Molten Question

Ash swirled around us before the ring even sighed, its letters flaring like an accusation that had waited centuries for a voice. I remember gripping the volcanic ledge as if steadiness were a form of prayer; below, the glow licked upward, eager to claim the band as its offering. We read the words again—Where Vojta?—not with curiosity but with the dread of archivists who know an answer costs flesh as well as memory. Others were moving too: one scattering embers to mask our trail, another whispering coordinates like charms. All of us tasted iron in the air that charred the tongue before it hinted of any salvation. This circle of gold was meant to seal a pact, and instead it glares back, demanding proof of a man we failed to anchor. The forge took our breath; the question kept it. Vojta is still gone, and the fire does nothing but insist.