Round 2

The rain continued its relentless percussion against the stone facade of what had once been a proud church. Now it was just another ruin, a monument to something forgotten. Jeane stood at the threshold, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword, the unholy symbol around her neck catching what little light remained in the gloom.

The man in the doorway watched them approach with wide, terrified eyes—eyes that had seen too much already, or perhaps not enough. His gaze flickered between Jeane's confident stance and the two women who flanked her, a silent calculation of odds and consequences playing out across his features. When Jeane spoke, her voice cut through the rain's drumming with a clarity that surprised even herself—she had learned the power of a steady tone in moments like this.

"Let us help," she said, her words measured. "We're here to rebuild what was lost."

The man shook his head frantically now. "No—no, I don't know anything." His voice cracked. Behind him, in the house window, a face appeared briefly—a woman's silhouette retreating back into shadow when she saw them looking.

Silra caught Jeane's eye and raised an eyebrow slightly. That wasn't just fear. That was performance. The man was lying badly—either he genuinely didn't want to talk or someone else in that house did not want him talking, and the latter interested her far more than the former.