The air grew thick as Thuta approached the base of Mount Popa, a dormant volcano rumored to be the gateway to forgotten realms. The locals whispered of strange lights flickering in the mist, and the smell of sulfur burned faintly in the evening breeze. But Thuta didn't flinch. The crimson sigil on his palm pulsed faintly, as if warning him to be cautious — or perhaps urging him onward.
He adjusted the strap of his worn satchel and wiped sweat from his brow. "If I make it up this mountain," he muttered, "maybe I can find some answers — or at least something to sell."
The path was steep and tangled with thorny vines. Every step disturbed the thick fog curling around gnarled roots like silent serpents. At one point, he slipped on a patch of moss and landed flat on his back, staring up at the sky hidden behind a canopy of twisting branches.
"Smooth," he said sarcastically to the jungle.
A sudden rustle made him sit up sharply. Something large was moving just beyond the fog's edge. He squinted, heart pounding. It was only a monkey, its eyes reflecting the dim light like twin embers before it vanished with a sharp screech.
"Great," Thuta breathed, "wildlife to add to my growing list of troubles."
Despite himself, he chuckled. The jungle had a cruel sense of humor.
After hours of climbing, he reached a clearing. At its center lay a weathered stone altar etched with symbols he didn't recognize — except one. The crimson spiral, the same as the sigil on his hand, burned faintly on the altar's surface.
Thuta stepped closer. As his fingers brushed the cold stone, a sudden chill ran down his spine. The sigil on his palm flared red-hot, and a sharp crack echoed through the clearing.
The altar split open like a wound, revealing a hidden chamber beneath.
"What the—?"
He peered inside. Darkness swallowed the entrance, but the faint glow from the sigil illuminated rough stone steps spiraling down into shadow.
"Of course," Thuta muttered. "There's always a secret door."
He took a deep breath and descended.
The air inside was damp, heavy with the smell of earth and decay. Strange glyphs glimmered faintly on the walls, their shapes twisting and shifting as if alive.
Halfway down, the sigil burned brighter, casting eerie shadows that danced like ghostly figures. Thuta swallowed hard.
"Okay, not the best time for second thoughts."
Suddenly, a whisper floated from the darkness.
"Who… comes…?"
Thuta froze. His pulse thundered in his ears. The voice was distant yet sharp, like the wind slipping through cracks in ancient stone.
"I'm… just a traveler," he said, voice cracking.
"Why do you carry the mark?"
Thuta glanced at his palm. The crimson spiral was throbbing wildly, almost like a heartbeat.
"Don't ask me," he said. "I didn't choose it. It chose me."
The whisper faded.
Ahead, a faint red glow pulsed from an alcove. Thuta approached cautiously. There, resting on a stone pedestal, lay a sealed scroll wrapped in crimson ribbon.
He reached out, hesitated, then broke the seal.
As the ribbon unraveled, a rush of cold air swept through the chamber. The glyphs blazed to life, bathing the stairwell in a blood-red light.
Thuta stumbled back.
A low rumble shook the stone. The seal had been broken.
A sudden pressure pushed against his chest, and he doubled over coughing.
Then, silence.
As he recovered, a soft chuckle echoed through the chamber.
"Looks like someone's awakening old ghosts," a voice murmured—distant, yet somehow close.
Thuta's heart leapt. He scanned the shadows, but saw nothing.
"Great," he muttered, "I'm talking to myself now."
He forced himself to calm down, gripping the glowing sigil tightly.
"Well, I didn't come this far to chicken out now."
Suddenly, a faint scratching sound echoed behind him. He spun around.
Nothing.
He shook his head, muttering, "Get it together, Thuta."
At the top of the stairs, the jungle waited silently, swallowing the fading light of day.
Thuta emerged, breathless and wide-eyed, but carrying the scroll.
As he settled under a twisted tree to rest, he noticed something odd.
Near the base of the tree, tied to a broken branch, was a thin strip of faded cloth — a deep red, almost blending with the earth.
He stared.
The cloth seemed too deliberate to be left by accident.
A faint chill ran down his spine.
He picked it up carefully.
"Looks like someone's been watching."
And somewhere, unseen, eyes followed.
---
That night, back at the ramshackle inn on the edge of town, Thuta tried to read the scroll by candlelight.
The symbols were old, some indecipherable.
But one phrase stood out: *"The Crimson Seal binds the souls of the forbidden."*
He traced the words with trembling fingers.
"Forbidden… souls?"
His thoughts tumbled.
"Is the Zawgyi's power really locked behind some kind of curse?"
Suddenly, a knock on the door startled him.
"Who's there?" he called.
No answer.
When he opened, the hallway was empty, but a folded scrap of paper lay on the floor.
Unfolding it, he found a single line, written in elegant script:
*"The watcher knows your steps."*
Thuta's heart pounded.
He looked around, but the hallway was silent and empty.
"Great," he whispered, "now I've got company."
---
Days passed, but the feeling of being followed never left.
In the market, in the dusty alleyways, even in his dreams, a shadowy figure seemed to lurk just beyond sight.
He caught glimpses: a tall man in a wide-brimmed hat, always with a bag slung over one shoulder, carrying strange trinkets that shimmered faintly.
No one else saw him.
Thuta's nerves frayed.
He told himself it was paranoia.
But the crimson sigil on his palm burned hotter every time the figure appeared.
And every time, the mysterious watcher vanished — like a ghost slipping through cracks in the world.
---
One afternoon, while trying to barter for food, Thuta tripped over a stray dog and landed hard on the dirt street.
A group of street kids laughed and jeered.
"Hey, Red Hand!" one called, pointing at his glowing palm.
"Is that some kind of magic trick? You a wizard or something?"
Thuta groaned.
"Not a wizard," he muttered, "just a broke guy with a curse."
The kids laughed harder.
Suddenly, one of them—a wiry boy with bright eyes—offered a grin.
"Maybe you're special. Maybe you're gonna be a hero."
Thuta raised an eyebrow.
"Or maybe I'm just gonna starve."
The boy laughed, then darted away.
Thuta smiled despite himself.
Maybe this cursed path wasn't so lonely after all.
---
Back in the shadows, the watcher's eyes narrowed.
The game had begun.
---