Heartstone - Chapter 10: Chapter 10

The night, the village fed them.
It wasn’t much—root stew, boiled herbs, bitter tea—but after days in the forest, it felt like a feast. The air inside the rebuilt hall was thick with smoke and silence. Eyes watched their every movement. Dalen ate carefully, still wincing from the pain in his leg. Avera sat close beside him, her bow within reach.
At the far end of the room sat the village chief—a tall, weathered woman with silver streaks in her black hair and eyes like flint. Her name was Marah, and she had the voice of someone who’d buried many friends.
After the meal, Avera approached her cautiously.
“Why are they attacking your village?” she asked. “Who are the men in helmets?”
Marah looked into the fire, stirring the embers with a stick. “We don’t know who they are. They came from the sky. Machines with no pilots. Weapons that think for themselves. Then soldiers. They spoke no words. They burned without warning. They didn’t take land. They erased it.”
She glanced at Dalen.
“They came after your crash.”
“I don’t remember any of it,” he said, guilt low in his voice.
Marah’s eyes narrowed, not convinced.
Then her gaze fell to Avera’s hand as she shifted near the fire.
A mark.
It was barely visible under soot and grime—just a faint line of ink or burn running across the back of Avera’s right hand. But Marah froze.
Her voice went sharp. “Show me your hand.”
Avera blinked, then held it out, guarded.
Marah gripped her wrist, lifting it into the firelight. The mark caught the glow—a curved line intersected by a single vertical slash. Ancient. Deliberate.
The room fell silent.
Marah looked up, her voice trembling—not with fear, but awe.
“That symbol… it belongs to the old blood.”
Avera’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Marah didn’t answer right away. She released her hand and stood, calling to one of the elders, Medrak. A worn book was brought to her—its cover made of dried bark and sinew. She opened it to a page that had nearly crumbled with time.
The same mark. Inked in red.
“The Line of Faeron,” Marah said. “Mountain blood. The hidden line. Protectors. Healers. Warriors of silence. Your mark is theirs. No one outside this valley should have it.”
“I was born on the mountain,” Avera said slowly. “Raised by a man named Nikola Varga. He said nothing about bloodlines.”
“He didn’t need to,” Marah whispered. “He was keeping you hidden from the world that fears your name.”
She leaned in.
“Who are you, child?”
Avera hesitated.
Then, for the first time in her life, she said it out loud.
“My name is Avera Breknac. Daughter of Mark Breknac.”
Dalen froze.
“What?” he said, his voice low, disbelief in his tone.
Avera nodded. “Nikola—he kept me safe after my father was killed.”
“Mark Breknac,” Dalen whispered. “He was a legend… A man who nearly exposed everything. They said he died a traitor.”
“He died a hero,” Avera replied firmly.
Dalen looked down, then slowly nodded. “Then I guess that makes you more than just a survivor.”
Gasps rippled through the hall.