Round 2 Transcript

I move toward the church entrance, boots crunching on gravel. The air tastes wrong—old blood and stale incense clinging to everything. That stonework feels like it's watching me, and I can sense eyes on us from the shadows. But that pulse from my symbol is unmistakable: magic, thick and sleeping here. 'Silra,' I snap, not bothering with politeness when tension hums under my skin, 'I didn't ask for a lecture. Scout the perimeter—find any watch points or guard patrols. We need to know if we're walking into an ambush.' My gaze flicks to Hale, her lantern light making the carved faces on the doorframe seem almost alive. 'And you—keep that light up and ready to move inside. We don't have time for piety right now.'

I palm the rusted key from my belt, its metal cold against my fingers. The dead magistrate who owned this probably never imagined it'd open a sex cult's door again. Let's see if your authority still works on these old wards. I step close to the massive wooden doors, tracing symbols in the air that only I can see—the signs of binding and opening, dark power thrumming beneath my skin. The lock clicks—once, twice—and then the heavy barrier groans inward an inch. A gust of foul air rushes out like a sigh released after centuries. 'After me,' I growl, pushing inside.

I move along the stone face with fingers like insects, feeling for gaps, shifts, hidden mechanisms. Jeane's right—something's watching us. You can taste it on the back of your tongue, feel it scrape against your skin. This place wasn't just abandoned; it was cleared out. The stonework here isn't just old—it's been used. Scorch marks high up where no ordinary fire would reach. Signs of struggle in the mortar, tiny fractures that suggest something large and desperate trying to break free or hold back a breach. What drove them out? What made a sex cult pack up their altar paraphernalia and run? That takes more than 'oh we're scared of ghosts' energy. The keyhole itself is a mockery—a showpiece for some long-dead magistrate who never actually locked this door. I trace the outline with one sharp nail. 'This? This is theater, Jeane—some bureaucrat playing at security while the real threats were happening elsewhere. We're not getting through here with rusted iron.' I press my palm flat against the cold stone above the lock. There. A subtle give. A seam. 'The joinery's wrong,' I say to Hale as much as Jeane. 'This whole section—it moves. Not a door, a hinge. They built a way out that looks like part of the wall.' My fingers find the catch—a tiny lever disguised as decorative stonework. I glance at them both. Waiting.

I step toward the church entrance with deliberate, measured steps—the opposite of Jeane's impatience, the inverse of Silra's predatory circling. Something drove them out. The stonework here isn't just old; it's been cleared. You can feel the residual fear in the mortar lines, hear the echoes of screams that never quite left. Whatever happened here, it wasn't natural decay—people ran, and they bled to appease whatever chased them. I hold up my unholy symbol—a simple silver disk on a chain—and speak into the oppressive silence. 'We're not barging in blind like children on a dare.' The light catches on its edges, wavering. 'This was a temple of flesh and spirit, dedicated to pleasure as prayer. Whatever profaned it won't welcome our reclamation lightly.'

I turn to face them both—the sorceress with her ambition burning too bright, the rogue who trusts only what she can cut—and my voice carries the weight of every grave I've tended, every soul I've buried. 'We enter together, or not at all. I'll consecrate the ground as we go—purify it layer by layer—but I need you both sharp and ready.' I pull out a small vial of blessed oil from my belt pouch. 'Jeane, your power is a weapon here; use it to shield us, not just blast through obstacles. Silra, your eyes and blades are our early warning—I need to know the moment something unnatural stirs.'

I step forward and touch the ancient wood of the door. The grain is cold under my fingers, resistant. 'This isn't a tomb. It's a womb that birthed darkness.' I pour a trickle of oil onto the rusted lock and speak a low prayer—words of protection, of banishment. 'May what lies within remain bound by its own profanity.'

The oil seeps into the metal with a hissing sigh, like air escaping a long-sealed tomb. 'Now we open it.' I look at them both, my expression steady despite the dread coiling cold in my gut. 'Because if we don't take this ground now, something else will—and whatever drove out the sex cult was only the beginning.'

The world doesn't answer. The door remains shut, waiting.