Arin rose from the bench in the temple chamber, hands still tingling from yesterday's work. The shard lay before him, its faint glow steady and insistent, almost as if it were alive and aware of his thoughts. He reached toward it, and warmth spread through his fingers, climbing his arms and settling deep in his chest. The familiar ache of loss accompanied the sensation—another memory fading quietly, slipping from his grasp without warning.
Mara watched him silently, seated nearby. Her presence was calm, controlled, yet there was an intensity in her gaze that pressed on him. "The town grows impatient," she said. "The spark does not wait for hesitation. Neither do the people who need it."
Arin swallowed hard. Each day, each act of mercy, left him lighter in body but hollow in spirit. Memories had already slipped through his fingers: the scent of baked bread, the laughter of a neighbor's child, the music he once hummed as he worked. They were gone, and the shard pulsed like a subtle warning that this pattern would continue, whether he liked it or not.
The temple doors opened, and the city's murmur seeped inside. Arin felt it before he stepped into the square—the collective expectation, a weight pressing against his chest. People had begun to notice him beyond simple curiosity. They had come to rely on the spark, to measure hope against his willingness to give.
A man approached, holding a girl whose arm hung unnaturally at her side. His voice trembled, thick with desperation. "Please… she cannot move. Only you can help her."
Arin knelt beside the girl, pressing both hands against her arm. Light radiated outward, subtle and warm, coaxing the muscles and bones back into place. The girl cried out softly, then blinked, testing the movement of her fingers and wrist. The man exhaled, tears gathering in his eyes, relief washing over him in a tangible wave.
And then the shard claimed its due. Arin's mind searched for the memory of his first drawing—the way he had traced a tree in the dust, imagining it alive—but the image had vanished completely. It left him hollow and aware, a small, gnawing emptiness at the edges of his consciousness.
Another voice called out from the square. A boy, no older than ten, hobbled forward, clutching a makeshift sling tied around a sprained ankle. "Please… please help me," he pleaded. Coins fell from his pocket in nervous haste. Arin felt the pull of the shard again, the insistent warmth, the subtle demand. He knelt and laid his hands upon the boy's ankle. Bones shifted into alignment; tendons eased their strain. Pain receded, color returned to pale skin.
The cost emerged instantly. Arin's mind tried to grasp the taste of honeyed pastries he had once enjoyed, the sweetness mingling with the warmth of early sunlight, but the memory evaporated, leaving only a cold void. The shard pulsed lightly, satisfied.
The crowd around him murmured in awe, spreading tales of miracles and healing, of the boy standing straight once more. Small offerings appeared: ribbons, coins, a carved wooden bird. Each was a gesture of belief pressed into his hands, a silent acknowledgment of his power. Yet Arin felt none of the gratitude. Instead, he felt the pressure, the expectation, the weight of the ledger that the shard was inscribing invisibly on his spirit.
Mara's voice finally cut through the murmurs. "Enough," she said, firm and commanding. The crowd's chatter fell to whispers, then quiet. "You cannot heal all, and even if you could, you would not survive the cost. Learn restraint, or the shard will strip everything from you."
He followed her back to the temple in silence, each step heavier than the last. The weight of lives touched, memories lost, and expectations still unmet pressed against him like stones in a pack he could not drop. He had begun to understand the first truth of wielding the spark: every act of mercy took from him something intangible, something essential, something that could never be replaced.
Mara led him to the inner chamber, lined with tomes and scrolls. "Do you understand what it means to give without limit?" she asked. "The shard demands balance. Every healing, every act of comfort, takes a piece of you. If you do not choose carefully, you will vanish from yourself before the world even notices."
Arin sank onto a bench, breathing shallow and uneven. "I cannot stop," he admitted. "Every face I see wants… something. And I cannot leave them."
"That is not your weakness," Mara said, voice even, almost gentle. "It is your choice. And choice comes with consequences. Learn to measure what is necessary against what you are willing to give. That is the true burden."
He traced a finger along the surface of the shard, feeling warmth pulse through his skin. It was patient, insistent, as if aware of his doubts and fears. "I do not want to lose everything," he whispered, though the shard offered no reassurance. Only its faint glow responded, steady, unyielding.
Later, Arin wandered the temple grounds alone, the stone paths slick with moisture from the morning mist. The city was quiet, but the echoes of lives he had touched still lingered. Whispers of his name, small offerings left in gratitude, stories of healing—all wove an invisible net around him, binding him tighter to responsibility he had no power to relinquish. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, memories he could no longer recall murmured softly, fragments of life irretrievably lost.
He thought of the boy whose ankle he had healed, the girl with the broken arm, the fevered father restored to health. Each was a story, a shard of belief pressed into his hands, and each reminded him of the cost he bore. How many more times could he endure it? How many memories, how many pieces of himself would the shard consume before he was emptied entirely?
Night fell, and Arin returned to the temple chamber. Mara waited, sitting silently, her gaze steady. "You are changing," she said. "Not only in skill but in understanding. You are learning to feel differently, to measure differently. The weight of the world is pressing upon you, and you must learn to carry it."
"I do not want this weight," he admitted, voice low.
"You will carry it," Mara said. "Whether you desire it or not. But you will learn to navigate it. That is what separates those who simply wield power from those who can endure it."
Arin lay awake, the shard glowing softly beside him. Its pulse was steady, insistent, and he felt its demand in every nerve. Rest was impossible, yet he could not rise fully from it either. Every face, every plea, every whispered story pressed against him with invisible fingers. And he alone bore the ledger of payment.
Memories of fires stretching across a distant horizon filled his mind—each flame a life, a story, a debt. He walked among them, hands outstretched, giving warmth and light, feeling always the cost pressed into his bones. The shard pulsed faintly, reminding him that the world's needs would never cease, that expectation was endless, and that the price of mercy was unending sacrifice.
He touched the shard again, letting its warmth flow into him. "I will endure," he whispered. Not for glory, not for praise, but because there was no other path he could take.
The weight of the world pressed down, and he accepted it.