The temple gates opened to a different rhythm the next morning. Not worshippers trickling in, not townsfolk pressing their hopes forward, but a caravan forming under Mara's order. Carts creaked under supplies, mules snorted impatiently, and stewards tied down bundles of cloth, herbs, and food. The air smelled of departure—oil on leather, dust rising from hooves, a thin edge of anticipation.
Arin stood near the fountain, cloak wrapped tightly, shard pressed against his chest. The council's decision had solidified: he would travel, not hide, not wait for nobles to corner him. Movement was both shield and burden. Wherever they went, more eyes would follow.
Mara handed him a staff. Not ceremonial, but sturdy wood capped with iron. "Not a weapon," she said, "though you'll be tempted to swing it like one. It's for walking, for leaning, for reminding yourself that you are mortal even when they call you more."
Arin accepted it, fingers closing around the smooth grip. The shard pulsed faintly, as though it approved of the symbol.
By midmorning, the caravan wound through the northern gate. Townsfolk lined the road, some blessing him with raised hands, others scowling at what they saw as abandonment. A boy shouted, "Come back when you've learned humility!" while a woman tossed dried flowers beneath the mule's hooves. Praise and curse braided together as the road stretched away.
The landscape shifted quickly—stone streets giving way to rolling fields, then to low hills cut by streams. Here, belief was thinner. Not gone, but less concentrated, like smoke dispersing into wind. Arin felt the shard quiet, though not sleep. Its hunger never slept.
Two days passed with little more than dust and routine. Priests sang to steady pace, stewards mended gear by firelight, Mara drilled the young acolytes on discipline. Arin listened, half present, half inward, as though the shard was tugging him deeper each night.
On the third evening, they entered a village called Rynmar. It was no more than thirty houses clustered around a crooked well. Smoke rose from chimneys, but the air held tension sharper than woodfire. People gathered at the road's edge, silent, watchful.
A man stepped forward, tall but gaunt, his eyes sunken from sleeplessness. "You are the bearer," he said, voice hoarse. "If rumor is truth, then help us. Our children are sick. Coughs that will not cease, fevers that burn through nights. We have no healer strong enough."
The crowd pressed closer, desperate faces lit by torchlight. Children wheezed in their mothers' arms, elders leaned on sticks, whole families waited on his answer. The shard woke with a surge, heat spreading through Arin's chest until his ribs ached.
He looked at Mara. She gave no command. Only that steady gaze which said: your choice, but remember the ledger.
Arin stepped forward, laying his hand on the brow of a coughing boy. The shard's warmth spilled out like water breaking a dam. The boy's breathing eased, color returning faintly to his cheeks. Relief rippled through the crowd, pulling more bodies forward. Hands reached for him, voices begged—heal this one, save her, touch him.
One by one, he answered. Light spilled from his palms, easing fevers, calming coughs, straightening the backs of those bent in pain. Each act carried its price. He felt names unspooling from memory: a childhood friend whose smile he could no longer picture, the taste of fruit once stolen in summer, the sound of his father's whistle across a field. Gone. Taken. Tallied.
By the time the last child sighed into easy sleep, Arin staggered, leaning on the staff Mara had given him. Sweat soaked his collar. The shard burned steady but satisfied, like a predator digesting a feast.
The villagers wept with gratitude. They knelt, pressed rough hands against the dirt, called him blessed. One man shouted that a god walked among them. Another cried that he was the answer to prayers long ignored.
Mara raised her voice above them. "He is not a god. He is mortal, as fragile as you. Do not demand until he breaks."
But belief once sparked did not fade easily. They begged him to stay, to make their wells clean, to bless their fields, to guard their homes. He felt the pressure of their hope tightening again, even as exhaustion hollowed him.
That night, lying in a borrowed hut, Arin stared at the rafters. His body ached with both weariness and emptiness, as though parts of himself had been carved away. He tried to summon his brother's face, but it blurred, slipping through grasp like smoke. His chest hurt worse than his bones.
Mara entered quietly, carrying a bowl of broth. She set it beside him and sat. For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, she said, "You cannot heal whole villages every time. Tonight you did what was needed, but if you repeat it in every place, there will be nothing left of you by season's end."
"I know," he whispered.
"Do you?" Her eyes searched his. "Because mercy feels endless when you hold the shard. But it is not. It will hollow you if you let the world take without limit."
Arin closed his eyes. "What would you have me do? Watch children die when I could prevent it?"
"I would have you choose. Not surrender. Not serve every demand. Choose when the cost is worth it, and when refusal preserves the greater good."
Her words cut, but he knew their truth. Still, the cries of the children lingered in his ears, heavy as chains.
The next morning, the village gathered again. They offered gifts—bread, blankets, carved trinkets. Arin accepted none. He lifted the staff, leaning on it as he addressed them.
"I am not divine," he said, voice carrying across the small square. "I am flesh, with limits. The shard is no endless well. Every act you saw last night took something from me I will never regain. If you call me savior, then you also call me sacrifice. I cannot be both forever."
The words unsettled them. Some lowered eyes in shame, others clung to denial. But truth planted itself like a seed, even if unwelcome.
When the caravan departed, the villagers wept and blessed him, yet he saw in their faces the same hunger as before. Belief once awakened was difficult to contain.
The road carried them onward. Hills gave way to forest, and streams whispered through roots. Arin walked with his staff, body heavier, mind torn between compassion and survival. The shard pulsed with every step, as if amused by his struggle.
He whispered to it once, under his breath where no one heard: "I will not let you devour me."
The shard answered with silence—but its heat lingered, patient, eternal.