Consistency did not make things easier.
It made them narrower.
After the encounter, the land felt unchanged, yet his movement through it did not. Each step now carried an implied comparison—to the way he had stepped before, to the way he would step again. There was no audience, but there was memory.
His own.
He followed a shallow contour where the slope eased, choosing efficiency over caution. The knee held. The rhythm settled. For a time, the quiet returned in a manageable shape.
Then fatigue edged in—not sudden, not dramatic. A soft blur at the edges of attention. The kind that suggested shortcuts.
He recognized it and slowed.
The Blood Sigil did not respond. It did not counterbalance the drift. It waited to see whether he would correct himself.
He did.
The correction cost time. It always did.
By midday, the sun pressed higher and the ground reflected heat unevenly. Shadows shortened. Water became a consideration rather than a comfort. He adjusted his route toward a line of trees that promised shade but required a slight detour.
The choice felt trivial.
It was not.
The detour meant committing to a direction longer than planned. It meant accepting that consistency would carry consequences forward, not reset at convenience.
He took it.
Under the trees, the air cooled and the ground softened. Roots broke the surface in patterns that demanded attention. His knee brushed a raised knot and sent a brief flare of pain through him.
He stopped.
Not to rest.
To recalibrate.
He pressed his palm to the trunk beside him, grounding himself in texture and resistance. The world did not respond with guidance. It simply existed.
The Blood Sigil warmed faintly, acknowledging the pause without endorsing it.
He moved on.
Later, he reached a section of fallen branches tangled across his path. Clearing them would cost energy. Going around would cost distance. Neither option offered relief.
He chose to clear a narrow passage.
The work was slow. Twigs snapped. Bark scraped his forearms. Sweat gathered, then cooled. His knee protested more sharply as he shifted weight awkwardly.
He adjusted again.
By the time he emerged, the passage behind him was just wide enough to pass once. No trail remained.
The effort did not feel rewarding.
That unsettled him.
He had expected a sense of correctness, some internal signal that he had acted well. Instead, there was only continuity—the knowledge that this choice now shaped the next.
Comfort, he realized, was often mistaken for confirmation.
Consistency offered no such thing.
As afternoon waned, clouds drifted in and softened the light. He checked his water and rationed without urgency. Hunger stayed at a distance, present but not pressing.
He walked until his pace slowed naturally, then slowed it further.
At dusk, he stopped where the land rose slightly and broke the wind. He did not search for the best spot. He chose one that was sufficient and ended the day there.
He ate and drank, then sat with his back to stone, watching the sky change color through branches.
The presence behind his sternum remained steady—no push, no pull. The sense of his name did not advance or retreat. It waited, aligned with his pace.
He understood something quietly:
Consistency was not a promise of safety.
It was a refusal to reset.
When night came, it brought no clarity, only continuation. He lay down without ritual and slept lightly, waking once to adjust his position and then sleeping again.
In the morning, the path ahead would not be kinder.
But it would be honest.
And that, he accepted, would have to be enough.