Round 42

Jeane's crimson eyes narrow as she studies the pulsing light ahead, her wings instinctively half-spreading in a defensive posture. "That light... it feels wrong. Like it's calling to something ancient and hungry." She shifts her grip on her short blade, the metal gleaming dully in the corridor's dim green illumination. "And these symbols—she traces one with a fingertip, then snatches her hand back as if burned—they're moving. Or at least, my eyes can't focus on them properly." Seraphine's proximity brings a faint sense of comfort despite the oppressive atmosphere; she may be a scholar, but her magic has already proven useful once. "Watch your step," Jeane warns softly. "The floor feels... unstable somehow. Like it might collapse under its own weight any moment." She edges closer to the door's edge, peering through the gap with wings held tight against her back.