The child learned the truth the first time his body moved without him.
It happened in the corridor.
The man walked ahead, torch in hand. The child followed, careful, slow—his left arm still heavy from the mark it carried. The stone floor dipped slightly, uneven with age.
He did not see the crack.
But his body did.
His foot stopped.His arm snapped out.
Pain flared as his hand struck the wall, stopping his fall. Bone met stone. The shock ran up his arm and lodged behind his eyes.
He gasped.
The man turned instantly. "Are you hurt?"
The child stared at his hand.
"I didn't… choose to do that," he said.
The Blood Sigil pulsed once.
The man's expression tightened. "Again," he said quietly. "Let's test something."
They returned to the corridor's edge. The man stepped back.
"Walk," he ordered.
The child obeyed.
This time, he forced himself to stumble.
His body reacted before fear could rise.
Muscles locked. His marked arm twisted at an unnatural angle, absorbing the impact in a way that made his teeth clench.
He did not fall.
He should have screamed.
Instead, he felt… corrected.
The man exhaled slowly. "The seal is optimizing," he said.
"Optimizing what?" the child asked, breath shaking.
"Survival," the man replied. "Not comfort. Not intent."
The child flexed his fingers. They responded—slowly, imperfectly. The sensation was wrong, as if the arm belonged to a memory instead of flesh.
"What if it moves at the wrong time?" the child asked.
The man did not answer immediately.
"Then it will still move," he said. "And you will live with the result."
They continued on.
Later, in the sealed room, the child noticed it.
A faint line along his forearm—thin, pale, slightly raised. Not a wound. Not a bruise.
A scar.
"I don't remember being cut," he said.
"You weren't," the man replied.
The child touched it. No pain. No warmth.
"It appeared when you lost the song," the man continued. "The seal converts absence into structure."
The child's stomach turned. "So every time I lose something…"
"It leaves a trace," the man finished. "On the body. Or in it."
That night, the child sat awake, staring at his hands.
When he clenched his fist, the shadow clenched faster.
When he relaxed, the shadow lagged.
The gap between them widened.
He whispered, barely audible, "What happens when my body learns faster than I do?"
The shadows did not answer.
But they shifted.