Round 3

As they ventured deeper into the ruined church, Jeane's gaze flickered to the entrance, where Silra stood watch, her eyes narrowed against the dim light. The air was heavy with the scent of decay and something else, a noxious tang that made her nostrils flare. Sister Hale's hand on her holy symbol offered a small comfort, a reminder of the weight of their mission.

The bell tower loomed above them, its angles subtly off true, like a giant's miscalculation. Jeane traced runes in the air, mapping the structure's flaws with a spell, her eyes narrowing on the ash coating everything. Too much—recent maintenance even though the city's abandoned decades. Someone's keeping this place clean.

Silra pushed open the door, her drawn dagger held low and ready, as she entered first. The foul smell hit her immediately, like old death mixed with something chemical and wrong. Her lip curled in disgust as ash clung to her fingers from just brushing a nearby wall. "This place is older than the stories say," she muttered, her voice barely audible over the creaking of the roof.

Sister Hale's lantern beam cut through the church's gloom like hope struggling against despair. The stone felt wrong under her boots—sloping when it shouldn't, angles subtly off true. "We're not alone," she said quietly to Jeane beside her. "The air knows too much."