He noticed the witness before the witness noticed him.
Not by sight—by change. The air carried a steadiness that did not belong to weather. Footsteps aligned briefly with his own rhythm, then broke away. Someone nearby was moving with intention.
He slowed.
The Blood Sigil warmed a fraction, then settled. Not alert. Context.
Ahead, the ground rose into a low shelf where brush thinned and stone showed through. A figure stood there, half-turned, as if deciding whether to continue or wait. The distance was honest—not close enough to force interaction, not far enough to deny it.
He adjusted his pace.
Not to hide the limp.
To manage it.
The adjustment was small—shorter steps on the ascent, a wider stance on the stone. He felt the knee complain, then comply. The movement was economical, practiced.
The figure turned fully now.
They watched him without pretense. Not scanning for threat. Not avoiding eye contact. Simply observing the way he crossed the shelf.
Pressure took shape.
This was not the pressure of being read from afar.
This was the pressure of being seen mid-adjustment.
He reached the top and paused, letting breath settle before moving on. The pause was deliberate. Not weakness. Not display.
The observer spoke. "You favor it less than you did."
A statement. Accurate.
He nodded once.
"You learned fast," they said, tone neutral. Not praise. Not challenge.
He considered responding, then chose honesty. "It taught me."
The Blood Sigil warmed briefly, acknowledging alignment without amplifying it.
The figure's gaze shifted—not to the knee now, but to his posture. To how he held stillness after motion.
They stepped aside, opening the shelf without ceremony.
He passed at a measured pace, neither rushing nor lingering. The adjustment held under observation.
Behind him, the figure resumed their own route, footsteps diverging.
The pressure did not vanish.
It refined.
He realized then what being seen had cost him—and given him. Adjustment made in private was practice. Adjustment made under observation became claim.
As the land leveled, his rhythm stayed intact. The knee no longer dictated each step. It informed them.
Later, the path narrowed between stones again. Another presence flickered at the edge of awareness—someone further off, moving parallel. He did not turn. He did not correct further.
Consistency carried the adjustment forward.
At a shallow bend, he stopped to drink. He did not turn his back to the open ground. He did not hurry.
When he moved on, he did so as if the choice belonged to him.
The Blood Sigil cooled to baseline.
Near evening, he found a place where the ground rose just enough to break sightlines. He rested there, not because he needed to hide, but because stopping was part of the rhythm now.
As dusk deepened, he reflected on the difference this day had made.
Being seen did not require explanation.
It required coherence.
The presence behind his sternum steadied again—the sense of his name neither advancing nor retreating. It aligned with the shape of his movement, not the memory of it.
When night came, it arrived without pressure. Sleep followed, light but complete.
Tomorrow, he would move again.
And if he was seen—
he would not adjust for the eyes.
Only for the ground.