The moment he stepped into the square, the air pressed against him like a living weight. Faces turned, expectant, anxious, demanding. Even before a word was spoken, the shard in his pocket pulsed, warming his skin, drawing out the hunger of belief from the crowd around him.
A boy tripped over a loose stone and fell toward the fountain, crying out. Instinct moved Arin faster than thought; he reached for him, hands glowing faintly as the shard's warmth spread through his fingers into the boy's scraped knees. Pain eased almost immediately. The boy blinked, wide-eyed, then scrambled to his feet, tears replaced by tentative smiles.
Somewhere behind him, coins clinked to the stone. He didn't look. He never looked. The shard didn't care about gratitude; it only fed on his willingness, on the price he paid for each touch. He could feel it already, subtle and insistent: another fragment of memory unspooling at the edges of his mind.
A woman rushed forward, clutching a bundle wrapped in cloth. "Please! My mother—she cannot breathe!" Arin reached for her hands, letting the shard's warmth seep outward. Light traced the lines of tension in the old woman's chest, easing, smoothing, until she drew a long, shuddering breath and sat upright. Relief rippled outward, pressing against him in waves.
He stumbled backward slightly, the shard thrumming. Something else had gone—the taste of morning honey from his childhood, the sound of wind through the trees he had once climbed. He tried to grasp it, but it slipped through like smoke. The shard pulsed once, rhythm steady, and he realized it was never satisfied. It never would be.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a group of merchants whispering. One stepped forward, holding a small, cracked box of coins. "We heard of you," he said, voice low. "We… we offer payment for your power." Arin's hands itched to refuse, but the shard called to him, warm and insistent. The boy from earlier ran to him again, clutching his arm, desperate. He could not leave the child undone.
Hands met the broken box, coins spilling. Arin ignored them. He knelt, placing his hands on the boy's arm. Light spread, subtle and bright, healing muscle, tendon, and bone. The boy's cries faded into giggles as strength returned. Behind him, the merchants murmured. The shard pulsed. Another piece of Arin faded—a memory he could not name, something trivial yet irreplaceable, gone.
The murmurs in the crowd grew. More faces pressed forward, small wounds, aches, fevers. Every time Arin hesitated, the shard throbbed like a pulse against his ribs, urging him forward. Hesitation had a cost, too. He tried to step aside, to leave a woman with a fever for another healer, but the shard's warmth burned through him, reminding him that he had already chosen this path.
A small girl tugged at his sleeve, eyes wide and trembling. "My brother… he cannot stand." Her voice was tiny, fragile, yet heavy with expectation. Arin knelt beside her brother, letting the shard spread warmth into stiffening legs. The boy's face contorted, then relaxed as strength returned. The shard pulsed, and with it, a fragment of Arin's childhood slipped away—the laughter of his own brother, the echo of games played long ago. He swallowed hard, the hollow ache spreading through his chest.
The square was full now, a sea of eyes pressing on him, each gaze a thread of expectation. He felt it all—the weight of belief, the unspoken debts, the quiet pressure of a town that relied on him for survival, for miracles. Coins and small offerings littered the stones at his feet, but he did not see them. He did not need them. The ledger he carried was invisible but unyielding, tallying his losses, his sacrifices, the cost of each act.
A shout came from the edge of the crowd. "He saved my child!" The words spread quickly, carried by mouths eager to share stories. More people pushed forward, asking, begging. Some came with injuries, others with ailments the shard could not yet fully comprehend. Each step forward pulsed through the shard into Arin, warm and insistent, reminding him that the world did not wait. The world demanded.
He staggered back, trying to catch his breath, but the shard was relentless. It throbbed, responding to the whispers, to the small acts of faith pressed into him. A memory surfaced—his mother teaching him to bake bread, the warm smell filling their small kitchen—but it dissolved before he could hold it. Another fragment of his life vanished, leaving only a hollow ache.
He pressed his palms to his face, feeling the shard's warmth radiate into him. It demanded attention, demanded sacrifice. And though he wanted to resist, to step back and refuse, he could not. Every life he had touched so far was a thread, tangled and connected, pulling him forward into the endless current of expectation.
From somewhere in the crowd, a merchant approached, holding a carved wooden bird. "Take it as a token," he said. "It is all we can give." Arin did not accept it, did not even glance at the offering. Tokens were meaningless. Only the ledger mattered, the tally of what was lost and what was given.
He knelt beside a young woman now, pressing the shard's warmth into her chest. Fever left her body slowly, her color returning, her breath steadying. Relief washed over the crowd like a tide, and for a brief instant, Arin could feel it all—the gratitude, the awe, the expectation—and it weighed him down, pressing into him with the gravity of a stone.
Something else stirred inside him, subtle and insistent. The shard pulsed with a hunger he could feel in his bones. Every act of mercy fed it, every loss of memory, every fragment of self traded for healing. It would never stop. And neither could he.
A boy tugged at his sleeve again, holding a torn shirt. "My sister… she's sick!" Arin knelt, hands steady despite the exhaustion running through him. The warmth flowed, muscles eased, pain receded. Another memory slipped—he could not recall the taste of fresh berries he had once eaten, nor the sound of leaves rustling in the trees he had climbed as a child. The shard pulsed, patient and relentless.
When the crowd finally thinned, when the last of the small ailments had been eased, Arin staggered to the temple doors. Coins, ribbons, and small tokens littered the ground, but he did not see them. Only the ledger remained, invisible, pressing against his mind and chest. The shard lay heavy in his pocket, thumping with a steady, insistent rhythm, demanding the next act, the next sacrifice.
He sank onto the temple steps, feeling exhaustion settle into his bones. The air was quiet now, the square emptied, but the weight of expectation lingered, pressing down as though the town had not moved at all. Every life he had touched, every fragment of self taken by the shard, was a thread woven into a tapestry that stretched far beyond his understanding.
Mara appeared beside him, silent. She watched, as always, letting him sit with the weight he had gathered. "You are learning," she said. "You are beginning to understand the cost. Every act, every choice, every sacrifice—it accumulates. And there is no end to the ledger."
Arin pressed his hand to the shard in his pocket, feeling warmth pulse into him once more. "It will never end," he said quietly. "And I… I cannot step back."
"You will endure," Mara said. "Because the spark has chosen you, and the world will not release its claim. You must learn to navigate it, or it will consume you entirely."
He sat in silence for a long time, the shard glowing faintly, pulsing with insistent warmth. Memories lost, lives touched, expectations pressed upon him, and the weight of belief threaded into every corner of his being. The ledger was endless, but he was still here. The shard was still in his hand.
And he would continue, because stepping back was not an option.