Smoke spiraled in thin, urgent lines as the first pale light pressed through the forest columns. Whoever struck the campfire left traces of cloves in the air, a faint aromatic thread circling the iron pot like a whispered spell for safety. Shadows of towering pines framed everything too neatly, as though the trees themselves conspired to keep secrets out of sight. They carved the plea into the fallen trunk, dark letters devoured by moss and haloed by fungal glow: Where Vojta? I ran my fingers along the damp grooves and tried not to shiver. “Keep them warm, whatever happens,” someone had barked before vanishing between bark-scars that looked like warnings. There’s haste in the ashes and dread in the silence—a guardian fled mid-charge, leaving only steam, spice, and this message open to the dawn. Vojta is still gone, and the forest feels like it intends to keep it that way.