Round 821

The ground beneath them groaned again, a sound like distant thunder, and Merrin felt her stomach lurch. The water was now ankle-deep, seeping cold through the leather of their boots, rising with agonizing slowness. Varrika leaned heavily against the crumbling wall, face pale in the dim light, trying to shift her weight without aggravating the sprained ankle that already throbbed like a hot coal. "We need an exit before this place turns into a damn swimming pool," Merrin hissed, scanning the walls desperately for any sign of a way out. The structural groans were getting louder, more frequent—chunks of stone falling from the ceiling above with increasing regularity, each impact sending sprays of water outward. Varikka's breathing was labored, her voice tight when she spoke. "I'm not sure how much further I can manage." Merrin's stomach twisted with fear—they were trapped in a collapsing dungeon with rising water, no way out visible, their heaviest fighter barely able to stand. And the sound of pursuit echoed distantly through the rubble-choked passages behind them—the Guardian was still coming.