Embers in the Vault

Heat trembled from the corridor’s heart, a pulse of molten red curling into the ribbed arches like a warning inhaled. The stone underfoot radiated yesterday's fire, making every scholar’s breath frost at the edges—an absurd thermal paradox they read like scripture in reverse. Kneeling by that bone-twist of rock, they fingered the rune marks, reverent but urgent, mouthing the stenciled phrase: *WHERE VOJTA?*. Not a question alone, but a ceremonial ledger entry, the way ancestors inscribed absence into lineage. Each observer pressed a palm to the glowing letters, a ritual for clarity, though none spoke aloud the theory quivering behind their teeth: if heat lingers, then so could he. Far ahead, a red glare yawned deeper than record, as if the vault had begun to bleed. They rose in silence, anxious posture taut against the gloom, and moved toward old echoes. What they feared—what drove them forward—was simple: Vojta remained unaccounted for, and the walls seemed hungry to keep him that way.