They stopped mid-stride, boots sinking into moss that breathed back at them, a soft give like damp bread. The forest pulsed in a repeating glow—caps, caps, caps—teal underbellies blinking in a rhythm that dared the mind to follow. The drone held its lamp low, a warm square of yellow stubborn against the midnight green. One explorer spread a hand toward the ravine where a violet flare hissed and fell, staining the mist with a bitter-smelling smoke. The other stayed near the ladder, doubt heavy in his shoulders, visor catching reflections that doubled the path and made history loop. On the bark beside them, carved quick and shallow, the question waited: Where Vojta? Sap wept around the letters, sweet-sour on the tongue as if the air itself could be tasted. “He promised he’d mark the safe way,” one voice rasped through the helmet, not hope, not accusation. Spores drifted like confetti with no celebration attached. The machine hummed, mushrooms echoed, and the trail forward shimmered with repeating signs that still refused to answer, leaving Vojta unaccounted for.