Ashes of Cadia

The tableau hurls us mid-bellow into a dirge disguised as a charge: blue-armored titans batter forward while mortals with horns and hunger rake the mud with blades. Flames claw open the sky, and from that fire’s red grin, an old question surfaces again—cut deep into the imperial eagle sprawling like a felled idol: *Where Vojta?* Even in triumph, they cannot shake it. The stone-carved wings gesture toward something older than victory, perhaps a loyalty mislaid when the trenches first boiled. Why scrawl that name in the icon of a god? Some claim it was scratched as shells fell, others that the symbol tumbled from a gate long shattered. Look harder—the alignment of corpses and smoking pits murmurs of reversal, as if the ground trades sides in endless loops. The banner of ruin sways, gloating, yet no answer rides that foul wind. For all the thunder of bolters and the theater of fire, the mystery persists: Vojta walks elsewhere, unseen, while this war devours its own encore.