Round 50

Jeane Cromwell descended back into the shadowed basement sanctuary, her silver necklace catching the morning light that filtered through the stained glass windows far above. Her red eyes scanned the two women still sleeping peacefully on the pews—Abby unconscious, Hera feigning sleep—and she felt a flicker of something akin to pity. But it quickly hardened into cold calculation.

Silra hovered nearby, a wicked-looking dagger drawn and ready in one hand. The rogue's pointed ears twitched with every creak of the old church. Every sound was potentially fatal—two civilians stirring upstairs, their post-coital disarray painting a story that could send them all to prison. The elf's teal eyes tracked every shift of light across the women's skin, cataloging details that could be useful later… or incriminating now.

Silra moved with fluid silence down the stairs, her blade held low where morning light wouldn't catch it. Every creak felt like an alarm bell—two civilians awake upstairs, their evidence everywhere.