Storm Etched Omen

[Field Log: 6th Frost Veil] The mountain holds its teeth clenched, yet the sky gnaws and roars. I watched lightning brand that granite monolith, carving its verdict with blue-white ferocity—*WHERE VOJTA?*—as though the rock itself had grown impatient. Shock rippled through the valley; even the shards at its feet gleam like broken tongues trying to shout. Above, those horns in cloud-shadow do not move. They *judge*. They promise. Each glowing eye murmurs a prophecy none dare finish aloud. I taste metal in the air now, copper and ice, bitter like secrets boiled too long. We believed the storm would answer, but the silence afterward froze our marrow, left us listening to the crackle of splintered stone like a dying heartbeat. The mountains are sealed, the question carved eternal. No path forward yet—only the word pulsing in my skull: Vojta. Missing still, drawn deeper than thunder ever struck.