The collapse happened first.
Stone cracked above them, a dull sound swallowed by dust. The man reacted instantly, stepping forward, torch raised—but the child was closer to the falling weight.
A chunk of ceiling broke free.
The child did not think.
His body moved.
His marked arm rose and twisted at a precise angle. The Blood Sigil flared—not violently, not brightly, but with certainty. The stone split in midair, shearing apart as if cut by an invisible edge.
Fragments scattered harmlessly across the floor.
Silence followed.
The child stood frozen, arm still raised.
Slowly, he lowered it.
"I didn't…" His breath shook. "I didn't decide to do that."
The man stared at him. Not at the arm—at the child's face.
"No," he said. "You didn't."
They heard the sound then.
Breathing.
The child looked down.
Pinned beneath the rubble lay a small creature, its body twisted and fragile, barely holding shape. Its chest rose and fell rapidly. Its eyes were wide.
It was afraid.
"I didn't see it," the child whispered.
"You weren't meant to," the man replied.
The child stepped forward, instinctively.
His arm moved again.
Not to strike wildly—to press.
The stone shifted deeper. Bone gave way. The creature's scream was brief, thin, and final.
The child stumbled back.
"No," he gasped. "Stop— I didn't—"
His hands trembled as he held them up in front of his face.
"They weren't listening to me."
The Blood Sigil pulsed once.
"They weren't yours," the man said quietly. "They were borrowed."
The child's stomach twisted. "It killed it. To protect me."
"Yes."
"That thing wasn't attacking."
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because the seal recognizes risk," the man interrupted. "Not innocence."
The child sank to his knees. His breathing came in shallow pulls.
"I didn't choose," he whispered. "It just happened."
The shadow on the wall sharpened, its outline more defined than before.
The man inhaled sharply.
Then he broke a rule.
He stepped forward and placed his bare hand directly over the Blood Sigil.
The reaction was immediate.
Light tore through the corridor. The carved symbols screamed as power surged outward. The man dropped to one knee, blood spilling from his palm, hissing faintly against the mark.
The child screamed. "You said never to touch it!"
"I said you must never answer it," the man snapped through clenched teeth. "This is different."
The pressure in the air recoiled. The shadow flickered, losing cohesion.
When the light faded, the man slumped against the wall, breathing hard.
The child crawled to him. "You broke a rule."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The man wiped blood from his hand, eyes dark. "Because I recognize this stage."
The child's breath caught. "You've seen it before."
The man did not deny it.
"When the seal begins acting without permission," he said slowly, "it is no longer reacting. It is issuing commands."
The words settled heavily.
The child looked down at his hands again.
They were steady now.
Waiting.
"You mean…" His voice shook. "My body didn't react. It obeyed."
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them.
The child closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, something aligned.
Not a voice.Not a thought.
A direction.
Protect.
His arm twitched.
The child's eyes flew open. He staggered back, heart pounding.
"I felt it," he said. "Before I thought. Before I was afraid."
The man nodded grimly.
"That," he said, "was the first command."
The shadow moved—just slightly—mirroring the motion before the child did.
Somewhere deeper than bone, deeper than memory, something settled into place.
Certain.