He learned what it meant to be read before anyone spoke to him.
It began with looks that lingered a fraction too long. Not suspicion. Not fear. Assessment. Eyes tracing posture, measuring pace, noting the uneven weight in his step.
People did not see him.
They inferred him.
He moved along a narrower path that ran parallel to the main road, keeping brush between himself and the open space. From there, he could observe without fully entering. Voices carried intermittently—snippets of trade, irritation, laughter. The ordinary texture of lives intersecting.
A man glanced up from a cart as Kha passed behind the brush. The look was brief, unfocused. Then it returned, sharper.
Kha slowed.
The Blood Sigil warmed, then steadied. It did not correct his posture. It did not hide the limp.
It allowed the read.
The man's gaze dropped to Kha's knee, then rose again to his face. No alarm followed. Just a recalibration. The man turned back to his work, interest spent.
Kha exhaled.
He had been categorized.
Not as a threat. Not as prey.
As inconvenience.
Further along, a woman paused mid-step when she noticed him. Her eyes flicked from his hands to the way he favored one leg. She adjusted her path slightly to give distance—not from fear, but from calculation.
He passed without incident.
Each interaction left a residue. Not emotional. Informational.
He realized then that the injury had made him legible. Before, his presence had been ambiguous. Now it suggested narrative. Someone who fell. Someone who traveled without care. Someone not fully capable.
The truth did not matter.
The reading did.
At a crossing where paths converged, he hesitated. Too long.
A boy carrying bundles bumped into him lightly. The contact was brief, accidental, but it broke the invisible boundary.
"Sorry," the boy said automatically, already moving past.
Kha nodded. No words came.
The Blood Sigil warmed—not to speak for him, but to stabilize the surge that followed. Heat spread through his chest, grounding without suppressing.
He became aware of how close others were. How easily touch could occur. How quickly a story could form around a single moment.
He stepped aside and waited until the crossing cleared.
When he moved again, he adjusted—not to hide the limp, but to acknowledge it. His pace slowed. His steps grew deliberate. The read changed with it.
People began to move around him without tension. He was predictable now.
The thought unsettled him.
Predictability was safety—but it was also containment of a different kind.
Near the edge of the settlement, a vendor looked up as Kha passed. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly—not with suspicion, but curiosity. She watched him longer than the others.
"Long way," she said, not unkindly.
Kha stopped.
The words had not been a question, yet they demanded response. He searched for one and found none that fit. Any answer would be a declaration—of origin, of purpose.
He shook his head once. Minimal.
The vendor studied him another moment, then nodded as if the exchange had been complete.
"Take care," she said, already turning away.
He moved on.
The Blood Sigil cooled.
The interaction had not required intervention. That unsettled him more than danger would have.
He had been seen.
And allowed to pass.
By late afternoon, he reached open ground beyond the settlement. The road thinned. Voices faded behind him. The world widened again.
He stopped and flexed his knee. The pain had dulled into a persistent reminder.
A mark that spoke even when he did not.
He understood something essential:
Being read did not require consent.
Once marks existed, interpretation followed.
He continued forward, carrying the weight of that knowledge—
and the quiet understanding that from now on, every choice would write something others could see.