He woke before the light changed.
Not because he needed to, but because his body no longer waited for signals. Breath adjusted first. Muscles followed. Awareness arrived last, settling in after the fact.
The chamber was unchanged.
Stone. Air. Distance. No immediate threat.
The Blood Sigil beneath his skin remained still—warm, present, unconcerned.
He stood, moving through the space with practiced efficiency. Hands checked surfaces before eyes confirmed them. Corners were accounted for. Exits measured. Nothing required attention.
That was acceptable.
Outside, the air carried more variance. Temperature shifted subtly. His body compensated without instruction. Steps shortened. Weight redistributed. Balance held.
The world did not demand interpretation.
It demanded response.
He ate when depletion reached a threshold. Not hunger—just correction. Water followed the same logic. Intake. Stabilize. Continue.
There was no thought attached to the process.
There had never needed to be.
He did not wonder why his hands knew what to do. He did not ask who had taught him. The absence of those questions felt natural, like ignoring a tool no longer in use.
Names did not surface.
Not because one was missing—but because none were required. No one called. No one waited for an answer.
When thought attempted to rise, it arrived already thinning. Ideas dispersed before forming structure. There was nothing to plan beyond the next movement. Nothing to regret behind him.
The Blood Sigil did not guide him.
It did not need to.
His body had learned where to stand without triggering response. How long to remain still. When to move without drawing attention. These were not decisions.
They were preferences, shaped through repetition.
Once, while crossing a narrow ridge of stone, his body paused.
The pause occurred without warning.
A foot hovered above the next step. Muscles held. Balance recalculated. For a fraction of time, there was no directive.
No heat beneath the skin.
No pressure.
No correction.
He waited.
Nothing followed.
The step completed itself.
The pause did not return.
He continued forward, the moment already filed as irrelevant.
Later, he passed a surface in the rock smoothed enough to return a shape. Not a mirror—just a suggestion of form.
He looked.
The shape looked back.
Eyes. Face. Movement.
No recognition followed.
The absence felt neutral.
As if something unnecessary had been set aside earlier and properly forgotten.
He turned away.
Night arrived without ceremony. Sleep came easily. No dreams surfaced. No images intruded. The Blood Sigil cooled into a steady, unobtrusive presence.
Before consciousness faded, a thought attempted to form.
It did not complete itself.
The body had already determined there was nothing to examine.
And so the day ended as it had begun—
without question,
without resistance,
without a self that required return.