Round 7 Transcript

Silra’s eyes narrow as she traces the worn seam with her finger; a faint, rune‑shaped scar—half‑eroded by ash—glows dimly in the heat, marking the exact point where the slab had been halted.

I watch Silra's finger trace the rune, and I feel the heat of the pit like a lover's embrace gone mad—I've felt this geometry before in dreams, in old tomes sealed with blood-drops. This is Gravehill's signature on its own murder-trap. The molten rock near our rope begins to bubble and spit. That chasm isn't stable—one misstep and we're all cooked alive or impaled like pincushions. And Renn's still blubbering about the guard, which means we need to move faster than a virgin at an orgy.

Silra crouches at the edge of the chasm, her nimble fingers probing the rune-etched stone. This isn't just a trap—the dead don't set traps this elaborate for their own convenience. Someone wanted to make sure nothing came back up from below. She glances at Renn's pale face. Start talking, gravedigger—who else knows about these tunnels? You weren't digging corpses alone down here. Her eyes narrow as she watches the molten rope shift. Jeane, your magic might hold this line for another minute if you push it. Hale, get that priest ready to cast something useful before we all become charcoal sculptures. She traces the rune again, her thief's intuition screaming warnings. This isn't Gravehill's architecture—this is older work, pre-collapse masonry. Which means whatever's under us might be even more interesting than our little church project. Silra produces a small iron chisel from her belt and begins scratching at the glowing rune with methodical precision. If this thing has a purpose beyond 'cook intruders,' I'm going to find it before we all end up as offerings.

I step toward Silra with a certainty I didn't know I had left in me. Stop, Sister Hale says, and her voice cuts through the steam like a blade. She places herself between Silra and Renn—between suspicion and fear. We were given this path for a reason, even if we don't understand it yet. Her eyes are on the glowing rune beneath their feet. This isn't the work of ghosts or forgotten builders. Gravedigger Renn trembles beside her, but she doesn't flinch from his touch; the weight of his promise to protect him presses against her ribs like a wound that needs tending.*

The molten rock near our rope begins to bubble and spit, Jeane calls out, her voice tight with urgency. That chasm isn't stable—it's breathing.