Morning did not reset anything.
The ache in his knee returned with movement, not as pain but as alignment—a reminder that yesterday still existed. He welcomed it. Continuity required residue.
He packed without hurry. No road waited to receive him. The land offered options without preference. He chose a direction that followed the slope rather than resisting it, conserving effort without surrendering intent.
The Blood Sigil stayed quiet.
That, too, felt earned.
As he moved, the terrain changed in small ways that demanded attention. Loose stones gave way to packed earth, then to roots that crossed the path he was making as if testing whether he would notice. He adjusted pace, altered angle, learned where to place weight.
Nothing intervened.
Hours passed without incident, and the absence unsettled him more than danger had. He had grown used to moments that announced themselves. This did not.
Continuity, he realized, was work done without witnesses.
Near midday, he reached a narrow ravine where water cut through rock in a thin, steady line. Crossing it required balance more than strength. He tested the first stone, then the second, feeling for slip.
Halfway across, his knee wavered.
Not enough to fall.
Enough to require decision.
He shifted his center, pressed his palm to the rock, and continued. The movement was clumsy but controlled. On the far side, he stood and waited for something to follow.
Nothing did.
The Blood Sigil warmed briefly—acknowledgment without correction—then cooled again.
He drank and rested in the shade, listening to the water repeat itself without variation. The sound did not demand interpretation. It simply persisted.
He thought of the road he had left. How easily it would have carried him forward, smoothing edges, preserving a version of him others recognized. He understood now that continuity there would have been effortless.
And false.
When he rose, the presence behind his sternum steadied. The weight of his name no longer pressed to be revealed. It sat where it belonged, waiting to be matched by behavior rather than moment.
As afternoon wore on, clouds gathered, dimming the light without threat of rain. The air cooled. He adjusted his route to avoid exposed ridges, choosing cover not to hide, but to maintain pace.
A misstep caught him again near a patch of slick leaves. He slid, struck his hip lightly, and stopped. Pain flared, then settled.
The Blood Sigil responded after—slowing the bruise from deepening, keeping his breath even.
He sat for a moment and let the world continue around him.
This was the difference, he realized.
Mistakes no longer demanded narrative. They demanded adjustment.
He stood and moved on.
By evening, he found a place to rest where the ground sloped gently and trees broke the wind. He did not build a fire. He did not feel watched.
He ate, drank, and checked his knee. Swelling had stabilized. The cut remained closed. The body was keeping its own account.
As darkness settled, he lay back and watched the sky through branches. The openness did not press as it once had. It simply existed.
He understood then that continuity was not repetition.
It was choosing again under slightly different conditions.
When sleep came, it was unbroken.
In the morning, he would choose again.