Round 195 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 feel the wardstone answering us now—its energy is rising fast, drawing something toward this floor. Two minutes tops before the structural integrity fails completely. Silra! I need a timeline from you right now, how many seconds do we have? The barrier won't hold much longer at this rate.

I lean my weight against the door, burned hands screaming protest but I ignore them—Hera's sitting behind me, hyperventilating and covered in sweat that isn't just from heat. The building shudders again, a sound like dry bones rattling, and water floods out from somewhere on this cursed floor. "Silra!" I call down into the darkness of the service shaft. "How long? We need seconds here!"

The door groans under my shoulder. Jeane's voice comes strained from behind me: "Halie, push harder against it! The wardstone's answering us—something's coming."

I don't have time for this. I brace myself and throw all my weight into the door, trying to hold it shut against whatever's collapsing on the other side. My burned hands feel like they're catching fire again but I can't let go. "Hera," I say through gritted teeth, "you need to move back further. Against the wall."

She doesn't answer, just makes a small whimpering sound that makes my stomach twist. I can't think about that right now—can't think about how her skin looks slick with more than just sweat or how scared she sounds. "Jeane," I call over my shoulder, "if you've got anything left in those reserves of yours, use it. Keep whatever's coming through that wardstone at bay."

The building shudders again. The door frame cracks audibly this time. Water floods around my boots, mixing with spilled lubricant from earlier and making the floor slick as ice. We're running out of time faster than we're running out of options.

I listen in the dark shaft and call up: "Not seconds—minutes maybe." I hate guessing when precision matters most. The building groans like something's tearing inside its bones. Jeane's voice comes back, thin with strain: "How many?" She doesn't have time for my usual evasion. "I don't know exactly," I shout back, frustration sharp. "Five? Seven? The structure's compromised in several places above us. That shower explosion didn't help." I'm trying to calculate from sound alone—a rogue's toolkit but not an engineer's.