Round 90

As Sister Hale's foot made contact with the bridge, the wooden planks groaned in protest, their creaks echoing through the desolate air like a chorus of dying souls. The lantern's flame danced wildly above them, casting an otherworldly glow over the dark chasm below, where the rusted key in Jeane's palm pulsed with an energy that seemed to match the rising panic signals from the depths of the bridge. Sister Hale's eyes were fixed on some point ahead, her gaze steady despite the unease that threatened to consume them both. "Seventeen patterns suggest this is calculated containment rather than random corruption," Jeane whispered, her voice barely audible over the creaking wood as she searched for weaknesses in the wrongness signatures below with her arcane sight.

The bridge swayed ominously beneath their weight, its wooden surface protesting the strain as Sister Hale's firm voice cut through the tension. "We must proceed with caution," she urged, her eyes locked on the bridge ahead, where the rusted key seemed to burn hotter in Jeane's palm. The air was heavy with foreboding, and the silence between them was oppressive, punctuated only by the creaking of the bridge and the faint scuttling sounds that seemed to emanate from beneath their feet. Suddenly, Sister Hale spoke up, her voice measured and firm. "Your arcane sight, Jeane, can you sense anything—anything at all—that might give us a chance to avoid disaster?"