Round 163 Transcript

At dark corridor in 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 shift my weight forward, bracing against the door with my unburned shoulder while my hands rest uselessly at my sides. The mirror leans precariously but holds for now. Jeane, if you feel it slipping—if that wardstone pulse gets stronger—I'm throwing myself against this door too. I say it plainly, no prayer in my voice. Just statement of fact. My eyes find Hera across the narrowing space, her back pressed to the wall opposite me. The way she won't look at any of us tells me more than words could. I'm not fooling myself—I know what touching her means now, what that corruption might do even through clothing. But if this floor collapses and debris comes through that doorway? The wardstone is the lesser evil suddenly. I turn to Silra in the darkness beyond: Find something solid back there. Something we can brace this door with properly. My burned hands ache with uselessness, but my voice stays steady. We're running out of time and options faster than water drains down a plugged sink.

The wardstone pulses again—closer now, answering Jeane's panicked spellwork with its own rhythm of threat. My fingers trace along the wall behind me, finding the smooth plane of another doorframe in the darkness. No barrier here yet, just the slick feel of fresh spills on the floor beneath my boots. "I found a door," I call back, voice level despite the pressure building in my chest. "But it's empty behind us for now." The corridor stretches out, black and silent except for that pulsing. No immediate threats, but no easy exits either. Just more waiting and wondering how long Jeane can keep her magic from tearing everything apart. Halie braces the original door with her injured shoulder—I hear the strain in her voice when she calls out. Another tremor runs through the building, and I feel it in my teeth. We're running out of time for clever plans or moral debates about ancient stones. "Fine," I mutter to myself. "Let's make this messier." I take two steps back toward Jeane, moving carefully on the wet floor. "How long can you hold that thing?" My eyes are adjusting now; I can see the faint glow of her spellwork and the tension in her posture as she faces the dark doorway. She doesn't answer immediately—I don't expect her to. She's too focused on the wardstone, trying to contain what we all know is impossible to fully control. The building groans again, louder this time. Concrete dust filters down from the ceiling like snow. "Jeane." I say her name sharper now. "We need a number. Or an idea that doesn't involve you imploding us all." My hand moves toward her arm instinctively—then stops. Touching her right now feels like grabbing live wire. Instead, I lean in close enough to feel the heat of her magic. "We're about sixty seconds from this hallway becoming our coffin," I say quietly. "So either tell me how long you can keep that thing contained, or tell me what we do instead."