Round 611

The narrow stone corridor stretched ahead, a dark throat swallowing their escape. Merrin half-carried Varikka, the dwarf's weight solid and reassuring despite her injury. The Guardian's voice echoed behind them, surprise coloring his tone—had they caught him off guard? Or was this merely the prelude to some new trap?

Varrika's mace scraped against the stone floor as they moved, her injured ankle protesting with each step. Merrin kept a firm grip on her arm, steadying her through the pain. The corridor was tight, forcing them to move single-file, and darkness pressed in from both sides.

"Shouldn't have done that," the Guardian called after them, his words carrying an unsettling curiosity. What had they stumbled into? Merrin's mind raced, calculating their options. They needed to find solid ground, somewhere safe from the collapsing tower—and Varikka needed rest for her ankle.

"We've got to keep moving," Merrin said, her voice low and urgent. The sound of the collapse was fading behind them, but that meant little in this maze of stone and shadow. "We're not out yet."

Varrika nodded, her face set in a grim mask of determination. "You were right to lead us here," she managed, each word punctuated by the rhythm of their escape. "Couldn't have made it further with my ankle like this." The corridor ahead was uncharted territory, and the air grew heavy with the weight of the tower above.

"We need to keep moving," Varrika echoed, her voice strained but firm. The walls seemed to press in closer, the darkness alive with unseen threats. They were far from safe, but at least they were moving—alive and breathing, for now.