she could safely channel without... consequences.

"Everyone DOWN!" Silra shouted, already moving to tackle Hera around the waist. The elf hit the floor hard, momentum carrying them both into a slide across the lubricant-slick tiles toward the far wall. Silra wrapped herself around Hera protectively as they skidded—her body shielding the civilian from the worst of the impact as they slammed against the plaster.

The door frame exploded inward in a shower of splinters and dust. The heavy mirror Halie had been bracing shattered into a thousand pieces, each shard catching sunlight before tumbling harmlessly away. What remained wasn't wood or metal—it was stone, dark and pulsing with sickly green light that cast everything in an unnatural glow.

Jeane had managed to stay upright through sheer force of will, wings half-spread for balance as she fed more power into the barrier spell. The magic screamed back at her, tearing at her insides like claws raking across raw meat. Her nipples ached with each pulse, milk leaking faster now—soaking through her shirt completely and beginning to drip onto the floor in heavy white drops.

"Halie!" she called out, voice tight with pain but still commanding. "Get behind me! NOW!"

The corridor beyond the ruined doorway pulsed with wardstone energy—each beat promising structural failure and magical corruption. The walls themselves seemed to breathe with it, concrete flexing outward before snapping back with audible cracks.

Silra had Hera pinned against the wall, her body curved protectively around the civilian's smaller frame. She met Jeane's gaze over Hera's shoulder—silent communication passing between them in a single shared look. This was bad. Worse than bad. This was end-of-the-line catastrophic failure with no good options.

"Jeane," Silra hissed, voice low and urgent. "Talk to me. How long can you hold that spell?"

Jeane's response came through gritted teeth: "Long enough for everyone to get clear—maybe." Her wings trembled with the effort of maintaining the barrier, muscles standing out along her shoulder blades as she fought against the spell's demands for more power.

The wardstone pulsed again—louder, stronger. The building screamed back at it, metal groaning and concrete cracking in a symphony of structural agony. Dust poured down from the ceiling in thick choking clouds, mixing with the floating lubricant droplets to create a bizarre slurry that coated everything.

"Everyone MOVE!" Jeane shouted, her voice barely human around the strain of channeling so much forbidden magic. "Get behind me and stay low! NOW!"

No one needed to be told twice.