The cargo truck bounced hard over a pothole, nearly launching Thuta into a burlap sack full of ginger roots.
He grunted, readjusted himself, and muttered, "I should've charged extra for spine damage."
The driver didn't hear him — he was too busy yelling into an ancient Nokia at someone named Ko Htun about delayed onions.
Thuta was on his way to Sagaing. Again, without a plan. But at least this time, he had a little cash — thanks to a lucky sale.
A few days earlier, he'd sold a cracked pendant he'd found near the first tomb. A simple thing, really — shaped like a flame, etched with a spiral pattern. He'd told the buyer it was a "Shan-era incense stone." It wasn't.
But the collector didn't care. They paid enough for two rides, one burner phone, and a suspiciously cheap rain jacket.
He hadn't dared sell the scroll — or anything directly tied to the sigil. But it made him wonder: how many pieces of the past were floating around in back-alley markets, mistaken for junk?
He reached into his satchel, touched the scroll through the fabric. It pulsed faintly, always warm now. Like it had accepted the journey, even if Thuta hadn't.
---
Sagaing shimmered in the late afternoon heat when he arrived. Hills lined with pagodas rose to the west, dotted with golden stupas like crowns.
He slipped off the truck and thanked the driver with a nod. The man just waved him off and returned to his phone.
Thuta wandered into the streets, head down. The scroll's half-map had shown something in this region — west of the city, near an old riverbed. Nothing concrete. No names.
Only the spiral.
He found a cheap guesthouse and paid for two nights with a wrinkled 5000 kyat note. The owner didn't ask questions. Just handed him a key and pointed upstairs.
The room was small, the fan squeaked, and the walls smelled faintly of boiled eggs and mildew.
Perfect.
He dropped onto the bed and let out a long breath.
"I'm chasing ancient fire ghosts across the country," he said to the ceiling. "Because that's apparently who I am now."
No answer.
But the scroll shimmered in his bag.
---
That night, he wandered into the hills.
He carried a flashlight, a bottle of water, and the scroll. The stars blinked above him through the canopy. Crickets chirped like tiny alarms.
He followed the shape of the hills. Something about them felt familiar — not from this life, but from the visions. The memory-echoes.
At the edge of a broken path, he found a crumbled stone marker — nearly swallowed by moss and vines. The spiral had been etched into it once, long ago. Barely visible now.
His sigil flared in response.
Thuta crouched. Cleared the dirt.
There were more symbols beneath. A half-circle. A flame. An eye.
Then, in the stillness, a voice — dry as dust:
"You carry the second echo."
He stood, flashlight sweeping through the trees. "Who's there?"
No answer.
But a breeze pushed past him — warm and sour, like breath from an ancient mouth.
He turned.
At the top of the hill, just briefly, a silhouette stood.
Tall. Still. Hat brim wide. Watching.
Then it was gone.
Thuta exhaled shakily. "Of course you're here."
He knelt beside the marker again.
"Debt and destiny," he said aloud. "I guess I've got both."
The sigil pulsed once.
A faint rumble came from beneath the hill.
Something had heard him.
---