The first rule was spoken before the child learned his own name.
"Do not sleep without me nearby," the man said.
They had left the ruined chamber and descended into a narrower passage carved by hands long dead. Torches burned with a pale, unnatural flame. Their light bent strangely, as if afraid of the walls.
"Why?" the child asked.
The man did not slow his steps. "Because it listens best when you are quiet."
They reached a small stone room—bare, sealed, marked with symbols cut deep enough to bleed shadows. The man closed the door behind them. The sound echoed once, then died.
"Sit," he ordered.
The child obeyed.
"The seal inside you is not a prison," the man said. "It is a door held shut by force. Every door has rules. Break them, and it opens."
The child clenched his fists. "What are the rules?"
The man met his eyes.
"The first rule," he said, "is never answer it."
The Blood Sigil pulsed faintly, as if amused.
The child swallowed. "And if I hear it?"
"You will," the man replied calmly. "That is not a failure. Answering is."
The torches flickered.
For a moment, the child thought he heard breathing that was not his own.
"You said… it listens," he whispered.
"Yes," the man said. "It learns."
The child lay down on the stone bed as instructed. The surface was cold enough to sting. The man sat nearby, back straight, eyes never leaving him.
"Try to sleep," he said.
Sleep came slowly.
When it did, it was not gentle.
—
The child stood in a place without walls.
There was no ground, yet he stood. No sky, yet something watched from above. His shadow stretched far ahead, twisted into shapes that hurt to look at.
Then the voice returned.
"You feel smaller here," it said pleasantly."That is good."
"I won't answer you," the child said, clenching his teeth.
Laughter rippled through the darkness.
"You already are."
The shadow turned.
It looked back at him.
And smiled.
—
The child jolted awake, gasping.
The man's hand slammed down on the symbols carved into the floor. Light flared. The room shook.
"Stay awake," the man commanded. "Look at me."
The child did, tears blurring his vision. "It spoke to me."
"I know," the man said. "That is why I am here."
The Blood Sigil glowed brighter, then dimmed.
Silence returned—thin, fragile.
The man exhaled. "Remember this," he said. "The seal weakens when you fear it. It strengthens when you deny it."
The child nodded shakily.
"Will it ever stop?" he asked.
The man did not answer immediately.
"No," he said at last. "But one day, you may learn how to make it lie."
—
Far deeper than stone, far beyond names, something stirred.
It remembered the warmth of blood.The resistance of flesh.The feeling of being held.
It did not hate the seal.
Hate required distance.
It was curious.
The small one listens, it thought.The tall one resists.Both will fail differently.
It pressed gently against the bond.
Not enough to break it.
Only enough to be felt.
Rest, it whispered into the dark.We have time.
—
The child slept again.
This time, his shadow did not move.
But it did not rest either.
It waited.