Heartstone - Chapter 27: Chapter 27

The ground was scorched, metal twisted like broken ribs jutting from the earth. The wreck of the jet lay half-buried under branches and dirt, covered in frost and soot.
Dalen stood at the edge of the crater, his eyes tracing every dent, every shard.
“It’s real,” whispered Darik, stepping closer. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Dalen moved quickly. With the soldiers’ help, he pried open panels, recovered a weapons cache, power cells, circuit boards, and three small drone pods that were miraculously still functional.
They moved with speed, carrying the salvaged tech onto horses and into packs. Before midday, they turned back toward the village—hope and fire strapped to their saddles.
As they rode, Dalen looked back once, at the wreckage.
“What they’ve built,” he murmured, “we’ll use to destroy them.”
As the dense forest canopy filtered sunlight into slashes of gold and green, Dalen and his group rode steadily, the salvaged wreckage secured tightly to their saddles. The forest was quiet, but the tension in the air pulsed like a heartbeat. Birds stirred overhead, and distant rustlings reminded them they weren’t alone—not in this war-bent wilderness.
They stopped near a stream to water the horses. Dalen crouched by the water, examining the drone pods again. The tech was partially scorched but operable. He activated one with a makeshift tool, and the small pod whirred to life, rising from his palm with a soft hum. It hovered above them, scanning.
"Still responds to neural cues," Dalen said with a note of awe. "This could give us sight over the battlefield."
One of the younger soldiers, Talin, stepped closer. “Can you reprogram it to recognize friend from foe?”
“Not easily. But I can rig it to broadcast signal interference. It'll mess with their comms at least,” Dalen replied, packing it away again.
As they continued, deeper into the woods, they slowed their pace. The terrain grew more treacherous—steep inclines, damp soil, and twisted roots that caught at hooves. They pushed through, following old trails to avoid detection.
Halfway back to the village, they encountered a wide clearing with strange, unnatural markings scorched into the earth—charred, circular, like landing prints. Dalen signaled a stop. Everyone dismounted. He walked to the center, squatting low to feel the earth. It was still warm.
“This was recent,” he said. “They’ve landed nearby. Recon maybe, or worse.”
The soldiers stood tense, hands on hilts and rifles. A quiet settled over them.
Then—a sharp whistle from the tree line. Everyone spun toward the sound, weapons drawn.
But it was a birdcall. A coded one. A figure emerged: lean, cloaked in leaves, face smudged with ash. One of the scouts from Marah’s network.
“They’re moving,” she whispered. “Sky machines. Advancing east. You need to move now.”
Dalen nodded. “We’ve got what we need. We’ll be ready.”
They rode fast now, urgency sharpening their focus. The recovered materials jostled with every gallop, but no one stopped. No one spoke.
As the forest began to thin and the smoke from village chimneys became visible on the horizon, Dalen’s voice carried low over the wind to his nearest comrade:
“They think they’ve built monsters,” he said, “but we’ve forged purpose from their bones.”
And behind him, in the pouches and packs, the heart of enemy tech pulsed—waiting to be reborn.