Gilda's weary "Don't" cut through Sir Crumplebuns's heroic declaration, leaving a silence in its wake that was heavier than any stone. The faint, smug chime from the wall of light still seemed to echo in their ears, a final, polite insult to Pip's failed attempts. The acrid smell of disintegrated lockpick hung in the sterile air.
Pip, his professional toolkit and pride in ashes, had slumped to the floor, defeated. He had tried everything—skill, force, even a bit of acid. Nothing had worked. Their last, best practical option was gone, leaving them with only the glowing, impassable wall and the weight of their failure. Zazu, the elf scholar, looked defeated by a problem so profoundly stupid it defied all scholarly analysis. And FaeLina's managerial brain had finally short-circuited, leaving her hovering like a sad, forgotten party balloon.
They were officially, completely, and utterly stuck.
