Round 72

The central rune pulsed with sickly green light that seemed to feed on their apprehension. Jeane hovered at the top of the descending staircase, her wings resisting the thick oppressive magic that made her skin crawl and her feathers ache. The air itself was thick with malevolence—ancient death magic that stirred something primal in her core.

"Stop," she said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. "Merrin is dying down there. We can't let her—"

Varrika stepped forward, mace ready, her dwarf's face etched with grim determination despite the fatigue that weighted every muscle. The narrow stone stairs descended into darkness, swallowed by shadows that seemed to devour the faint torchlight. The magic here was wrong—wrong in a way that made her teeth ache and her gut twist.

"We need a plan," Halie gasped from behind them, her eyes watering as she struggled against the poisonous fumes that seeped through cracks in the stonework. "A real one."

Varrika's gaze fixed on the pulsing rune, its light growing brighter with each passing moment—feeding on their presence, perhaps, or hungry for something more substantial. The tower groaned around them, timbers shifting, stone grinding against stone as the centuries of decay finally began to collapse in earnest.

A plan. Right. But what kind of plan could stop the magic that was killing Merrin from within? What kind of strategy could outsmart death itself?

The central rune pulsed again—brighter this time—as if answering her unspoken questions with a malevolent chuckle.