The morning air was thick with mist and the faint scent of wet earth. Arin awoke to the low hum of the temple, the shard resting quietly in its bowl beside him. Its faint glow pulsed with a rhythm that mirrored the beat of his own heart, as if it were alive in a way he could neither name nor fully understand. He ran his fingers across its surface, feeling warmth ripple into his hands, a subtle reminder of yesterday's exchanges, of lives healed and memories lost.
Mara was already moving through the corridors, her steps silent but deliberate. "The town will not wait," she said, appearing at his side without warning. "And neither will the spark."
Arin rose, stretching muscles stiff from days of relentless effort. Each act of healing, each touch of the shard, had left him lighter in body but hollow in spirit. The memories he had once taken for granted—the laughter of children, the smell of baked bread, the soft whistle of wind through his home—were disappearing, leaving only echoes behind. And yet, despite the cost, the eyes of the town still found him. They pleaded, begged, and in some cases demanded what he could not yet fully control.
By the time they reached the square, the market was alive with noise, color, and movement. Vendors shouted their wares over the din, carts rattled across cobblestones, and children darted between legs with unrestrained energy. But all of it faded into the background as Arin noticed the crowd forming near the fountain. Faces turned toward him, expectant, anxious, almost desperate. The shard pulsed in his pocket, a heartbeat he could feel pressing against his chest.
A woman knelt near the fountain, wringing her hands tightly. "Please," she whispered, voice trembling. "My father is ill. Only you can help him." Arin felt the familiar pull of the shard. Its warmth beckoned, patient yet insistent. He knelt beside the woman's father, pressing his hands to the man's chest. Light flowed from the shard, subtle but firm, easing the fever and bringing strength back to stiffened limbs. The man coughed once, then smiled faintly, eyes clear.
The cost was immediate. A memory of the first snowfall he had ever seen faded from his mind, replaced by emptiness. He reached for it, tried to grasp the joy and wonder of that day, but it was gone. The shard pulsed faintly, satisfied.
The crowd erupted in whispers and murmurs. Coins, small offerings, and tokens appeared at his feet, yet Arin barely noticed them. His mind was preoccupied with the constant negotiation between giving and losing, between the warmth of the shard and the hollowness left in its wake.
Mara stepped forward, her presence slicing through the commotion. "Enough," she said, voice carrying authority. "You will not be able to give to all, and yet all will want it." The crowd quieted, though some muttered resentfully under their breath. Arin felt the shard pulse again, sensing the lingering expectation, the belief pressing against him like a physical weight.
They returned to the temple, the town slowly resuming its rhythm. Inside, Mara led him to a chamber lined with books and scrolls, old sermons and fragments of wisdom. "The shard is not merely power," she said. "It is exchange. Every act of giving has a cost. Every loss is measured. You must learn what you can afford to offer and what you must withhold."
Arin sank onto a bench, weary, touching the shard once more. "How much more can I give before there is nothing left?" he whispered.
No answer came. Only the steady pulse of the shard, insistent and patient. Each beat reminded him that the world's demand was infinite and that the spark's hunger was relentless.
Later, he wandered the temple's stone paths alone, the evening settling over the town like a soft shadow. The streets were quiet, but the echoes of the day lingered: whispers of his name, the small coins left in gratitude, the stories of those he had touched. They surrounded him like invisible threads, binding him to the weight of responsibility. And 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 more 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, voice barely audible in the quiet.
"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 truly 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.
In his dreams, fires stretched 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.
By the time the first light of dawn crept through the temple windows, Arin was already awake again, staring at the shard. Its glow was steady, patient, almost knowing. He touched it lightly, whispering, "I will learn. I must."
And for the first time, he felt a sliver of determination within the hollow emptiness left by all he had given.