The morning was damp with mist, curling low over the rooftops. Arin woke before the bells, the shard resting against his chest. Its light pulsed faintly, as if it had dreams he could not yet read. He touched it, and warmth ran through his fingers, the residue of yesterday's work still lingering.
Mara was already moving through the temple, her footsteps silent against stone floors. "You cannot linger here," she said. "The town grows restless. The spark will not wait."
Arin dressed quickly, feeling the fatigue of too many losses. Each act of mercy, each healed fever or eased pain, had taken something from him. Small things, sometimes memories, sometimes fleeting emotions, all scraped away like paint from an old wall. He could not recall the laughter of his father, could not hum the tune of his mother's favorite song. Yet every day, more faces looked to him, more bodies needed the touch that only he could give.
They walked in silence to the edge of town, where the market began. The morning crowd was already gathering, curious, expectant. Children peered from behind carts, women clutched scarves against the cold, men nudged each other to get a better view. All of them watched him, and in their eyes was the unspoken question: will you help us, or leave us to our own failing hands?
Arin hesitated. He felt the shard pulse in his pocket, a steady rhythm against his ribs. It wanted release, wanted to be used, and he wanted to refuse it. Yet as he looked at the gaunt face of a boy with a twisted ankle, he knew he could not.
He knelt beside the child, pressed his hands against the swollen joint, and let warmth flow outward. The pain eased, and the boy's eyes widened. Relief, fear, gratitude, all ran together, and Arin felt the familiar pull of loss—another memory faded, another small part of himself disappeared.
Mara's voice called from behind. "Enough," she said, though her tone carried understanding rather than command. "You will not be able to give to all, and yet all will want it."
The words stung. Arin realized that the shard was not merely a tool, not merely a blessing. It was a measure of expectation, a device that set the scale of hope against the weight of his own existence.
As they moved through the market, he noticed more subtle changes. Murmurs carried his name. A woman adjusted her shawl, casting him a reverent glance. A man whispered to his neighbor about the miracle of a healed fever. The shard pulsed with each mention, as if it were feeding not just on his touch but on the belief itself.
By midday, he felt hollow. The air was thick with unspoken demands. Hands reached for him, eyes pleaded, voices clamored. Mara stayed close, watching, but offering no protection. He realized, with a sharp ache, that he was alone in this responsibility.
A merchant approached, holding a small chest. "I have heard of your power," he said. "A coin for a cure. A token for a life saved." Arin looked at the chest, at the gold glinting in the sun. He wanted to refuse, wanted to cast it away, but the boy from earlier limped toward him, eyes wide, still clutching his ankle.
The shard pulsed hotter, insistent. Arin closed his eyes and let the warmth flow. Pain eased, color returned to pale skin, and the boy smiled. The coin in the chest vanished in his mind's eye. He had paid a price, as always, though this time the memory he lost was the smell of rain on old wood, a smell he had always loved.
The crowd erupted in whispers, in awe, in gratitude. Coins, ribbons, small gifts appeared at his feet. Offerings. Mara motioned for him to move. The market stretched ahead, endless in its needs. He felt the weight of expectation pressing from all sides, the shard alive with hunger, and he knew this day would not be the last.
By evening, they returned to the temple. Arin's hands trembled, his mind felt stretched thin. Mara led him to the inner hall, where the priest waited. "You are becoming known beyond our town," the priest said. "Travelers speak of you, of the spark, of the one who heals. Soon, the world will send not just the desperate but the ambitious, the cunning, those who wish to trade or manipulate your gift."
"I am not ready," Arin whispered. "I barely understand what it takes to use the shard without losing myself."
"No one is ready," Mara said. "But you are learning, slowly. Each act teaches restraint, each loss teaches caution. There is no other way."
Arin lay awake that night, the shard glowing softly beside him. Its light was patient, relentless, and he felt it like a heartbeat against his own. He wondered how much of himself he had already given. He tried to remember the tune of his mother's song but could only grasp a hollow echo. Each day demanded a price, each touch exacted a toll he could never fully reclaim.
He thought of the boy, of the merchant, of the small coins and ribbons left in his path. Each one was a story, a demand, a shard of belief pressed into his hands. He realized that the world would never stop asking. The spark would never rest. And he, alone, bore the ledger of payment.
Sleep came at last, uneasy and restless. And in the dim light of the temple, he dreamed of fires stretching across the horizon, each flame a life, a story, a debt. And he walked among them, hands outstretched, giving warmth and light, and feeling, always feeling, the cost pressed into his bones.
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