The scroll had shown him Sagaing. But it was the river that called to him.
Not in a loud or dramatic way — there were no voices, no glowing signs. Just a quiet, persistent tug. Like gravity, but older. It pulled at his thoughts when he tried to rest and filled his dreams with running water and distant laughter.
So he followed it.
The morning mist clung to the banks of the old river like cobwebs, casting a dreamlike haze over the forested path. Thuta wore his threadbare jacket, hood up, satchel slung across his shoulder. The scroll was inside, resting against his side like a second heartbeat.
He passed through a gap in the trees and stepped into a clearing.
The riverbed was wide, dry in parts, its edge overgrown with tall grass and pale flowers he didn't recognize. Birds fluttered from branch to branch overhead, but they made no sound.
It was… too quiet.
Thuta crouched near the edge, brushing aside reeds. Beneath the mud, he found stone. Faded, cracked — stairs. Leading downward.
The top step had a symbol chiseled into it: a partial spiral.
He brushed it with his hand. The sigil on his palm warmed in response.
"Figures," he muttered. "Always with the stairs."
He hesitated.
The scroll hadn't reacted yet, and that was the strange part. Usually, it flared, glowed, whispered something cryptic. But here… it was quiet.
As if listening.
Thuta climbed down slowly, boots scraping soft moss as he descended. The steps led only a few meters down before stopping at a flat stone platform submerged in a thin pool of clear water.
He knelt, fingertips brushing the surface.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the reflection changed.
Not his face.
Another.
A young man, dressed in crimson and black, his eyes closed, kneeling by the river as if in prayer. In his hands — a small orb, glowing gently, like a lantern lit from within. His lips moved, but the words were lost.
The orb sank into the water.
The image faded.
Thuta stumbled back, gasping.
The sigil flared hot, then cold.
He looked down at the pool.
Only his face now.
He glanced to the side, then froze.
Embedded in the base of a tree's gnarled roots nearby was something metallic — a corner of what looked like a small, square box.
He moved to it quickly, tugging away leaves and mud. It was heavy, rusted, and sealed by strange runes. As he touched it, the sigil sparked, a faint jolt running up his arm.
The lid didn't budge.
Etched along its edge, barely visible:
"The river remembers those who were forgotten."
He sat back on his heels, breathing hard. "Is this… a memory vault?"
The phrase came to him unbidden. But it felt right.
He slipped the box into his satchel.
Then he stood, slowly.
The forest remained still.
But the river… watched.
---
He wandered the bank for an hour more, circling, mapping the space in his head. Occasionally, he found more stairs, crumbled markers, even an old stone seat. Someone had lived or worked here once.
A sanctuary? A meeting place? A burial ground?
He didn't know. But the silence spoke volumes.
Everything here had been left alone. Forgotten on purpose.
And now he had disturbed it.
---
By the time he returned to the guesthouse, the sun was low.
Children played near the entrance, kicking an empty bottle down the street. One of them — a girl with short hair and bare feet — paused as he walked by.
She stared at him.
Then bent down and traced a spiral in the dirt.
Thuta stopped.
The girl didn't smile. Didn't speak.
Just walked away.
He stood there a long time, staring at the symbol she'd drawn.
Was it random? A coincidence?
Or a message?
He wiped it away and entered the building.
---
That night, he placed the box on the floor of his room and sat cross-legged before it. The scroll glowed inside his bag, a warm weight that seemed to whisper: Not yet.
But the sigil pulsed.
He placed his hand on the lid.
Nothing.
Then, with a deep breath, he focused.
He thought of fire. Of ash. Of the Zawgyi in the water, of the orb, of the vision. He imagined the river flowing through him — memory, power, time.
The sigil brightened.
The box clicked.
But did not open.
A voice, not his own, echoed in the room:
"Only when the third mark is made can the vault be opened."
The light faded.
The box remained closed.
Thuta leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
Three marks?
He had one.
The second seal had already responded.
The third… waited.
And he would have to find it.
---
The next morning, he found a note tucked into his door.
Plain. No name.
Inside:
"You aren't the only one seeking the river's memory."
He looked up sharply.
A man across the street — dark jacket, hat brim low — turned and vanished into the alley.
Thuta's heart pounded.
He opened his hand. The sigil pulsed once.
The river had watched.
And now… others were watching too.
---