Phantom Stag Pursuit

[Entry 07:03h] Rain sketched knives across the water when the stag erupted in light—too blinding, almost jubilant, yet wrong against the hollow tide of cloaked figures converging like a chorus of silence. Every ripple feels reversed, as if stepping backward through hours we thought were secure. The beast does not run so much as carve insistence into the dark, an argent script looping into that question none of us speak aloud anymore: *Where Vojta?* I sensed their betrayal before their gowns fully formed—collars pried open, arms stiff, like marionettes jerking inward. No torches here, only the cold hymn of rain and the pulse in my own wrists urging flight. If the stag is truly his sign, then he is not safe; maybe never was. My fingers still ache from gripping the iron balustrade when the call came. We follow its glow deeper, hoping the reflection answers—but he remains unaccounted for, and the night keeps swallowing our certainty.