Heartstone - Chapter 14: Chapter 14

The village bell rang out across the valley like a scream.
It shattered the morning silence. Birds burst from the trees. Children were swept into hiding. Men and women scrambled for their weapons—bows, spears, rusted blades passed down generations.
Avera burst from the hut, already armed.
She saw them coming down the hill—men on horseback, clad in pieced-together armor, faces hidden behind iron and cloth. Dust and frost kicked up behind them like smoke.
“The Riders,” someone whispered. “They’ve returned.”
Dalen stood beside her, sword in hand. He gripped it awkwardly, like instinct guided him more than memory. His breath came in white clouds. He looked to Avera.
“I thought they were machines.”
“Not this time,” she said. “These are men. But worse—because they remember what they burned.”
The Riders charged.
The villagers met them in the snow just beyond the gates. It was chaos—clashing steel, arrows slicing through the cold, screams and fire. But this time, the village did not break.
Dalen fought like someone waking from a dream—swift, brutal, and precise. His arm was cut, his ribs bruised, but he didn’t fall. Avera moved like a ghost—darting through attackers, her arrows swift and silent.
When the last rider fell, the snow was painted red.
The villagers stood, bloodied but breathing. For the first time in years, they had won.
But it came at a cost.
Several lay wounded. Dalen fell to one knee, clutching his side. Avera rushed to him, pressing her hand to the wound. “It’s shallow,” she muttered. “You’ll live.”
Marah approached slowly, her eyes tired but proud. She looked over the field of fallen riders, then down at the mark on Avera’s hand.
“They came for more than destruction,” she said.
Avera looked up. “Why?”
Marah exhaled. “They’ve been coming for years, hunting what belongs to us. But today… they came because they knew we would no longer surrender.”
She pulled a cloth from her coat, unwrapping it with reverence.
Inside was a deep violet stone, no larger than a clenched fist, glowing faintly in the morning light. It pulsed like it was alive.
“This is why,” Marah said. “The of Faeron. Forged long before memory. It carries power—both ancient and untamed. It was once used to awaken the blood of your ancestors, Avera. To protect. To restore. Or… to destroy.”
Avera stared at the stone.
Dalen’s breath hitched.
“I’ve seen that before,” he whispered. “In a vault. Underground. Sealed in glass. I was briefed on it.”
Marah turned sharply. “Where?”
He winced. “I don’t know. I only remember flashes. A mission. They said… it was dangerous. That it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“And now they know where it is,” Marah said grimly. “And they will come again—stronger. With more than swords.”
Avera stood, her hands clenched.
“Then we don’t wait for them to come.”
She looked out over the horizon, where smoke from the last rider still drifted into the sky.
“We take the fight to them.”