Thuta had never seen a sky so full of weight.
Dark clouds hung like old curtains above the winding road to Mount Victoria, their bellies swollen with thunder. The borrowed van shuddered around each bend, tires spitting dust into the gorge below. Every few kilometers, the road narrowed to a cracked ledge barely wide enough for a motorbike, let alone the rusted vehicle he now regretted climbing into.
His driver, an old man with more scars than teeth, hadn't said a word since they left the last village. Only grunted once when Thuta offered extra cash. He took it, nodded, and pointed west. That had been enough.
Now, hours later, Thuta clutched the scroll in his satchel like a nervous talisman. The map it revealed weeks ago had been vague, but unmistakable. Three spirals. One etched into stone in Sagaing. Another hidden beneath smoke and memory. And the third — marked only by a line beneath a peak — waited here.
Mount Victoria.
Where the air smelled like ash even in the rain.
---
They stopped at a clearing where the road simply ended, swallowed by jungle.
The driver didn't wait for thanks. He just turned the van around and disappeared back into the mist.
Thuta stood alone, mud creeping up his boots.
Before him: trees. Dense, wet, heavy with age. They shifted unnaturally in the wind.
He pushed forward.
Each step felt slower, like time bending around the forest. He checked the scroll every few minutes — not because he was lost, but to reassure himself he still had something to follow. The spiral on the parchment didn't glow, didn't move. It only pulsed faintly when he passed certain trees.
Like the mountain was watching him arrive.
---
The first real sign came in the form of silence.
Not quiet — silence. No birdsong. No rustling. Even the wind paused.
Then he saw it.
A stone archway, crumbling, covered in vines. Half-collapsed, half-swallowed by the cliff face. And behind it — steps, chiseled and ancient, leading downward into shadow.
He approached slowly.
The scroll began to hum.
When he passed beneath the arch, the sigil on his palm flared red-hot, forcing him to stumble and catch his breath.
But it wasn't pain.
It was recognition.
The mountain knew him.
---
The stairwell beneath Mount Victoria stretched longer than it should have. Steps worn smooth by time wound downward through old stone, past broken carvings and rusted sconces. He lit a torch, more for comfort than light. The air was dry, ancient, and charged.
Midway through, he passed a massive fresco.
It showed a war — not with swords, but with symbols. Zawgyi locked in battle. Flames etched into the walls. And in the center: a door. Not made of wood or stone. But ink.
A door drawn into the world.
And sealed.
Below it, in ancient script:
"Only the flame-carrier may witness the echo."
He swallowed.
At the base of the stairs, the tunnel opened into a chamber.
And at its center — the door.
Circular. Smooth. Unmarked by time. Surrounded by old machinery: rings, runes, coils of metal burned black.
The sigil on Thuta's hand began to glow brighter.
He approached.
The door pulsed.
And then he heard it.
A heartbeat. Not his.
The mountain was alive.
---
He placed his palm against the surface.
The door rippled, then spoke — not in words, but in memory.
Visions.
Fire consuming a city. Zawgyi arguing in circles. A vault being sealed, not out of fear — but out of guilt.
They hadn't wanted to win.
They'd wanted to disappear.
The sigil screamed. Light burst from his hand into the metal.
Then — silence.
The door clicked.
And opened.
---
A chamber lay beyond. Empty.
No treasure. No monsters.
Only dust. And a single pedestal, upon which rested a flame.
Not fire.
A memory, shaped like fire.
It hovered. Waiting.
He reached for it.
When his fingers touched the edge, the sigil on his palm sank into his skin.
The flame flickered.
And his vision went white.
-----