What held was not what he expected.
It was not strength regained, nor pain diminished. It was sequence—the quiet reliability of one decision following another without collapse.
Morning arrived with a dull stiffness that tested the revision immediately. He stood slowly, letting weight settle before committing. The knee answered with a low, steady ache. It did not spike.
Acceptable.
He moved.
The land beyond the corridor widened into uneven ground broken by shallow ridges. Each rise demanded a choice: step up cleanly and take the impact, or angle across and accept torque. He alternated deliberately, distributing cost instead of concentrating it.
Revision became practice.
By midmorning, he encountered others again—two travelers moving at a measured pace. They noticed his slower rhythm and adjusted theirs slightly, not to match, but to avoid interference.
One of them spoke without slowing. "Bad stretch behind you."
"Yes," he replied.
They nodded and continued, neither pressing for details nor offering alternatives. The exchange was efficient. Clean.
What held, he realized, was not the old standard, but the legibility of the new one.
Later, the ground dropped toward a shallow basin where wind pooled and dust lifted in sheets. Visibility thinned. He shortened his stride and widened his stance, letting balance replace speed. The knee protested with a deeper ache, but the pain remained contained.
The Blood Sigil warmed—after—tightening the boundary without numbing it.
He kept going.
At the basin's far edge, he stopped to drink and reassess. Water was lower than he liked. Distance ahead looked manageable but unforgiving. He trimmed plans again, shaving ambition rather than safety.
Ownership remained intact.
A voice carried from the dust. "You're not pushing."
He turned enough to see a figure standing off to the side, posture neutral.
"No," he said.
"Most would," the figure replied.
He considered that. "Most would break later."
The figure smiled faintly and said nothing more.
The dust thinned as the wind shifted. He moved on.
By afternoon, fatigue layered itself over pain, softening focus. He countered by simplifying decisions—one step at a time, one adjustment per change. The revision held because it did not demand elegance.
It demanded attention.
Near a line of stones marking an old boundary, he misjudged a step and felt the knee buckle slightly. He caught himself quickly, heart rate spiking, breath sharp.
He stopped.
Waited.
Let the system settle.
The Blood Sigil warmed and steadied the joint, not erasing the scare, but containing it.
He resumed at a slower pace.
What held after revision, he understood, was not certainty. It was recovery without panic.
As evening approached, the light angled low and shadows lengthened. He chose a resting place earlier again, favoring stability over distance. The decision felt routine now, not concession.
He checked the knee. Ache present. Swelling controlled. The revision was working—not healing, but holding.
The presence behind his sternum steadied, aligned with the day's pattern. The sense of his name felt closer, clearer—not spoken, but less distant.
Names, he realized, came when systems held long enough to be trusted.
Night fell quietly. Sleep came in fragments, but each fragment was deep enough to matter.
Tomorrow would test something else—perhaps resolve, perhaps restraint.
But tonight, what mattered was simple:
The revision held.
And so did he.