Then the air itself split open.

A wound of pure black and white bloomed before you—swirling, violent, hungry. It pulsed like a living thing, and before you could think, before you could run, it pulled.

The ground disappeared. Sound became a hollow roar. Color streaked past in dizzying ribbons until—

Thump.

You landed on cold, hard dirt.

The sky was wrong. Overcast and endless, painted in dreary grays and muted browns. The air smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something faintly metallic.

Around you, a cluster of makeshift structures rose from the clearing—a fire pit crackling at the center, crude tents stitched from animal hide, drying racks lined with jerky, and a strange contraption of gears and glass that hummed with an eerie, mechanical life.

Someone gasped.