The room felt wrong.
Not unstable.Not hostile.
Prepared.
The child noticed it in the way the sealed symbols lay still. They no longer strained against the stone or hummed beneath the skin. They waited.
That unsettled him more than any surge of power ever had.
"You're changing something," the child said.
The man did not deny it. He was rewrapping the cloth around his injured hand, movements deliberate, practiced. The blood had stopped, but the warmth had not.
"Yes," he replied.
The Blood Sigil pulsed once—slow, thoughtful.
The child's throat tightened. "Because of what you did."
"Because of what it learned," the man corrected.
He rose to his feet. His presence felt lighter than before, as though the room had subtly remeasured him and found less to hold on to.
"The seal is recalculating," the man said. "And I no longer register as essential."
The child shook his head. "You said distance was the price. Not removal."
The man met his gaze calmly.
"Distance is how removal begins," he said.
The torches dimmed slightly, not extinguished, but deferred. Shadows gathered closer to the child's feet.
"There will be a point," the man continued, "where it must simplify its variables. When it decides which connections increase risk."
The child felt it then.
Not a command.
A weight.
His body shifted without instruction, adjusting his stance, readying itself. He forced himself to stay still.
"You're talking about yourself," the child said.
"Yes."
"Then stay away from me."
"That would only delay the calculation," the man replied. "Delay encourages testing."
The shadow did not follow the man when he stepped back.
It stayed with the child.
"That isn't fair," the child said quietly.
"No," the man agreed. "But it is consistent."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small, dark object—angular, faceted, warm in his palm. It pulsed faintly, not in rhythm with the Blood Sigil, but close enough to be mistaken.
"A contingency," he said. "Bound to my imprint."
The child stiffened. "You're preparing evidence."
"I'm preparing certainty," the man replied.
The symbols along the floor flickered once, as if noting the adjustment.
"When the seal resolves its next command," the man said, "it will look for finality. Ambiguity prolongs conflict."
The child swallowed. "And where does that leave you?"
The man did not answer immediately.
"Outside the equation," he said at last.
Silence settled between them.
The child felt something inside him align—not a direction, not yet—but a narrowing of possibility.
Protect.
The thought arrived without force.
He rejected it.
"I won't let it take you," the child said.
The man's expression softened, just slightly. "You may not be asked."
The Blood Sigil warmed in response—not pleased, not angered.
Attentive.
"Listen carefully," the man said. "When the pressure peaks, do not fight the command. Fighting sharpens it."
The child clenched his fists. "You're asking me to do nothing."
"I'm asking you to survive the moment before action," the man replied.
The room groaned faintly, as if the stone itself were shifting its weight.
"And after?" the child asked.
"After," the man said, "you will know whether the seal considers me expendable."
The child stared at him. "And if it does?"
The man's gaze held steady. "Then the next phase begins."
The torches flared briefly, then steadied.
Nothing happened.
But the child knew—that was the point.
The room was no longer waiting for them.
It was waiting for a decision.
Not his.