The plainfield's edge was visible from where he had landed, the grass border's top edge at the distance the flight had covered, further from the altar cluster than he had been at any point since he crossed into the plain.
Across that distance, eleven golems were moving toward him with the same unhurried, weight-forward commitment they had maintained throughout the engagement.
He was on the ground.
His head was still running the recalibration from the combined fist strike, the tracking of the field less smooth than it had been before the hit, the noise in it present but reducing with each second that passed.
His abdomen had specific, detailed opinions.
He noted them and set them somewhere.
He looked at the eleven golems crossing the plain toward him.
At the altar behind them and the altar's seventh and final registration waiting for his bloodied hand.
At the plainfield between him and the altar and the eleven golems currently occupying that space.
He was on the ground.
