The rain hadn't stopped since he left the mountain.
Thuta sat beneath the overhang of an old roadside shelter—nothing more than rotting wood and a rusted tin roof—but it was dry enough. Mud caked his boots, and the soaked hood of his jacket sagged over his eyes. He didn't care.
He'd run through mountain storms before, but nothing like this. Not after awakening whatever that flame had been.
The second sigil still glowed faintly beneath the skin of his palm. It didn't burn. It pulsed. A soft, steady reminder that he'd touched something ancient… and it had touched him back.
He unrolled the scroll in his lap, shielding it from the rain. The map still shimmered faintly, but no new symbols had appeared. Just the faint trace of three spiral markers. Sagaing. Mount Victoria. One more unlit.
And beneath them, faint as breath:
"Three breaths. One soulprint."
"What does that even mean?" he whispered.
No answer.
The scroll, as usual, was generous with riddles and stingy with sense.
---
By morning, the rain lightened, and Thuta followed a footpath into a small village tucked between the trees. The locals didn't ask where he came from. Just nodded, eyes wary but uninterested. Travelers were common. Wandering madmen with glowing hands? Less so.
He found an old hut near the back of a livestock yard — a retired goat shed, maybe. He offered the owner two thousand kyat for the night. The man gave a shrug and pointed toward it.
Thuta moved in.
The inside smelled like straw and age, but it was clean enough. He dropped his satchel and crouched over the tiny gas stove the owner had left for visitors.
The canister was empty.
Of course it was.
He sat back and looked at the pot of cold rice and water he'd meant to cook. His stomach groaned in protest.
"Guess we're raw fasting today," he muttered.
His hand hovered near the pot.
Then stopped.
He frowned. He hadn't noticed it until now — but the sigil was pulsing. Not red. Gold.
He placed his hand flat on the side of the pot.
And focused.
Not on fire. Not on heat. Just… movement.
Something inside his chest responded. Like a breath held too long finally released. Energy moved — not from outside, but from within.
The water began to bubble.
He yanked his hand back.
The rice boiled.
No fire. No gas.
Just him.
He stared.
"What the hell…?"
The second sigil shimmered faintly, then faded back into the skin.
He sat in stunned silence as the pot continued to cook.
---
A few minutes later, just as he was lifting the lid, a voice startled him.
"What're you doing, boy?"
He turned. An old woman stood near the edge of the yard, peering through the door with narrowed eyes.
"I'm cooking," Thuta said carefully.
"With what fire?" she snapped.
Thuta hesitated. "Uh. Heat retention. It's a… modern method. University trick."
The woman stepped closer, eyeing the bubbling pot. "Looks like spirit-work to me. You messing with ghosts?"
Thuta held up his hands. "No ghosts, I promise. I'm just naturally warm-blooded."
She squinted, muttered something about "city weirdos," and shuffled off.
Thuta exhaled.
"So much for subtle."
---
That night, under a clear sky, Thuta lay outside the shed, staring up at the stars. They seemed brighter now. Sharper.
He wasn't sure if it was just clean air… or something else.
He held up his hand. The sigil was dormant. Quiet.
But he could feel it. Not power — not exactly. But awareness. The way the world shifted slightly when he looked at it. The soft outline of things unseen — heat, motion, tension.
The breath of alchemy.
It wasn't flame.
It was change.
---
The scroll rustled in the wind beside him.
He opened it.
The map shimmered.
But this time, a symbol had changed — the spiral over Mount Victoria now burned softly.
And beneath it, the same phrase again, but stronger:
"Three breaths. One soulprint."
He ran his finger over the ink.
A tiny shift. New characters forming beneath.
"When the last breath is drawn, the soul remembers itself."
Thuta stared.
What soul?
The Zawgyi's?
His?
Or something waiting to return?
---
He rolled up the scroll and tucked it away. The stars continued to shimmer.
As he closed his eyes, he whispered:
"Light without fire. That's what I am now."
And far away, in a place no longer on any map, a third sigil stirred.
Waiting.
-----