Round 679

The ancient stone chamber held its breath for a moment before the next tremor ripped through the air. Merrin clutched Varrika tighter as the dwarf woman winced, her sprained ankle screaming in protest. "This place is coming down," Merrin hissed, scanning the ceiling for fresh cracks or shifting stones. "We need to move—fast." But every step Varrika took sent pain shooting up her leg, and the precarious footing offered little reassurance.

Varrika gritted her teeth, leaning heavily on Merrin's shoulder. "I'm not going to slow us down," she growled, though the words came out more like a pained grunt than a confident declaration. The rogue guided them carefully across the unstable ground, her keen eyes picking out the safest path through the rubble. But with no light source and every surface ready to crumble beneath their weight, even Merrin's skill had its limits.

As they pressed onward, the sound of shifting stone grew louder behind them. Merrin risked a glance back, heart pounding. "We've got company," she breathed, helping Varrika hop faster despite the agony in her friend's face. The Guardian was closing in, and their options were dwindling fast.

The chamber ahead opened up slightly, offering a glimpse of what lay beyond—a narrow passage winding deeper into the tower's heart. Merrin hesitated for just a second before nodding toward it. "That way," she said firmly. "It's our best shot." Varrika didn't argue, though her expression spoke volumes about how little faith she had in 'best shots' lately.

They moved forward as quickly as Varrika's injured ankle allowed, the sounds of pursuit growing ever closer. The air grew colder as they descended further into the tower's depths, and Merrin couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking straight into a trap. But with no other options available, she pushed those doubts aside and focused on keeping them both alive—one agonizing step at a time.