They hit the ground hard.
Not the dramatic sprawl of a battlefield defeat—just three exhausted bodies collapsing in the same instant, knees buckling as if someone had cut the strings holding them up. Finn tasted blood and dust. The world around them was wrong. Grey. Endless. No sky, no horizon, just a flat, featureless expanse that pressed in from every direction. It felt like being trapped inside a thought someone else had already forgotten.
Mira was the first to speak, voice hoarse. "Where…?"
Dorian rolled onto his side, coughing. His left arm was a mess of burns and blood. "Doesn't matter. We're not dead. That's something."
Finn pushed himself up on shaking arms. His side screamed where the last guardian had cut him. Blood had soaked through his tunic and was starting to crust. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. No walls. No ceiling. Just grey nothing stretching forever. He reached for space, tried to fold it, to jump somewhere—anywhere.
Nothing happened.
