He did not intend to stop.
Fatigue had not altered his thresholds—only the texture of moving through them. He continued because continuation required less choice than stopping.
The terrain flattened into a narrow shelf where wind pooled and dispersed without pattern. Light spread evenly here, unbroken by overhangs. The openness made him adjust his pace, not out of caution, but habit.
That was when his vision dimmed—briefly, cleanly.
Not darkness. A narrowing. As if the world had taken a step back while his body remained in place.
He steadied himself against the stone without sitting. Knees unlocked. Weight redistributed. Breath controlled.
The Blood Sigil warmed, ready to compensate.
He did not ask it to.
The moment passed. The world returned to full width. He resumed walking.
A few steps later, it happened again.
This time, he stopped.
Not because he was in danger, but because stopping had become necessary to continue. He leaned against the rock face and let his breathing settle.
Footsteps approached from behind.
Not fast. Not cautious. Ordinary.
He turned his head enough to register presence without preparing response.
A figure passed close—close enough that shared space became unavoidable. The person slowed, then stopped a short distance ahead.
"Are you alright?"
The question was simple. Unweighted. It did not demand answer beyond its surface.
He did not reply immediately.
Speech required alignment he did not have.
The person waited—not pressing, not withdrawing.
After a moment, they held out a container of water. No insistence. No explanation.
He took it.
The action surprised him—not because he accepted help, but because his hand reached before analysis completed. Fingers closed around the container. Coolness transferred through skin.
He drank.
The water grounded sensation without flooding it. The dizziness did not return.
"Sit," the person said, gesturing toward the stone. "Just for a minute."
He considered refusing.
Refusal would have been cleaner.
He sat.
The stone was warm where the sun had touched it earlier. Not heat—warmth. The same category his body had been avoiding.
He noticed that he did not tense.
The Blood Sigil remained present but passive.
The person did not ask further questions. They did not look at him closely. Their attention stayed outward, tracking wind and light the way someone did when waiting had become part of their day.
After a short while, he stood.
The action required less strength than before. The fatigue did not vanish, but it shifted—no longer pooled entirely within him.
"Thank you," he said.
The word came out without resistance.
The person nodded once, as if that was enough.
They left without asking for anything in return.
He remained on the shelf for a few moments longer, aware of the absence they left behind. Not loss. Not pull.
Just a change in air.
When he resumed walking, his pace was unchanged. His thresholds remained intact. The system still functioned.
Yet something subtle had moved.
Not memory.
Not alignment.
Permission.
He noticed it in the way he allowed his breathing to remain uneven for an extra step before correcting. In the way he did not immediately avoid the next patch of sunlight.
The Blood Sigil did not object.
That night, sleep came more easily than it had the night before. Not deeper—just less resisted.
No fragments surfaced.
No sounds returned.
But when he woke, the fatigue felt… negotiable.
Not gone.
Shared.
He stood, shouldered his pack, and stepped forward into the open path.
Behind him, the stone shelf cooled.
Ahead, the world waited—unchanged, unhurried, indifferent.
And somewhere between those two states, he moved on—
not rescued,
not guided,
just helped,
once,
by a hand that passed through his life without leaving a name.