Round 165 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 find a solid door frame—might hold for thirty seconds before giving way completely. The wardstone pulses closer now; Jeane's magic feels thin back here. How long can you keep that thing contained? Because this corridor stretches out, black and silent except for the pulsing rhythm of something ancient waking up beneath our feet. We need options, not heroics.

The wardstone pulses faster now—Jeane’s magic is thinning back there, and we don’t have minutes left, let alone hours. I shift my weight forward, pressing harder against the door with my shoulder, trying to brace it with what little strength remains in my burned hands. Hera’s eyes are on me across the barricade of furniture and debris, her face tight with fear. The thought of touching her corrupted skin makes my stomach turn, but I can’t let that thing reach us all. If anyone deserves a shield against this horror, it’s someone who’s done nothing to deserve it. I call back over my shoulder: “Silra, how solid is that door frame? Can you brace it from your side?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. The mirror I’d tried to use as a brace slips on the floor slick with lubricant and water—another useless prop in this nightmare set. The building groans around us like a dying beast. Another wardstone pulse, stronger this time, rattles the door frame against my shoulder. My hands scream with fresh pain, but I don’t have the luxury of caring right now.