Chained Threshold

I arrived while the chains still sang. Each link bit into the light, holding the oval fire fast over the drain like restraint could fix what history cracked. Frost crept down the stone ribs and stalactites bled slow drops, hissing when they struck the metal deck. The lamps burned low and stubborn, prison-yellow, revealing scuffs where boots once rallied and circles where people stood and decided not to run. Someone scraped a warning on the wall—Where Vojta?—and the ice tried to bury it, failed. Even the cup left by the rim needed heat; it steamed once, then kept watch. We learned to bargain with thresholds here. Feed them time. Brace them with iron. Keep a human distance. The legend says if you listen long enough, the gate repeats names it swallowed; I heard only breath and pressure, the kind that bends vows without breaking. I held the line while others searched the tunnels, believing in small mercies like intact chains and unbroken lights. When the glow dimmed and shadows thickened, the question stayed sharp in the cold. Vojta did not come through. He remains unaccounted for.