Round 171

The building's death rattle crescendos in a groan of stressed concrete and screaming metal. Each pulse from the wardstone feels like nails scraping Jeane’s nerves—she grits her teeth, fighting to maintain the barrier while channeling through a vibrating dildo. The spellwork crackles between her thighs, arcing across the slick floor as she braces against the corruption seeping through the frame like oily smoke. "Hera, stop pushing!" she snaps, wings twitching with barely controlled panic. "You're making it worse." Silra moves like a predator in the dark, hands tracing structural lines with clinical precision. "This whole section is compromised—we have maybe minutes before total collapse." Her teal eyes reflect the magical discharge, wide with both fascination and terror at what she’s witnessing. Halie stumbles back from the door, burned hands useless as she drops her makeshift barricade.