The man did not force the choice.
That was what frightened the child the most.
They sat across from each other in the sealed room. The torches burned low, their pale light barely reaching the corners where shadows thickened and waited.
"You said I must choose," the child said.
"Yes," the man replied. "If you do not, the seal will choose for you."
The Blood Sigil pulsed once, slow and patient.
The child closed his eyes.
Memories drifted past him—not in order, not clearly. Fragments surfaced and sank again like debris in dark water. A hand holding his. A voice calling him gently. The feeling of warmth without knowing why.
"Choose something small," the man said quietly. "Something that hurts, but does not unmake you."
The child swallowed.
"I remember a woman," he said. "I don't know her face anymore. But I remember… safety."
The word felt fragile in his mouth.
"She sang," he continued. "Not well. But I liked it."
The silence stretched.
"If I lose that," the child asked, "will I still know what safety is?"
The man did not lie. "You will know the word," he said. "But it will feel empty."
The child nodded slowly.
"I choose that," he said. "I choose the song."
The Blood Sigil flared.
Not painfully—decisively.
The memory unraveled without drama. No scream. No tearing sensation. Just a quiet absence, like stepping into a room and realizing something had been moved.
The child opened his eyes.
Something was gone.
He could tell because the world felt sharper. Colder. Less forgiving.
The man exhaled. "It is done."
For a moment, the shadows did not move.
Then the floor shuddered.
The child gasped as pain shot through his left arm. Not burning—crushing. His bones felt too heavy, as if gravity had suddenly learned his name.
He cried out.
The man was on his feet instantly, gripping the child's shoulder. "Do not fight it," he ordered. "This is the third rule asserting itself."
The child clenched his teeth. "I… I already paid."
"Yes," the man said grimly. "You paid to choose. Now you pay to continue."
The pain spread, crawling beneath skin and muscle. When it stopped, the child sagged, trembling.
His arm was still there.
But it felt… wrong.
"Move your fingers," the man said.
The child tried.
They moved—slowly, stiffly, as if obeying from a distance.
The man's expression darkened. "The third rule," he said, "is that the seal will claim the body once the mind is no longer enough."
The child stared at his arm. "What did it take?"
"Not yet," the man replied. "It marked."
The shadow on the wall shifted.
The child noticed it first. His shadow favored the injured arm, its outline subtly warped, stretched thinner there.
"It's learning me," the child whispered.
"Yes," the man said. "And you are learning it."
The child laughed weakly. The sound surprised him.
"If I keep choosing," he asked, "can I decide how much of me remains?"
The man looked at him for a long moment.
"No," he said. "But you can decide who you are while it happens."
The torches flickered.
Far beneath stone, far beneath flesh, something stirred with approval.
Good, it thought.He chooses.That will make the breaking cleaner.
The child leaned back against the wall, exhausted.
He could no longer remember the song.
But he remembered choosing to forget it.
And that, somehow, felt heavier.