Round 10

As Jeane stepped forward, her gaze locked onto the spreading black fluid, she murmured, "Something about that fissure likes iron." The sigils at her feet pulsed, their crimson light bleeding into the ash-gray world. Silra watched with a mixture of fascination and trepidation, her eyes darting between the fissure and the city guard, who now cowered behind his fallen sword. Gravedigger Renn's incoherent whispers echoed through the air, and Silra's hand instinctively went to the dagger at her belt.

The black fluid continued its unnatural movement, sending a faint, oily mist up toward the storm-dark sky. The guard's blade clattered against the ash-slick road as his arm recoiled from the sigil's sting; the metal shudders and slides free, skidding a few feet before splattering into the pooling liquid. Silra swiftly drew her own blade and tossed it point-first into the fluid with a sharp spin, her eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger.

As she moved toward the edge where the sword clattered in, Gravedigger Renn's frightened informant status intensified, his whispers growing more frantic. The air seemed to vibrate with an ominous energy, and Silra's senses were on high alert, ready to respond to whatever lay ahead.