Round 4 Transcript

The air vibrates with dark energy as Sister Hale's eyes snap open, her hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of her holy symbol. 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. A faint scratching noise echoes from beneath the streets, growing louder with each passing moment, like the sound of fingernails on stone. The gate's metal framework shudders violently, and then, with a deafening screech, it bursts open, its hinges tearing free from their ancient moorings. The sound is followed by an unearthly silence, as if the very earth itself has been torn asunder.

I step forward into the gate's shadow without hesitation—hesitation gets people killed—and the air hits my face like a fistful of ashes. Old death and something else, something hungry and cold, clings to every particle. My unholy symbol pulses with warmth against my skin; it recognizes this energy. "Silra," I say sharply, voice cutting through the night, "get behind me." She's our scout, not our shield. Let her do what she's good at—finding a way out, not standing in the line of whatever's coming through that gate. Sister Hale has her light up, good girl, but I'm not looking for ground-level threats right now. I raise both hands, palm-up, and channel power into my voice: "Show yourself." The words echo with authority, rippling through the dust-choked air. I'm not begging; this is a command. If something's down there in the dark, let it know we're not prey—at least, not the kind that runs. The scratching sound stops for half a heartbeat, then resumes with renewed frenzy. Whatever's beneath us knows exactly what I am now. Good. Let it tremble.

Silra crouches low, her fingers tracing the ground where the scratching sound originates—beneath ancient flagstones. I hear it too. Not a rat, not a fox; this has purpose. The gate's not just falling apart, someone—or something—is trying to open it from the other side. She pulls out the rusted key she took off that magistrate weeks ago, holding it up to catch what little light bleeds through the storm clouds. This thing's older than my grandmother's grave. I've been carrying it around like a good luck charm, but maybe it's more useful than I thought. She moves toward the broken gate with predatory precision. If we're going in, we go smart. Jeane, can you make that lantern brighter? We need to see what we're walking into before whatever's scratching decides to introduce itself properly. Silra inserts the key into the lock on the gate—it slides in perfectly—and gives it a sharp twist. There's a heavy click, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then the ground beneath their feet shudders violently. Oh, that was either brilliant or catastrophically stupid.