Round 10

As Silra crouched low, her silver-blonde hair framing her pale face, she pressed her palm flat against the floorboards, where the grain shifted beneath her fingers like living muscle. The wood groaned ominously, and she yanked her hand back instinctively, as if the very foundations of the church were trembling in response. Whatever was stirring beneath them had gained purchase now.

Jeane Cromwell's eyes narrowed as she stared at the shifting floorboards, her crimson eyes gleaming with a mixture of fascination and wariness. She stepped closer to the edge, despite her better judgment, and her voice dropped to a low, urgent tone. The pattern of this movement was deliberate, it was testing the structure above it, learning the weight distribution of each floorboard. It wasn't just reacting—it was adapting, and that realization sent a shiver down Jeane's spine.

Silra glanced up at Jeane's tense face, illuminated by the flickering lantern light, and then back at the floorboards, her teal eyes locked onto the shifting grain. She knew that look, that sense of unease, from years spent navigating the treacherous underbelly of Gravehill. Whatever was stirring beneath them was not to be underestimated, and Silra's hand instinctively went to the unholy symbol at her belt, a reassuring weight in the face of uncertainty.