The scroll hadn't spoken in days.
It still pulsed, yes. Still shimmered when the light hit it just right. But no new symbols had appeared, no new warnings, no riddles pretending to be wisdom.
Thuta wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a very bad thing.
He sat on the roof of an abandoned building just outside a provincial town whose name he couldn't remember. He'd followed no path, just instinct. Or maybe the sigil was guiding him now — a compass of half-formed memory and heat.
The sky was bruised violet, clouds creeping in slowly. Somewhere far below, monks were chanting in a nearby monastery, their voices soft and steady like waves brushing sand.
He looked at his hand.
The second sigil still glowed beneath the skin. Quieter now. But it had left him changed. He saw things differently. Not just light or energy — but weight. Presence.
People gave off shapes now. Emotional pressure. Like echoes.
And something was getting louder.
---
He first noticed it in the reflection of a bus window.
Not his reflection. Not fully.
Behind him — in the glass — a shadow stood, distinct even though no one was there. Wide hat. Long coat. A side bag heavy with something that shimmered like old coins or charms.
The Watcher.
Thuta turned around.
No one.
He exhaled, heart pounding. Sat back down.
The shadow was gone.
---
That night, he couldn't sleep. So he wandered.
The town was quiet, save for distant thunder and the hum of fluorescent lights. He passed shuttered shops, empty tea stalls, a lone dog curled on the steps of a clinic.
And then he saw it.
A symbol.
Drawn in ash on the wall of an alley.
A spiral — incomplete. Broken on purpose.
He reached toward it.
The sigil on his palm sparked.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Then a whisper came.
"You carry their breath, but you haven't earned their silence."
Thuta spun. "Who's there?!"
No one answered.
But behind him, standing at the end of the alley — the man.
Hat. Coat. Bag.
The Watcher.
He didn't speak. Didn't step closer. Just watched.
Thuta's voice was a whisper. "Why me?"
No answer.
Only a slow tilt of the head.
Then, he reached into his bag. Pulled out something wrapped in red cloth.
He set it on the ground.
And walked away.
By the time Thuta reached the spot, the man was gone.
The cloth held a **fragment of a scroll** — not his, but ancient.
Etched into it:
"Three breaths awaken the fourth.
But the fourth breath is not yours."
Thuta clutched it tightly.
The scroll in his satchel trembled.
The night around him went still.
And for the first time since the jungle tomb, Thuta didn't feel alone.
He felt expected.
-----