Distance did not behave the way he expected.
In the cave, space had been solved by proximity. Near was relevant. Far was irrelevant. The walls decided what mattered.
Outside, nothing made that choice for him.
He walked across uneven ground where the slope was gentle enough to ignore but long enough to distort judgment. Objects refused to settle into scale. A rock that looked close took longer to reach than anticipated. A rise that seemed distant arrived too soon.
He slowed, recalibrating.
The Blood Sigil remained warm, observant, silent.
He watched shadows move across the land and realized they did not anchor anything. They stretched without reference, sliding across stone and grass alike. Without a ceiling, light became unreliable.
Movement caught his attention at the edge of the basin.
Not sudden. Not threatening.
A person crossed the land at a distance—far enough that details blurred, close enough that presence could not be dismissed. The figure moved with purpose, neither hiding nor searching.
His body reacted.
Not with fear.
With compression.
His posture tightened inward, narrowing his profile as if distance itself could be reduced by making less of himself. The response surprised him. It belonged to a world where being seen mattered.
He did not hide.
He stopped.
The person did not look toward him. Their path curved naturally away, continuing on without pause. The space between them widened again, restoring silence.
He exhaled slowly.
The encounter left no immediate consequence, but it changed the texture of the land. Distance now carried weight. Every open stretch became a question of who might cross it.
He continued walking, more aware of how far sound traveled, how long it lingered before dissolving. His footsteps felt louder. Pebbles clicking together echoed longer than they should have.
He reached a shallow ravine where the ground dropped away unevenly. From above, it appeared minor—easy to cross with a single step.
He misjudged.
The far edge was lower than it looked. His foot landed later than expected, forcing a quick shift of balance. His heel slid, dislodging dirt and stone.
He caught himself.
Not cleanly.
His hand struck the ground, skin scraping against grit. Pain flared sharp and honest.
The Blood Sigil warmed—after.
Not before.
After the damage was done.
He froze, breath held, listening for response.
None came.
No shout. No movement. The distant land remained indifferent.
He examined his palm. The scrape was shallow but raw, a line of broken skin already darkening. He flexed his fingers once, feeling the sting sharpen, then settle.
A mark.
Not on stone.
On him.
He stood slowly and crossed the ravine properly this time, choosing footing with deliberate care. Each step took longer. Each adjustment required attention.
The world did not wait.
Further on, he noticed something else: sound behaved differently around elevation. A breeze carried voices from somewhere he could not see—fragments of speech torn apart by distance. Meaning dissolved before words could form.
Yet the presence of people was undeniable.
He altered his route slightly, favoring uneven ground that broke lines of sight. Not hiding—just managing exposure.
The Blood Sigil did not object.
By late afternoon, fatigue layered itself more thickly than the day before. Not because he had traveled farther, but because every movement now carried calculation.
Distance demanded thought.
He stopped on a ridge overlooking the land he had crossed. From here, the basin appeared smaller than it had felt. The ravine he had stumbled over was barely visible.
Scale was deceptive.
He understood that now.
What mattered was not how far something was—but how wrong you could be about it.
He wrapped his scraped hand in a strip of cloth torn from his sleeve. The fabric darkened slightly as it absorbed blood. The sight did not disturb him.
It instructed.
As the light thinned toward evening, he moved again, slower but steadier, carrying with him a new awareness:
Outside the cave, distance was not empty space.
It was risk stretched thin—
waiting for someone to step wrong.