Round 692

The air grows thick with dust and the acrid smell of noxious gas. Merrin presses her face against the stone ledge, squinting into the abyss below. "Varikka!" Her voice echoes back to her, distorted and hollow. She can hear labored breathing, but no response. The ground shudders again, sending a fresh cascade of pebbles tumbling into the darkness. She knows time is running out—the chamber groans around them, the air grows heavy with the promise of collapse, and the Guardian still advances across the stone floor, its sword raised like a dark promise. "Varikka! Answer me!" Merrin's fingers dig into the rock as another tremor runs through the ledge. She can see her friend clinging to a precarious outcropping far below—can see the swollen ankle, the desperate grip on the stone. "I'm coming down!" she shouts, though she has no idea how.