They lowered the relic into the abyss while their voices softened to whispers, each syllable meant to soothe the currents. The crystals flared under the dim teal expanse, shimmering like brittle psalms, and the stray ember glow of coral crowned the forgotten console as if it were anointed. Its screen pulsed the words they dared not speak aloud—WHERE VOJTA?—a question blooming like a wound amid the dark terrain. Above, the leviathan shadows glided in stern procession, guardians or judges, their wings cutting scripture through blue. Those who watched from a distance claimed this was no search but a vow renewed, enacted in the manner of an old covenant: cables coiling, light bending, stones bearing iridescent testimony. Yet behind the solemn choreography hung the truth none could smother—Vojta’s trace was still vapor, and in that endless fathom, his absence deepened like a tide that would never turn.