Round 121

Seraphine’s pleading gaze burns at the corner of her vision—always present, always weighing on Jeane’s conscience. She can still feel the warmth of Seraphine’s body pressed against hers during their descent, the elf’s slender frame trembling with fear and adrenaline. Across the chamber, Merrin watches the proceedings with a mixture of barely contained impatience and sharp-eyed suspicion. Her hand rests casually near the hilt of her sword, ready to draw at the slightest provocation.

Jeane begins to circle the chamber slowly, her crimson eyes scanning every inch of the ominous symbols etched into the stone walls. The air crackles with static electricity, raising goosebumps along Seraphine’s exposed arms as she presses herself against the far wall. Right. Time magic. On shifting ground in a collapsing tower. She mutters a low incantation, her fingers tracing complex sigils in the air as she tests the edges of the power emanating from the wall. The symbols flare brighter for an instant before dimming again, their rhythmic pulsing quickening slightly.