Stormborn Duel

The stone clings to rain like an old vow, slick and glimmering where lightning licks the crenels. Two cloaked figures sway, half silhouettes, half tempests, their cloaks thrashing in a wind that seems to bargain with eternity. Their wands jab forward—reckless, trembling, precise in their fury—yet something underneath their posture murmurs of sorrow, of unfinished confession. You can almost feel the grit of the battlement under their boots, the raw abrasion of time along these walls. Behind them, the tower needles into the storm, pale spire carved thin against a bruised sky. The words scrawled below—Where Vojta?—crawl against the stone like a plea sharpened by guilt. Some say the proverb here runs, *one clash opens seven absences,* and tonight feels like its proof. The air hums, lightning cleaves, and still no sign of the one they name. Vojta remains elsewhere, unseen, and our search twists deeper into rain and echo.