Round 5 Transcript

The guard who raised his hand falters for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to Sister Hale’s open palms, then snaps back to the march, spears flashing as he steps forward, forcing the party into a narrow corridor of cobblestones and ash.

I drop into a low crouch and sprint along the edge of the ash pile, my boots finding purchase on slick stone while my eyes bore into the guard formation. The one in the back—third from the left with the scarred jaw—that's your man. His posture shifts when he thinks no one is looking: shoulders tense, grip tightening on his spear shaft. He's not a killer; he's an accountant with a blade, and I bet he hates every moment of this farce. "I want to see which guard is actually in charge—find the officer who gave the command."

Jeane steps forward with the cool authority of someone who expects obedience from inanimate things. The unholy symbol in her hand flares with a sickly green light that spills across cracked cobblestones and pools of ash, revealing nothing at first—just old stone under fresh dust. Then, as the illumination settles, geometric patterns emerge where they shouldn't: faint lines in the rock face to their left, too precise to be natural erosion, leading downwards into darkness. Her expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind her eyes—a predator recognizing a worthy trap.