Round 100

The darkness was alive with the whispers of the dead, their ethereal voices carried on the wind like a mournful sigh. Gravehill's church loomed in the distance, its skeletal spires reaching toward the sky like bony fingers, as if grasping for the heavens. The bridge creaked and groaned beneath the weight of Jeane and Sister Hale, the sound echoing through the desolate landscape like a death knell.

Jeane's eyes scanned the darkness, her gaze fixed on the rusted key clutched in her hand. She had a feeling that it might unlock more than just the gate, but for now, it was a comforting weight against her leg. Below them, the scuttling sounds grew clearer: claws on stone, multiple bodies moving fast. The distant light flickered again, casting eerie shadows on the walls of the bridge.

Sister Hale's grip tightened on her mace as she surveyed their new position, her eyes fixed on Jeane. "We're sitting on death row here with a time limit," she whispered, her voice laced with desperation. "The ground beneath us is already giving up the ghost." She glanced down at her own feet, as if expecting them to fall through rotted timber any moment now. The creaking of the platform groaned beneath them, another shudder passing through ancient stone.