Sparks in Sanctuary

Report fragment #31 notes: stone floor slick as ink, candlelight clinging to vaulting ribs, a clash frozen mid-arc like someone paused the very air. Two figures—caped, taut, pulling light from slender rods—locked in fiery standoff beneath a chandelier that sheds embers rather than wax. Shadows flick like pulsebeat murmurs across the benches, carved wood waiting for voices that never rise. At a glance, it feels safe, yet the silence dares you deeper. The letters gouged into the flagstone read WHERE VOJTA?, asking more than anyone in that room could answer. Whoever scrawled it must have carried dread in trembling hands. Dust spirals hang, haloed by stray gleam, and you think: maybe if you stop blinking, you'll see him surface from the light. But the spark only stretches, suspended in cathedral hush. Vojta’s trace remains unspoken, his absence stitched into every flare.