Round 8

Merrin's fingers trace along the stone floor, searching for any sign of a trap. The air inside the tower feels wrong—heavy with old magic and something darker. She can feel the weight of unseen eyes upon her as she works, her heart pounding in her chest. "I don't like this," she mutters, more to herself than to the others. "Something's not right here." Jeane steps back, her wings folding close against her back as if seeking protection. The air inside the tower feels wrong—heavy with old magic and something darker. These wards weren't meant to keep out simple thieves. They were designed to hold something in. "Halie, wait," she calls out, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Let me check for traps first." She reaches into her satchel, pulling out a small crystal vial filled with powdered silver and blessed salt. As she sprinkles it along the corridor floor, it begins to react, sparkling and hissing where magical energies are concentrated.

Seraphine watches Merrin take a cautious step into the dark corridor, her crossbow held at the ready. A chill traces its way down her spine as she feels the air itself seem to resist Merrin's presence—a palpable malevolence that makes her skin crawl. Her eyes dart between the skeletons and the flickering torches, trying to discern some pattern, some clue to the nature of this magic. The ground beneath them shudders, and a section of the stone wall slides open, revealing a dimly lit corridor beyond. The air that wafts out is heavy with the scent of decay and corruption. "The tower's defenses are... adapting," she says softly, her voice barely more than a murmur. "This changes everything."