The jungle breathed in silence as dawn spilled across the treetops. Mist hovered low to the ground like an ancient spirit reluctant to rise. The air smelled of wet bark, earth, and something older—something woven deep into the soil long before men gave the land a name.
Tanthai sat by the dying embers of the fire, his knees drawn to his chest, watching the serpent mark pulse on his skin. He hadn't slept. Not really.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Naga Queen's throne swallowed in flame. He saw the monk with burning eyes tearing open the gate of some sacred place. And worst of all, he saw himself lying still, his lifeless fingers curled like leaves at the foot of a shattered shrine.
A memory not his—but somehow entirely his.
"You are not the first," the voice had told him. "But you may be the last."
He clenched his jaw and traced the edge of the mark. It was warm. Always warm. Like the last breath of something dying beneath his skin.
"You saw her," Sangchai said quietly.
Tanthai hadn't noticed the monk approach. He moved like a leaf carried by wind—present, but never loud.
"Yes," Tanthai answered. "She said I had to remember. That I carry her mark. I saw a river palace, stars… then fire. Then death."
Sangchai nodded. "She showed you what was lost. Now you must understand why."
He motioned for the others to gather. The archer, Tanthai the warrior, leaned his bow against a log and sat without a word. Mia came quietly, brushing moss from her fingers and adjusting her satchel of herbs and maps.
"This is the story they no longer teach," Sangchai said. "Because it was not written for men. It was written in stone and whispered through water. Listen closely. This story does not ask to be remembered—it demands it."
"Before the kings, before even the first shrines, there was a queen who ruled not with fire, but with flow.
The Naga Queen.
Born of river and spirit, she coiled beneath the land and lifted the mountains to greet the sky. Her breath made the rain, her tongue stirred the tides. Her people were not men, but something older—half-flesh, half-memory. Naga. Serpent-born.
They guarded the balance between time and soul. Where the river ran, life followed.
But power, even sacred, draws hunger.
Sangchai's voice dropped.
"There was a monk. A man of great learning. Some say he was once her disciple. Others say he was simply a man who saw too much and cared too little. He believed in breaking the cycle of life, not protecting it. He saw death as a doorway, not an end.
His name was Phra Malok.
To him, the Naga were not guardians, but jailers—hoarding the secrets of life and death beneath the river.
So he sought to steal their flame."
Tanthai listened, a cold pressure growing in his chest.
"Did he… succeed?"
Sangchai's silence was an answer.
Mia looked pale. "But the Naga Queen… she was so powerful. How could one man destroy her?"
"Because she loved," Sangchai said. "And love is the greatest weakness of all gods."
The monk turned toward Tanthai, his eyes not unkind. "You felt it, didn't you? In your vision. The sorrow. The loss."
Tanthai nodded. "She called me her heir. But I'm not. I don't even know her. I don't know myself."
Sangchai knelt beside the fire and drew in the ash with a stick. He sketched a serpent coiled around a tree.
"You are not her by blood," he said. "But you are the vessel she chose. And in choosing you, she placed her final hope into the hands of someone who knows what it means to lose everything."
Tanthai flinched at that. It felt too close to the truth.
"She trusted once and was betrayed. She trusts again. With you."
The jungle grew quiet.
Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
Later that day, as the group traveled westward along an old river path, Mia walked beside Tanthai, her eyes scanning the shadows ahead.
"You're quiet," she said.
"I'm trying not to fall apart."
She offered him a half-smile. "Falling apart's normal. It's staying broken that's the real danger."
He glanced at her. "Do you believe this story? About the Naga Queen and the monk?"
"I do," she said. "Because I've seen what happens when the river spirits grow restless. Whole villages forget their own names. Crops rot under moonlight. Children speak with the voices of ancestors."
"And that's… him? Phra Malok?"
"His hunger never ended. They say he walks through the land like a shadow sewn from fire and grief."
Tanthai stopped walking.
Mia looked back.
"I saw him," he whispered. "I saw him rip something open. A gate. A door. The sky turned black. And there was… screaming."
Mia's expression darkened. "Then your visions are growing stronger. We need to reach the Hollow Shrine soon."
"What's that?"
"A place even spirits won't go," she said. "But your mark might open what's hidden there."
He didn't like the sound of that. Not at all.
As night fell, they made camp by a twisted banyan tree, its roots curling like claws across the ground. The river was near now—its soft rush steady and cold, like a whisper between worlds.
Tanthai couldn't sleep.
Instead, he sat by the water's edge, watching his reflection shimmer.
In the quiet, he spoke aloud.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough."
The water did not answer.
But a ripple crossed the surface, and for a moment, his reflection changed.
Not just him—but an older version. Stronger. Wearing armor woven from scale and cloth, golden eyes glowing faintly beneath a serpent-shaped helm.
And behind him—a burning city.
He gasped and stumbled back.
When he looked again, it was gone. Just the river. Just the boy.
But the image lingered behind his eyes, like an ember buried in ash.
He didn't know if it was the past… or the future.
But whatever it was, it was coming.
And fast.
End of Part 4