Round 8

As Jeane stepped forward into the gate's shadow, her sorcerer's robes whispering against ash, a shiver ran down her spine. The air tasted wrong—old death and something else, something hungry and cold. Silra crouched low, tracing the ground where the scratching sound originated beneath ancient flagstones, the rusted key from a dead magistrate glinting in her hand.

Jeane's voice cut through the darkness, her words laced with a sense of foreboding. The air clung to her skin like a damp shroud, heavy with the stench of decay and something else – something acrid and burning. As she moved forward, the ground beneath her feet gave way, and she found herself standing on a narrow, winding stairway that descended into the depths of the earth.

The scuttling sounds grew louder as Jeane moved deeper into the stairway, her unholy symbol held out like a shield, its light barely cutting through the darkness that clung to everything. Silra's eyes narrowed, her hand tightening on the hilt of her dagger, ready for whatever lay ahead.