The square was quiet now, yet its silence pressed against him like the weight of a stone. Every face he had touched lingered in his mind, every plea, every whispered hope. The shard in his pocket throbbed faintly, its warmth a constant reminder that no act of mercy was free. He could feel the ledger of expectation forming in the spaces between his ribs, tallying each sacrifice, each memory lost, each piece of himself he had surrendered.
A small cough drew his attention. A girl, no older than seven, limped toward him, her hand pressed to her stomach. Her eyes were wide, fear and hope mingling in their depths. Without thought, he knelt, placing his hands on her small frame. Light spread from the shard into her body, easing the tension, calming the fever. She gasped, then exhaled deeply, color returning to her cheeks.
And the ledger marked its price. A memory of the first time he had seen the river near his village vanished. He tried to hold onto it—the sound of water over stones, the sunlight glinting across the surface—but it dissolved instantly. The shard pulsed, satisfied, and Arin felt hollow once again.
A voice called from behind, soft but insistent. "Arin! Please, my father—he cannot wake!" A man hurried forward, eyes wide with desperation. Arin's hands moved instinctively, pressing warmth into the man's chest. Muscle loosened, breath returned, and the man's eyes fluttered open. Relief surged, tangible and heavy, pressing against him.
Each act added to the invisible ledger. Coins and small offerings appeared at his feet, but he ignored them. They were meaningless. Only the tally of cost mattered. Every memory lost, every fragment of self given to the shard, accumulated silently, invisibly. The ledger would never end.
The crowd's whispers spread like wildfire. Stories of miracles, of healing, of lives restored, carried from street to street. People began to gather once more, seeking the spark, pressing their needs against him. A woman approached with her child, weak and trembling. "Please," she begged, "heal him before it is too late."
Arin knelt again, warmth flowing from the shard, weaving into the boy's tense muscles, calming fevered lungs, restoring color. Pain eased. Breath steadied. Another fragment of Arin vanished—the scent of fresh earth after rain, something once familiar, now irretrievable. The shard pulsed faintly, insistent, as if measuring not just what he gave, but how much of himself remained.
He staggered backward, chest tight, lungs shallow. Each act weighed on him physically, but even more so mentally. The ledger stretched endlessly, invisible threads tying him to every life he touched. He could feel them, tugging, pressing, demanding more. And he could not refuse.
A boy ran forward, clutching a splintered toy, eyes wide. "My sister… she's sick!" Arin's hands glowed as the shard's warmth seeped into her body. Muscles eased, pain faded, and color returned. Another memory slipped away—he could not recall the taste of honeyed bread or the sound of leaves rustling in the trees he had climbed as a child. The shard pulsed, patient and insistent, and he realized that it would never stop, and neither could he.
The square was now a sea of expectation. People pressed closer, eyes wide, murmuring their needs. Each glance, each plea, each whispered hope pressed on him, feeding the shard, tugging at the invisible ledger. Coins, ribbons, small gifts appeared, but he did not see them. Only the tally mattered, the cost of every act etched into his body and mind.
He stumbled, hands brushing the cobblestones, feeling the weight of the world pressing against him. A man stepped forward, holding a woman's hand. "Please… she cannot walk," he said. Arin knelt, warmth flowing from his palms, easing stiffened joints, straightening legs. Color returned, breath steadied. Another memory vanished—the laughter of his mother, the scent of wood smoke in his village—but he did not mourn. The shard pulsed, satisfied.
People whispered, stories spread, and expectation grew. The ledger stretched, invisible and unrelenting, marking each sacrifice, each loss, each piece of Arin that the shard claimed. He could feel it pressing into his bones, into his chest, into the hollows of his mind. And still, there were more faces, more needs, more lives demanding his touch.
Coins clattered at his feet. A merchant stepped forward, holding a small wooden carving. "Take this," he said, voice low, reverent. "It is all we have." Arin did not reach for it. Tokens meant nothing. Only the ledger mattered, the tally of what he had given, and what remained of him to give.
He knelt beside a young woman now, pressing warmth into her chest, easing fever, calming pain. Relief washed over the crowd like a tide, pressing into him with weight. The shard throbbed, responding to the gratitude, the awe, the hope, measuring it, storing it. He felt hollow, empty, and yet tethered to it all, bound to the demand that would never end.
Mara's voice came then, cutting through the quiet hum of the crowd. "Enough," she said. The murmurs faded, though some voices lingered, asking, pleading. Arin felt the shard pulse once more, insistent. Even silence could not release him from its grip.
He followed her back to the temple, every step heavy with exhaustion, with memory lost, with expectation pressing on him. The ledger stretched endlessly in his mind, threads invisible yet unbreakable, tallying his sacrifices, counting each fragment of self he had surrendered.
Inside, Mara gestured to a bench. "The spark is not merely power," she said. "It is exchange. Every act of mercy takes from you something essential. Every sacrifice is accounted for. You must learn to measure what you can afford to give, and what you cannot."
Arin sank onto the bench, hands trembling. "I cannot stop," he admitted. "Every face I see wants something. Every life demands me. I cannot leave them undone."
"That is not weakness," Mara said, voice even. "It is choice. And choice carries consequence. Learn restraint, or the ledger will consume you entirely."
The shard pulsed in his pocket. Its warmth spread through him, insistent, patient, unyielding. Every act of mercy, every loss of memory, every fragment of self traded, accumulated, measured, and stored. It would never stop. And neither could he.
He wandered the temple grounds alone as night fell. The square was empty now, but expectation lingered, pressing in invisible threads. Whispers of his name, memories of those he had touched, their gratitude, their awe—all pressed on him, tied into the ledger the shard maintained. He could feel every life, every story, every debt, pulling at him, threading him into the endless tapestry of demand.
Arin pressed his hand to the shard, letting warmth flow into him. He whispered, "I will endure. I must." The shard pulsed in response, steady, insistent. Memories lost, lives touched, the ledger of sacrifice stretching endlessly before him—he carried it all, and he would continue.
No relief came. No pause. Only the weight, the ledger, the shard, and him.
And still, he rose again, ready for the next demand.