Round 2

As Jeane stepped toward the church entrance, her boots crunching on gravel, the air seemed to cling to everything with the weight of old blood and stale incense. The stonework felt like it was watching her, its cold, unforgiving nature a palpable presence. Her crimson eyes narrowed as she sensed magic thick and sleeping here, a pulse that stirred within her own symbol. "Silra," she snapped, her voice low and urgent.

Silra moved along the stone face with fingers like insects, feeling for gaps, shifts, hidden mechanisms. She could taste it on the back of her tongue, feel it scrape against her skin - something was watching them. The stonework here wasn't just old; it was cleared out, as if a dark hand had swept through, leaving nothing but fear and residue in its wake.

Sister Hale stepped toward the entrance with deliberate, measured steps, the opposite of Jeane's impatience, the inverse of Silra's predatory circling. She could feel the residual fear in the mortar lines, hear the echoes of screams that never quite faded. Something had driven them out, leaving behind a sense of unease that lingered like a shadow.