Dawn broke with a quiet haze over the town, soft light spilling across rooftops slick with overnight dew. Arin woke before the temple bells, the shard resting near his chest, faintly glowing, pulsing like a heartbeat he could almost synchronize with. His body ached from yesterday's labors, though he could not tell if it was fatigue or the toll of memory lost. He touched the shard carefully, feeling the residual warmth from the acts of mercy he had performed.
Mara was already moving through the temple corridors, precise and silent, as if she were a shadow of habit rather than a person. "You cannot linger here," she said, voice low but unwavering. "The town will not wait, and neither will the spark."
Arin dressed quickly. Each morning, it seemed, he carried a little less of himself with him. The memory of a melody he once whistled while working, the laughter of a sibling long gone, the scent of rain-soaked wood—all slipping further into absence with each act of healing. And yet, despite the cost, the people's eyes still found him. They still pleaded.
By the time they reached the market, the square was already alive with life and expectation. Vendors shouted, baskets rattled, children darted between stalls, and everyone, no matter what else they were doing, turned their eyes toward him. He felt the shard's pulse quicken, insistent, and he knew it was aware of the anticipation surrounding him.
A woman knelt near the fountain, her hands pressed to her chest. "Please," she whispered. "My mother cannot rise. Only you can help her." Arin hesitated. The shard's warmth throbbed in his pocket, a silent demand. He placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, letting the shard's energy flow outward. Light spread, subtle but firm. Her mother sat upright, gasping, eyes wide, then smiled faintly.
The cost came immediately. A memory of the smell of baking bread—something his mother had once made every Saturday—faded like smoke. He tried to recall it, grasp it, but it was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that pressed at his chest. The shard pulsed again, as if feeding, satisfied.
"Arin Velas!" a voice rang across the square. A man holding a small, broken lute stepped forward, bowing low. "I heard of your gift. My son cannot walk. Please, grant him strength." The boy hobbled beside his father, tears streaking his dirt-smeared cheeks. Arin swallowed the rising panic. He knelt beside the child, pressed his palms to the twisted ankle, and let the warmth flow outward.
Bones and ligaments stitched themselves together under the shard's influence. The boy stood, wobbling but upright. Relief and joy rippled through the crowd. Coins and small offerings appeared, sometimes clumsily, sometimes with deep reverence. But as always, Arin felt the cost—a faint, ungraspable thing slipping from him. This time it was the taste of honey on warm bread from a morning long past, a trivial detail, now forever lost.
Mara's voice broke through the crowd. "Enough for now," she said, calm but commanding. "You cannot heal all, nor should you try. You must preserve what remains, or there will be nothing left of you to give."
Arin's heart ached at the thought. He looked at the faces around him, pleading, hopeful, sometimes desperate. Each one was a story, a weight pressing into him, and the shard pulsed in response, insatiable. The lesson Mara had given was harsh but true: restraint was the only weapon against the endless demands of belief.
They returned to the temple, the town slowly settling back into routine. Inside, Mara guided him to a small chamber lined with books, scrolls, and fragments of sermons. "The spark is not merely power," she said. "It is negotiation, and negotiation is always costly. Every act of giving will carve something away. You must learn what you can afford to lose."
Arin sank onto a bench, exhausted, and touched the shard. It glowed faintly, almost knowingly. He whispered into the quiet of the room, "How much more do you want?"
No answer came, but in the stillness, he felt its presence keenly. It was aware, patient, unyielding. Each pulse reminded him that the world had begun to weigh on him as heavily as the shard itself.
Later, as the sun dipped low, he wandered alone along the stone paths outside the temple. The town was quiet now, but the echoes of the day lingered. Whispers of his name, the small coins left in gratitude, the stories of lives he had touched—all surrounded him like invisible threads. And somewhere, in the hollow of his mind, the memories he had lost whispered too, fragments he could no longer piece together.
He thought of the boy with the healed ankle, of the woman's mother, of the faces that 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, and he returned to the temple, where Mara awaited. "You are changing," she said softly. "Not just in skill, but in something deeper. You will see and feel things differently, know losses differently, and the world will weigh on you differently. That is the burden of sight."
"I do not want this burden," Arin said, his voice barely audible.
"You do not have the luxury of choice," Mara replied. "You will bear it whether you wish to or not. But you will also learn how 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 light pulsed like a heartbeat, patient, insistent. And he realized that 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.
As sleep finally took him, 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, feeling always the cost pressed into his bones.