Round 5

As Jeane Cromwell strides forward, the unholy symbol between her breasts pulses cold against her ribcage, its weight a reminder of what they face in Gravehill. The air is heavy with the silence of centuries, and she can feel the old magic in the ground beneath her boots - no traps yet, only the anticipation of something waiting. "The city's watching us come home," she cuts through the stillness, her voice carrying on the wind.

Silra moves with a predator's caution across the cracked stone, her eyes tracing patterns of threat - uneven stones that might tip or slide, empty watchtowers looming dark against the stormy sky. She crouches again, drawing her dagger as if to ready herself for anything. "This road has seen too much time and not enough use," she whispers, her voice a low, measured tone.

Sister Hale's eyes narrow as she brushes ash from a patch of stone with her fingertips - the coldness is almost painful. "Wait," she says sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. Jeane halts mid-stride, her hand on the hilt of her staff, and for once, the storm overhead seems to hold its breath in anticipation of what's to come.