Round 4

As Sister Hale's eyes snapped open, her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her holy symbol, the air vibrated with an otherworldly energy that seemed to press in around them like a physical force. The rusty hinges creaked again, releasing a faint scent of decay and corruption into the air as the gate's metal frame groaned in protest. Jeane stepped forward into the gate's shadow, her sorcerer's robes whispering against ash as she drew power with a subtle gesture.

The sound of fingernails on stone grew louder, echoing from beneath the streets, and Sister Hale's gaze flickered to Silra, who stood frozen beside the tripwire, her fingers still touching the wire—a simple loop of rusted iron but strung with intent. "Get behind me," Jeane said sharply, her voice cutting through the night as she moved toward Silra.

Silra crouched low, her fingers tracing the ground where the scratching sound originated—beneath ancient flagstones. She heard it too—the sound was not a rat, not a fox; this had purpose. The gate's not just falling apart, someone—or something—is trying to open it from the other side. Silra pulled out the rusted key she took off that magistrate weeks ago, holding it up to catch what little light bled through the darkness.