The price did not come from the group he refused.
It came later, from the shape the refusal left behind.
He moved on from the descent with a deeper ache settled into his knee and a slower rhythm set into his body. The land opened, then folded again, offering no commentary on the choice he had made. That silence was deceptive.
Refusals traveled.
He felt it when he reached a narrow stretch where paths overlapped briefly—old tracks crossing newer ones. A lone traveler stood there, adjusting a strap. When Kha approached, the traveler looked up, eyes flicking to his knee, then to his face.
"You turned down the long way," the traveler said, casual, as if stating weather.
Kha paused.
"Yes."
No defense followed. No explanation.
The traveler nodded, not approving, not disapproving. "Figured."
They stepped aside enough to pass, but not fully. Kha adjusted his line and went through, the contact avoided by inches.
Behind him, the strap adjustment resumed.
The exchange left residue.
Not tension.
Expectation.
As the day wore on, the pattern repeated in subtler ways. A pair ahead slowed just enough to test whether he would yield first. He didn't. They adjusted instead. At a shallow ford, someone paused to see if he would ask for help crossing. He didn't. He crossed carefully, slower than ideal, without assistance.
Each refusal was small.
Each cost something.
By afternoon, fatigue weighed heavier than it should have. The knee throbbed in a way that suggested tomorrow would be worse if he pressed. Water ran low again. He recalculated, trimmed distance where he could.
The Blood Sigil remained quiet, but attentive—present without offering relief.
Near a stand of trees, he stopped to rest and let the day catch up. He sat with his back to bark and closed his eyes briefly, measuring breath and pain without judgment.
This was the price.
Not punishment.
Propagation.
Refusal created a version of him that others accounted for. They did not argue with it. They adjusted around it.
He rose and continued, choosing a route that preserved his standard without demanding proof. The movement felt heavier now, but coherent.
Late in the day, clouds thickened and light dimmed. He reached a low rise where the ground fell away unevenly. A man stood there, waiting—not blocking, not offering.
"You're keeping your line," the man said.
Kha stopped within speaking distance.
"Yes."
"That costs," the man added, glancing at the knee.
"Yes."
No more was said. The man stepped back, clearing space without ceremony.
Kha took the descent with care. The knee protested sharply at one point, forcing a stop. He adjusted stance, breathed through the pain, and continued.
At the bottom, he stood longer than usual, letting the tremor pass.
The Blood Sigil warmed—after—stabilizing, containing.
When he moved again, his pace was slower, but unbroken.
As evening settled, he found a place to rest earlier than planned. He did not push for more distance. The refusal earlier had already claimed its due.
He ate sparingly and checked the knee. Swelling had increased slightly. Nothing critical. Enough to require tomorrow's attention.
The presence behind his sternum steadied, not pressing, not retreating. The sense of his name aligned with the day's choices, neither brighter nor dimmer.
He understood then:
Refusal did not end at the moment it was made.
It extended.
It asked to be paid for in time, in effort, in reputation.
He lay back and let the day close, accepting the cost without resentment.
Tomorrow, the price would still be there.
And he would still choose.