Chains of the Question

I reached the spike-bridge under a moon that burned white and cold, each shard embedded in the air like a verdict no one agreed upon. The chain writhed, sculpted from voices—tongues forged into iron, skulls stretched long with grief. They leaned from the cliff wall, a choir of warnings, carving that demand for all eternity: WHERE VOJTA? Even whispering those letters numbed my teeth, as though language itself resisted our hunt. On the far peak, a solitary clip stood grim and defiant, sentinel of some forgotten ledger. Heat bled into me where there should’ve been frost, seeping from the chain’s metal breath, fever rising against the midnight chill. I thought of victory but carried only questions balanced on cracked stone: had he crossed before the bridge screamed awake, or does that relic mark where he sank? The gorge did not answer. Its silence hissed back through broken wind, and I went on knowing that Vojta is still unfound.