Falling into the darkness, Finn's body slammed against another hard wooden floor. The impact rattled his bones, but—miraculously—he was still alive.
Groaning, he shifted and winced, half-surprised to still be breathing.
He blinked around at his surroundings. A cramped wooden room, cluttered with tools and half-broken tables. It looked like a smithing shop—or at least something pretending to be one. Given how Moistvile looked from the outside, this was… shockingly professional.
He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming in protest. Finn felt like one of those poor wrestlers tossed out of the ring for crowd entertainment—except no cheering audience, no folding chair justice, just pain.
On shaky legs, he muttered, "Ughhh. I'm too young for this stuff." He paused, frowning. "That's the saying, right?"
Shaking his head, he glanced up at the hole he'd fallen through. It wasn't that deep, which only made him wonder: why hadn't Ardin jumped down to finish the job?
