Round 92

The central rune pulsed brighter with each step Jeane took down the treacherous staircase, its blood-red glow painting her pale skin in ominous shadows. The air grew thick enough to choke on, pressing in from all sides like a physical weight. Her wings instinctively half-extended, feathers aching as if singed by the very magic that saturated the chamber.

Behind her, Halie descended with measured caution, each footfall hesitant and calculated. The cleric's blue-grey eyes scanned the darkness for threats she couldn't name or see clearly, fingers tightening around her crossbow. She set Merrin down gently—too gently perhaps, given what the girl had become—and muttered prayers under her breath.

Varrika watched from above, fists clenched as Jeane narrowly avoided disaster on the crumbling steps. The dwarf veteran's scarred face remained impassive, but her heart hammered in her chest nonetheless. Each moment stretched too long, each decision potentially fatal. They were playing a deadly game here, dancing on the edge of a blade that could sever them all at any moment.

The stones themselves seemed to pulse with sickly green light now, and the sword at their center hummed with dark energy that called to something ancient and hungry deep within the tower's depths. Something that had waited patiently for centuries, and would not wait much longer.