Round 17

The tower's magic pulsed like a predatory heartbeat as the party split into roles. Seraphine stood at the base, her sharp eyes scanning the crumbling facade, while Jeane beat her wings steadily, rising higher over the structure. The air grew thicker with each meter gained, tasting of something oily and wrong that made her want to gag.

Below, Merrin pulled out her tools—lockpicks, crowbar, and other implements of her trade. She moved with a rogue's practiced efficiency despite the fatigue gnawing at her muscles. The ground felt wrong beneath her boots, vibrating faintly in rhythm with the pulsing green light that now seemed obvious from this vantage point.

"What do you see up there?" Merrin called out, her voice barely carrying over the wind whistling past Jeane's wings. "Any weak spots? Hidden entrances?"

Jeane circled once more, her crimson eyes narrowing as she studied the pattern of wards. They formed a maze designed to consume intruders rather than merely repel them—an ancient death trap disguised as mere defense. The center point radiated more power than the perimeter, drawing her attention like a magnet.

"Nothing obvious yet," Jeane replied, her voice strained with concentration. "But the magic is... alive. Hungry. It's not just warding—the entire tower is the ward." She descended slowly, breaking altitude with agonizing care. The wrongness intensified as she neared the ground, and she landed heavily beside Merrin.

"We have maybe an hour before whatever's inside this thing realizes we're here," Jeane said grimly. "And I don't think it's going to be happy about unexpected guests."