The cost revealed itself gradually.
Not as injury, not as failure, but as subtraction. Small things slipped first—the ease of breath, the margin for error, the quiet confidence that yesterday's rhythm would still apply today.
Morning came thin and pale. He rose slower than before, testing his knee before committing weight. It held, but the stiffness lingered longer than it should have.
He accepted it and moved.
Keeping pace was not about speed. It was about refusing collapse. He chose a direction that maintained the line he had set yesterday, even as the terrain argued for adjustment. The land sloped unevenly, forcing minor corrections that accumulated into fatigue.
The Blood Sigil stayed neutral.
That neutrality felt heavier than guidance.
By late morning, the sun climbed and heat pressed down. His water ran lower than expected. Not dangerously so—but enough to narrow choices. He slowed, spacing his sips, recalculating distance.
Each calculation took effort.
He crossed a stretch of ground broken by shallow pits where rain once pooled. Stepping between them required attention. He misjudged one gap and twisted slightly to compensate.
Pain flared.
Not sharp enough to stop him.
Sharp enough to remind him that compensation had a price.
He paused, hand braced against his thigh, breathing evenly. The Blood Sigil warmed after the fact, dulling the spike without erasing it.
The pattern held.
After.
Never before.
He resumed, but the pace had changed. Subtly. Irreversibly.
By afternoon, the accumulation became undeniable. His shoulders tightened. His thoughts shortened. Decisions that once came cleanly now dragged, each one asking for proof.
This was the cost of consistency.
Not dramatic loss, but sustained expenditure.
He reached a ridge where the land fell away into a long, shallow valley. The view offered options—routes that curved gently downward, paths that promised easier travel.
All of them diverged from the line he had been holding.
He stood there longer than he should have.
The pressure behind his sternum steadied, neither urging nor restraining. The sense of his name remained aligned, but distant, as if measuring whether pace alone was enough.
He understood the question being asked.
Consistency without reassessment could become stubbornness.
He chose a route that eased the descent without abandoning direction entirely. Not the straightest line. Not the easiest. A compromise that respected both continuity and condition.
The decision relieved something.
Not comfort.
Tension.
As he descended, his pace found a new rhythm—slower, more sustainable. The knee protested less when he stopped fighting it. Breath settled.
The Blood Sigil remained quiet.
It did not reward the adjustment.
It did not punish the deviation.
It accepted the outcome.
Near evening, clouds thickened and the air cooled. He reached a patch of ground where grass replaced stone and the slope gentled. He stopped earlier than planned.
Not from exhaustion.
From judgment.
He set down his pack and sat, letting the day finish without pushing it further. The cost had been paid. There was no need to overpay.
As light faded, he reflected on what keeping pace had demanded. Not speed. Not endurance.
Discernment.
When night came, it did not press. Sleep followed naturally, deeper than before.
In the morning, he would continue—not at yesterday's pace, but at one he could afford.