They moved with clenched fists through the stony corridors, words trailing like contraband: "Where Vojta?" The arches above gaped like question marks, drafty whispers curling between aged stonework. A trio of pale apparitions hovered, more signal than specter, marking a threshold few dared cross twice. Then—a swirl of concentric color bands punched the air like a coded frequency, its vibration warping resolve into fevered certainty. Later, under a bruised dawn with clouds fraying at their seams, they halted amidst ruin and ruinous thought, a single bubble of punctuation overhead. One spoke low, as if bargaining with the silence: "If he's beyond this, we follow still." Behind them, the last panel of the day sagged against blackened stone: STILL NO VOJTA! Their pilgrimage hums on, threads pulled tighter with every unanswered spiral.