Heat carries the moment before the words do. Knees grind into sticky stone as the front rank settles, shoulders squared, tails twitching for balance around the central flame. Wax sighs, slides, and hardens again. Someone lifts a taper higher, testing the light, and the crowd of small armored bodies leans in as one, breath synchronized, confidence pooling despite the confined tunnel. The scrawl on the damp wall—Where Vojta?—catches a flicker, left behind like a dare no one has yet claimed. The elder gestures with both hands, not commanding but inviting, palms up, posture loose yet alert, while a younger scout angles sideways, already doubting this stationary counsel, boots itching for corridor and risk. Chains clink, armor creaks, and the candles answer with accelerated drips, time marking itself in soft impacts. They argue in whispers and glances, planning routes the light cannot reach, celebrating this small harbor of resolve before movement. Victory breathes briefly here, contained, then thins. The search tightens, paths diverge, and even with all this flame, Vojta remains unaccounted for.