Round 8

As Sister Hale secured the bell tower, Jeane's gaze swept across Silra and the chasm below, where something stirred in the depths. The air was heavy with an otherworldly energy, and the storm-dark sky seemed to press in around them, as if the night itself was watching their every move. The lantern's light cast weak shadows on the walls, revealing deliberate cracks that seemed more like the work of a master craftsman than natural wear.

Jeane stepped into the center of the church floor, her unholy symbol held like a shield against whatever stirred beneath the stone. "Something's moving under us," she said flatly to Silra and Hale, who were already eyeing the spiral staircase up. Her voice was cool, controlled—the demonic sorceress calculating odds against an unknown threat.

Silra traced cracks in the stone floor with deliberate fingers, her eyes narrowing as she weighed the risks of descending into the basement. "This place has teeth," she muttered to herself, the rusted key from the dead magistrate feeling heavier in her hand. The air was thick with tension, and Jeane's unease was palpable, her exhaustion evident in every step.