The morning fog rolled over the rooftops like a thick, gray sea, settling into the streets of the town. Arin woke before the temple bells, his body stiff and heavy, his hands still feeling the echo of yesterday's work. The shard rested in its bowl beside him, faintly pulsing, a reminder that rest was only temporary.
Mara moved through the corridors with her usual quiet precision. "You will not remain hidden today," she said without greeting. "The spark calls, and the town answers."
Arin dressed slowly, feeling each muscle protest. He wondered how many memories he had already surrendered. He could not recall the laughter of a neighbor's child, the smell of wet earth after rain, or the softness of a woolen blanket he had once held. Yet each day, the town's eyes found him, each face pressed their needs against him, and he felt the shard's pulse urging him forward.
They emerged into the market square, where the day's life had already begun. Vendors shouted, carts rattled, and children darted between legs, their laughter slicing through the morning air. Arin noticed the crowd before he reached them—expectant, tense, hungry for miracles.
A woman knelt near the fountain, wringing her hands. "Please," she whispered. "My son is ill. Only you can help him." Arin hesitated, feeling the shard's warmth urging him. He pressed his hands to the boy's chest, calling the shard's energy into his own palms. Light spread slowly, steady, like roots reaching through soil. The boy's breathing eased, color returned to his cheeks, and he sat upright.
The cost was immediate. A memory of a song his mother had sung when he was small dissolved into nothing. He tried to recall the tune, the rhythm, even a single note, but it was gone. The shard pulsed faintly, satisfied.
Voices rose in the crowd. "Arin Velas!" A man approached with a limp child in his arms, begging for aid. Coins, ribbons, small offerings appeared at Arin's feet, yet he barely noticed them. His mind was consumed with the constant negotiation between giving and losing, between the warmth of the shard and the hollowness that followed.
Mara's voice finally cut through the clamor. "Enough for now," she said. The crowd quieted, though some muttered resentfully. Arin felt the shard pulse against his leg as if it sensed the dissatisfaction, the lingering belief that more was owed.
They returned to the temple, the town slowly resuming its rhythm. Inside, Mara guided him to a small chamber lined with books, scrolls, and fragments of old sermons. "The spark is not merely power," she said. "It is a negotiation. Every act has a cost. Every loss is measured. You must learn what you can afford to give and what you must withhold."
Arin sank onto a bench, exhausted, and touched the shard. Its glow was steady, almost aware. He whispered, "How much more can I give before there is nothing left?"
No answer came. Only the quiet pulse of light, persistent and patient. Each beat reminded him that the world's demand was infinite, and the spark's hunger was relentless.
Later, he walked the temple's stone paths alone, the night settling softly around him. The town was quiet, but the echoes of the day remained. Whispers of his name, the small coins left in gratitude, the stories of those he had touched—they all surrounded him like invisible threads. And somewhere, deep in his mind, the memories he had lost whispered too, fragments of life he could no longer recall.
He thought of the children, of the ill, of the women and men who had looked to him for salvation. Each one was a demand, each one a shard of belief pressed into his hands. He wondered how many days he could walk this path without fracturing entirely.
Night fell fully, and Arin returned to the temple, Mara waiting as always. "You are changing," she said softly. "Not merely in skill, but in perception. You will see and feel things differently. The world will weigh on you differently. That is the burden of sight."
"I do not want this burden," Arin murmured.
"You have no choice," Mara replied. "You will bear it whether you wish to or not. But you will learn to navigate it. That is what separates a man from a god."
He lay awake long into the night, the shard glowing softly beside him. Its pulse was steady, insistent, a reminder that rest was never complete. He realized the world would never stop asking. The spark would never rest. Every face, every plea, every whispered story carried a demand. And he, alone, bore the ledger of payment.
He dreamt of fires stretching across the horizon. Each flame was a life, a story, a debt. And he walked among them, hands outstretched, giving warmth and light, and feeling always the cost pressed into his bones.