The fog offered nothing back.
He turned a slow, full circle — the specific, methodical coverage of someone who is genuinely looking rather than performing the gesture of looking — and found the same composition in every direction. Fog. Darkness. The slow, coiling movement of ancient atmospheric remnant that had been doing exactly what it was doing now for longer than anyone currently alive had been around to observe it. Tommy's faint ember-glow at the edge of visibility. Ambrose's silhouette somewhere in the middle distance, seated and recovering with the focused, inward quality of someone managing a constrained resource very carefully.
No golden chest..
No cheerful, slightly maddening commentary arriving from an unexpected angle. No mysterious symbols catching the ambient light with the specific, self-satisfied gleam of an object that knows it is being looked for and has opinions about when to be found.
He looked for another moment.
