The rumbling didn't stop this time. It only grew worse, louder, heavier—until the entire guild began to tilt.
And that's when Finn realized it. They had wasted too much time. Shit had officially hit the fan.
The building rattled like it was in a blender. The floorboards groaned, windows cracked, and then—an impossible sensation. The guild felt like it was being lifted, as if some colossal thing beneath the swamp was pushing upward. Moistvile itself clung to the swamp like a rat clinging to driftwood.
"Oh my god!" Finn shrieked, clinging to Silvara like a terrified child.
The tilt worsened. Tables, chairs, bottles, and people slid across the floor in a screaming avalanche. Some toppled over each other, others clung desperately to support beams or even to each other. Adventurers jammed weapons into the floorboards to anchor themselves.
Majestria, naturally, screamed the loudest. She toppled backward with a dramatic thud before sliding across the floor like a discarded ragdoll.
