Round 3

As they trudged onward, Sister Hale's silver holy symbol at the ready, the weight of the city's darkness seemed to press in on them from all sides, its malevolent energy palpable in every step. Jeane stepped forward, her crimson eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The road ahead was cracked like a shattered mirror showing hell's reflection, and the storm overhead groaned like a beast waking from slumber.

The air was heavy with tension, as if something waited just beyond the city gates, watching them with bated breath. Silra pressed her dagger into the cracked earth at the roadside, testing for hidden traps, while Hale watched their backs, her eyes darting between the gateposts and the stormy sky. Jeane's grip on her unholy symbol tightened, its cold weight a reminder of what they faced here - ancient and hungry.

The city loomed ahead, its silhouette cut against the storm-dark sky like a sickle poised to strike. Hale muttered, fingers tightening around her symbol, "Gravedigger's fear was no mere superstition," as Jeane stood tall, her eyes fixed on the gates. The wind carried more than grit—it carried the stench of decay and something else, something old and hungry that made Hale's skin crawl.