Arin's name traveled faster than his steps. By the time he reached the square, the air was already thick with whispers. Faces leaned toward him the way plants turned toward sunlight. Mothers nudged children closer, merchants paused in mid-sale, beggars stretched hands not for coin but for his touch. The shard beneath his cloak pulsed like a restless heart, each throb syncing with the eyes locked on him.
He did not speak. He had learned that silence carried its own weight. It left people guessing, left them weaving their own stories of his strength and restraint. A gesture, a pause, the faintest nod—these things had become more potent than speeches.
Today, though, the square did not belong to him. A lacquered carriage rolled in with deliberate pace, drawn by horses brushed until their coats gleamed. It halted before the fountain. The door swung open, and a woman in violet stepped out. Her posture screamed privilege: shoulders set, chin lifted, the subtle smirk of someone who had never been denied. Two guards flanked her, armor glinting in the light.
"We seek the one they call spark-bearer," she declared, her voice honed to slice through noise. "My brother lies dying in the east manor. Bring him to your temple, or bring the spark to him."
Murmurs rippled outward like water disturbed by a stone. Some nodded, eager for Arin to prove himself before nobility. Others scowled, muttering about lords who only remembered the common folk when desperation struck.
The shard burned hotter, as if it craved this clash of belief. Nobility's need was no different from a beggar's, yet the weight behind it—the attention, the story it would spin—was far greater. The ledger whispered at the back of Arin's mind, hinting at what such a choice might cost.
Before he could answer, Mara appeared beside him. Her hand gripped his sleeve firmly, anchoring him. "The temple serves all who come," she said to the noblewoman, calm but sharp. "But we do not escort him into courts where healing becomes coin. If your brother wishes aid, he may be brought here."
The noble's lips curled. "You would deny a dying man relief because of where he lies? You call yourselves servants of life, yet you ration mercy like misers."
"Preservation is not miserliness," Mara replied evenly. "The shard's bearer is not your personal physician. He is no instrument for your convenience."
The crowd stirred uneasily. Some agreed with Mara, nodding with conviction. Others hissed that the temple grew arrogant, deciding who deserved healing and who did not. The noblewoman's eyes glittered as she sensed the division.
"You refuse me publicly?" she asked, loud enough for all to hear. "You set yourself above compassion, above duty?"
Arin drew a slow breath. His voice, when it came, was low but steady. "Every touch I grant costs me pieces I cannot regain. When I heal, I lose memories, names, joys. If I spend them on your brother behind walls of privilege, what will remain for the many who wait out here? I cannot squander myself for politics."
The noble's laughter was soft, mocking. "So sentimental. Memories for lives—what fairer trade exists? If it is price you fear, my family will pay it in gold, land, or title. You need only say yes."
"Gold cannot replace what is taken," Mara said. "Not time, not love, not the essence of a man."
"Then you force my hand," the noblewoman hissed. "We will bring him here, before all. If you refuse again, let the people see whose mercy truly governs."
Gasps flickered through the square. Arin felt the tug of expectation tighten like a net. Some eyes pleaded with him to bend, to avoid spectacle. Others watched with cruel fascination, eager for a fall. The shard pulsed like fire, feeding on the clash of hope and doubt.
A young man broke from the crowd, his face flushed with anger. "If you can heal and choose not to, you are no better than the lords who hoard grain while children starve." His words stung more than any blade.
Arin met his gaze. "If I bow to the lords, the many will suffer when my ledger runs empty. Dozens will die so that one may live in comfort. That is not mercy—it is indulgence."
The noblewoman's smile hardened. "You will regret this," she said coldly. She signaled her guards, and they withdrew. The carriage wheels clattered as it rolled away, leaving only the echo of her promise hanging in the air.
The square exhaled. Relief mingled with resentment, a mixture that could turn to faith or fury. A woman touched Arin's arm briefly, whispering, "You chose rightly," before disappearing back into the crowd. But others shook their heads, muttering that the temple's pride would bring ruin. Belief fractured into opposing strands, and the shard absorbed both greedily.
That night, the temple council gathered. Candles flickered over maps and scrolls. Stewards, priests, and seers filled the chamber, voices tense with worry.
"The nobles will not forget," one priest warned. "They will twist this refusal into chains. They will say the temple defies mercy, that the spark is wasted here."
Mara folded her arms. "Then let them say it. Better slander than servitude."
"Or," another countered, "we take him away. Move him through villages where need is greater but eyes are fewer. The court cannot bind what it cannot reach."
Arin listened, silent. Each proposal pressed on him like another weight added to the ledger. Moving meant new crowds, new demands, more fragments of himself sacrificed. Staying meant becoming a pawn in noble games. Neither choice spared him.
Mara's gaze found his. "You will travel," she said firmly. "I will teach you to ration the shard's hunger, to guard what must not be lost. We will not let them use you."
Relief brushed against him, brief and fragile. But the shard claimed its toll instantly. The memory of his brother's laughter—clear, ringing, chasing through fields—slipped away, leaving only the ache of absence. He clenched his fists, refusing to show pain.
After the council dispersed, a young acolyte approached, face flushed with eagerness. "They say you defied her," he whispered. "That you turned away the manor itself. Some call it arrogance, others bravery. But already, in the northern quarter, rumors spread—that the spark-bearer will crown a new order. People listen."
"Portents are dangerous," Mara warned, stepping between them. "Stories shape belief, and belief feeds the shard. Spread the wrong story, and it will consume him faster."
Arin left the chamber alone, needing air. He walked along the river where the city lights shimmered on the water. The shard throbbed against his chest, patient, insistent. He wondered how many more refusals he could endure before the people's faith turned to resentment, before the cost outweighed the good.
The water carried no answers, only the steady murmur of current against stone. He touched the shard lightly, feeling its heat bite into his palm, and whispered, "I will not be owned."
The shard hummed as if amused, a quiet reminder that ownership was never simple—that even defiance carried a price. Arin straightened, set his shoulders, and turned back toward the temple. He would walk the road Mara set, ration his gifts, and refuse when refusal was the only way to remain whole.
And when the ledger demanded tally, he would pay.