Pressure returned in a different form.
Not from people this time, but from terrain that refused to respect the line he had drawn. The ground narrowed into a long corridor of broken stone and shallow drops, a place where choice compressed into sequence. Once entered, revision would be public—visible in every step taken or delayed.
He paused at the threshold.
The Blood Sigil warmed, then steadied. Context again. No instruction.
He stepped in.
The first descent went cleanly. He shortened stride, widened stance, let gravity finish what muscle could not. The knee answered with a controlled ache. Acceptable.
The second drop forced a choice. A lower ledge offered a safer landing but required a lateral move that would torque the knee. A higher ledge demanded a deeper drop—impact heavier, alignment simpler.
His standard preferred alignment.
His condition preferred safety.
Pressure sharpened.
He chose the lower ledge.
The move was careful, deliberate. Pain spiked briefly as he twisted, then settled into a deeper throb. He breathed through it and continued.
The line had been revised.
Not abandoned.
Further in, the corridor tightened. Stones shifted underfoot. His pace slowed until it no longer matched the rhythm he had set days ago. He stopped trying to preserve it.
Revision, he realized, was not retreat.
It was accounting.
Halfway through, fatigue accumulated faster than expected. The knee's ache began to echo upward, shortening breath. He rested his palm against the stone wall and waited until sensation organized again.
The Blood Sigil warmed—after—containing the spread without dulling it.
He moved on.
At a narrow choke point, voices carried faintly from ahead. A small group stood there, arguing quietly about routes. When they noticed him, the argument paused.
"This section's bad," one said. "We're turning back."
He assessed their gear, their posture. They could afford the detour. He could not—not without erasing days of progress.
"I'll go through," he said.
They looked at his knee. One frowned. "You already adjusted once."
"Yes."
"That's the point," another said. "Adjust again."
Pressure gathered—this time social and physical braided together.
He nodded. "I am."
He did not elaborate.
He waited while they cleared the choke, stepping aside to give him room. Their retreat left the corridor quiet again.
The next drop tested the revision immediately. He chose the safer line again, accepting the torque, accepting the pain. The knee protested harder this time, forcing a longer pause afterward.
He leaned into the wall, breathing steady, refusing to rush recovery.
The standard had shifted from pace to continuity under change.
When the corridor finally opened, he stepped into broader ground with relief that did not pretend to be victory. The knee ached steadily. His pace was slower than ever.
But unbroken.
He stopped and drank, recalculating distance with the new condition. The numbers tightened. The margin thinned.
He accepted it.
Revision under pressure did not erase ownership. It redefined it.
As evening approached, clouds gathered low and the air cooled. He found a place to rest that minimized strain rather than maximized shelter. He lowered himself carefully and let the day close around the new shape of his line.
The presence behind his sternum steadied—no longer aligned to the old standard, but to the revised one. The sense of his name adjusted with it, not resisting the change.
He understood then:
A line that could not be revised would break.
A standard that refused pressure would shatter.
When night came, sleep arrived shallow but honest, punctuated by waking moments where pain insisted on acknowledgment and then released it.
Tomorrow, the ground would test the revision again.
He would answer—
not by returning to what had been,
but by carrying forward what still held.