Rust Sentinel Silence

Mid-legends say the iron champions once thundered like drums across these salt dunes, their duels echoing as hymns of dominion. Now the wind rehearses those same refrains where metal kneels in defeat. Pitted armor, bowed beneath the ochre tide, still hums faintly as if some hidden heartline twitched when the horizon brightened. On its visor, someone carved the question in blunt strokes—WHERE VOJTA?—a plea, an accusation, or perhaps an unfinished oath. No banners remain, no rival footprints drift close, just silence curling under bronze clouds. The air tastes of copper and grit; each gust scours centuries away. There is no sign of the pilot who once bested rivals in contests that crowned legends. We catalog this scene with steady hands, yet our ledger closes on the same riddle: Vojta does not answer.