Round 5 Transcript

The guard’s steel sings as he lunges forward, the blade flashing in the storm‑lit sky; it grazes Silra’s gloved hand, slicing through the cuff and tearing the rusted key from her cloak, sending it clattering onto the ash‑slick road.

The guard's blade leaves a stinging line across my wrist—I don't flinch, but I do let it happen. Let him feel like he won the momentary threat display while I assess the real damage: key gone, road slick with rain and ash, and something under us moving in rhythm now, definite pulses vibrating up through the soles of my boots. I crouch to retrieve the key, deliberately slow, making sure my movements are clear and non-threatening. "My apologies, sir, I was just checking the road quality—the ground here seems... unstable." As I straighten, I brush a handful of wet ash from my knees toward his boots—a subtle distraction as I judge whether he's steady on his feet or the rain has him drunk already.

I let my dagger remain sheathed for now—as much as I dislike this guard's insolence, he's just a symptom. The real problem is whatever's waking beneath us. I step between him and Silra—not to shield her exactly, but because it's clearer who the immediate threat comes from. You've dropped something, sir, I observe coolly, eyeing the rusted key gleaming on wet ash. Unless you're in the habit of disarming unarmed women for sport? How... quaint. The feeling underfoot is getting harder to ignore—a slow, heavy rhythm, like a giant's heartbeat.