Round 94

The air in the chamber grew thicker with each passing moment, the oppressive magic making Jeane's wings ache and her skin crawl. The central runes pulsed with a hungry light, each beat seeming to draw the very breath from her lungs. She could feel it—the ancient malevolence coiling below like a sleeping beast waiting for prey.

"We don't need that sword bad enough to die for it," she hissed, more to herself than anyone else. The memory of Merrin's reckless descent still burned fresh in her mind—a stark reminder of the price paid for underestimating this place. Her crimson eyes darted between Halie's pale face and Varrika's set jaw, searching for agreement or reason.

Varrika descended another careful step, her scarred fingers white-knuckled around the heavy mace. The dwarf woman's weathered features were etched with determination, but even she couldn't hide the tension in her shoulders. "The sword must be retrieved," she growled, more to the darkness below than to them. "But we'll do it smartly." She glanced back at Jeane and Halie, her gaze a silent command: Stay sharp.

The stones beneath their feet seemed to groan under the weight of generations of dust and despair. Somewhere far below, the source of that creeping death-magic called out—an ancient hunger that had waited centuries for fresh meat.