Chains Under Scarlet

He stood tethered by duty while iron links hissed and cooled like reprimanded servants against the molten river’s glare. That crescent, jauntily shouldered by the winged form above, offered the kind of omen that clerks record in cramped ledgers but never say aloud. The spear balanced in his grip as if it contained a clause forbidding retreat. Flames licked the brazier with courtroom arrogance, spitting verdicts that cracked and roared louder than any trumpet. Behind him, that slabbed question—*Where Vojta?*—leaned in like a bored witness, smoky and accusatory. Then everything collided: embers whirled, chains strained, shadow’s edge rose, dragon angled, and the night clanged shut like a cell door. They still hope he answers, though the mountains hold their tongues and the sky files no forwarding address; Vojta remains definitively, disturbingly absent.