Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 61–The Dragon Heartstone Awakens

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As Riasean rose from the flood, water cascading from his sodden clothes, his eyes locked on the desperate battle unfolding before him. The Shatain drifted around Gall like circling predators, their movements flowing and deliberate against the rising water. The Brin Shar fought with remarkable skill despite his injuries, but his movements had grown sluggish, his parries coming dangerously late.

He will not last much longer. Not without help.

Riasean reached for his knife, fingers finding only an empty scabbard. The blade must have been torn away when he was swept through the pump house door. Cursing under his breath, he dropped onto his hands and knees, the cold water soaking through his already drenched clothing as he frantically searched the submerged courtyard stones.

His hand brushed against something familiar—his sword, lost during his tumble from the pump house. But beside it lay something else: the cloth-wrapped object he’d pulled from the sluice gates. It had somehow stayed with him through the flood, as if determined not to be separated from its finder.

Rising to one knee, water dripping from his chin, Riasean pulled both items from the water. The cloth had partially unwrapped during his escape, revealing a mud-covered stone inside. Even beneath the grime, something about it seemed to pulse with inner light, a dull red glow barely visible through the layers of sediment.

With trembling fingers, he dipped the stone into the water and shook it vigorously, curiosity momentarily overriding his urgency. The mud sloughed away, revealing something that stole his breath.

Not a simple stone, but a perfectly rectangular crystal brick, translucent and deep crimson. As he turned it in his hand, he saw something impossible—a living flame that danced within the stone, moving from one end to the other as if alive and aware. The flame cast a warm glow across his hands, incongruous against the cold water and grim battle surrounding him.

What is this? The thought had barely formed when recognition dawned, stories from his youth rushing back. The Dragon Heartstone. The artifact of the Caretakers. But how—

A splash and grunt of pain shattered his reverie. Riasean looked up to see Gall falter, his injured leg finally giving way in the knee-deep water. The man fell backward, barely maintaining his grip on his Mordblade as he landed hard, water splashing around him.

A Shatain loomed over him, its faceless hood regarding its fallen prey with silent malice. The shadow warrior raised its Mordblade high, the weapon seeming to drink in what little light remained in the courtyard.

“NO!” Riasean screamed, lunging forward with the Heartstone clutched tightly in his fist.

The world exploded into blinding white light. The Heartstone erupted with power, its crimson glow transforming into a pillar of pure fire that shot upward from his hand. The flames seemed to respond to his rage, his desperation—his need to protect. They coalesced around him, not burning his flesh but embracing him like a long-lost friend.

The fire spoke to him without words, ancient knowledge flowing into his mind like a river breaking through a dam. He understood then what he held—not merely a relic, but the embodiment of pure fire, the essence of creation and destruction held in perfect balance. The talisman of the Caretakers, lost for generations, now found again in the most unlikely of circumstances.

His scream echoed within the keep, transformed from a cry of despair into something else entirely—a command, a summoning, a declaration of power long dormant but never truly forgotten. The flames surged forward toward the Shatain, drawn to the unnatural darkness of their forms like light seeking to banish shadow.

The flames struck the Shatain like the wrath of ancient gods. Its Mordblade, raised in futile defense, didn’t merely dissolve—it screamed as it died, the weapon’s unnatural darkness shrieking in harmony with its wielder as dragon-fire consumed them both. The shadow warrior’s form began unraveling from the point of impact, its essence peeling away in ribbons of writhing darkness that the flames devoured with ravenous hunger. For a heartbeat that lasted an eternity, the Shatain stood revealed—not as void or shadow, but as something far worse: twisted remnants of what had once been human, now burning away like parchment in a forge. Then reality itself seemed to crack around the creature as the Heartstone’s power reached a crescendo. The Shatain imploded with a sound like thunder trapped in crystal, its destruction so complete that even its shadow was erased from beneath it. Where the shadow warrior had stood, only superheated air remained, shimmering with residual crimson light and the faint, sweet smell of purification.

In that moment, as fire met darkness, Riasean understood why the stone had been hidden, why it had waited for him. The battle for Landros had just changed irrevocably, and with it, perhaps the fate of realms beyond.

* * *

Cold water lapped at Faline’s ankles, seeping through her boots and numbing her already weakened limbs. The flood had reached even this section of the outer courtyard. Was this what Gall had planned? To drown them with the reservoir’s contents? He must be desperate then.

Before she could command Parthos to investigate, a searing flash of light erupted from the direction of the Inner Keep gate. The brilliance cut through the night like a physical blow, momentarily transforming the darkness into blinding day. Faline threw up her arm to shield her eyes, but it was too late. Afterimages danced across her vision, further disorienting her.

“What sorcery is this?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

The question had barely left her lips when another flash burst forth, more intense than the first. This time, the light carried something else with it—a wave of power that struck Faline like a hammer to her chest. She doubled over, a scream tearing from her throat as agony ripped through her body. It felt as if her very essence was being shredded, the magical bonds connecting her to her remaining Shatain stretching and snapping like overtaxed sinew.

“Parthos,” she cried, her voice raw with pain and fear. She reached blindly for him, her vision still compromised by the supernatural light.

Parthos jerked his head toward her, his movements suddenly uncoordinated and spasmodic, like a puppet with tangled strings. His typically passive face contorted with an emotion she’d never seen there before—terror.

Another flash of white light pulsed from the Inner Keep, less blinding than before but somehow more profound. A column of fire seemed to rise toward the sky, illuminating the flooded courtyard in shades of blood and ember.

“I must go check on the others,” Parthos said, his voice strange and hollow. But the words seemed automatic, disconnected from thought or strategy.

Before he could move, three Shatain materialized from the darkness, splashing frantically through the rising water. Their typically graceful movements had become chaotic, almost desperate. Most shocking, their dreaded Mordblades were sheathed—a retreat posture she’d never ordered nor expected to see.

“Where are the rest?” Parthos demanded, his normally commanding voice now cracked and raspy.

One of the Shatain paused, its hooded form seeming to shudder in the dim light. “Destroyed,” it replied, the single word carrying uncharacteristic emotion—something approaching fear. “Run, or we will be as well.”

Destroyed? Impossible! Faline’s mind reeled. The Shatain were nearly invincible, crafted through dark arts and bound to her will. Nothing in Landros should have been capable of destroying even one, let alone three. She seized the robes of the retreating Shatain. “What happened?”

The Shatain spoke in a voice that wavered slightly. “One of them had a stone from which fire erupted. It consumed our brothers.”

Her distant memories stirred, and recognition flowed to the forefront of her mind. Could it be that Gall had found the Dragon Heartstone, a talisman of the Caretakers? How could that be? It had been lost to time and legend.

Another wave of pain washed over her, driving her to her knees in the rising water. Something was unraveling her connection to the dark powers she commanded—something ancient and terrible.

Without a word, Parthos scooped her into his arms. For once, she could not protest or maintain her facade of strength. Her body felt like a broken vessel, unable to contain its conflicting energies.

As Parthos carried her toward the North Gate, they passed Banoch, her Drachnorian general. The burly man struggled through the water that now reached mid-thigh, his bloodied and battered armor impeding his progress. Around him, soldiers battled the rising current, some losing their footing in the unexpectedly powerful flood.

“We cannot storm the keep with all this water,” Banoch groused, his face contorted with frustration as he recognized Faline being carried away. “The men cannot fight in these conditions!”

Despite her agony, Faline would not accept defeat. Not when she had come so close. Not when Gall and the throne of Bretagne lay just beyond her reach. With supreme effort, she raised her head from Parthos’s shoulder.

“You must!” she shouted, her voice carrying over the chaotic sounds of splashing water and confused soldiers. “The eastern gate of the Inner Keep is open! Take advantage of it! Find Gall and the Queen!”

Fear, an emotion long foreign to her, crept like ice through her veins. If the Heartstone had awakened and found a new bearer after all these centuries…

“Faster,” she whispered to Parthos, her eyes fixed on the retreating gate. “We must regroup and reconsider our approach.”

Her mind spun. This was not a defeat—it was merely a strategic withdrawal. She would return, stronger than before. But next time, she would be prepared for the fire that had driven her back this night. Suddenly, the world twisted about her and faded to black.

* * *

Riasean’s vision slowly returned, the white-hot brilliance fading to reveal the flooded courtyard. The Dragon Heartstone pulsed warmly in his palm, its inner flame now settled to a steady glow. Before him, three columns of dark smoke rose from the waters—all that remained of the Shatain he had destroyed.

Gall stumbled to his feet, water cascading from his sodden clothes. Despite his injuries, he moved with renewed purpose, eyes fixed on the gleaming crimson stone in Riasean’s hand. He sheathed his Mordblade with practiced care, the weapon disappearing into its scabbard with a whisper of relief, as if glad to return to darkness.

After catching his breath, Gall spoke, his voice tinged with disbelief. “The Dragon Heartstone? How long have you had that?”

“It was in the reservoir,” Riasean replied, his mind still reeling from what had happened. The power that had surged through him felt both foreign and familiar, as if awakening something long dormant within his blood. “Wedged in the sluice gate. Someone tried to hide it there.”

Gall laughed, a sound of genuine amusement that seemed out of place amid the destruction. “Leave it to the Caretakers to find the perfect place for the Heartstone—at the bottom of a lake.” He shook his head in wonder. “Where none but the desperate would think to look.”

Around them, the water continued to rise inexorably, now reaching their waists and climbing higher with each passing moment. The reservoir’s contents poured into the lower city with unstoppable force.

“We had best get to the ramparts unless you want to start swimming,” Gall observed, eyeing the rising flood.

“I agree,” Riasean answered, wringing water out of his hair with his free hand, the other still clutching the Heartstone. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

Together, they waded through the deepening water, their progress slowed by the current tugging at their legs. By the time they reached the stone stairs leading to the ramparts, the flood had risen to shoulder height, carrying debris and evidence of battle in its murky depths.

Queen Britta stood at the top of the stairs, her regal bearing undiminished despite the chaos around her. Her red hair was pulled back in a severe braid, and her hands rested on the pommel of a bloodstained sword—evidence that she had taken part in the keep’s defense herself.

“That was mighty impressive,” she said as they approached, nodding toward the Heartstone, “and not a moment too soon. They were nearly in the keep.” The faintest glimmer of hope crossed her features. “Perhaps we could use the stone to drive the Drachnorians back as well.”

“Understand this about the stone: it chooses when and how it is used, not the other way around. We cannot rely on it to save ourselves. We got very lucky this time.” He gestured towards the water filling the keep. “But time is something we don’t have,” Gall shot back, his expression grave. “We need to follow through on escaping the city. Now that the eastern gate is destroyed, there is no way to hold the keep once the water recedes.”

Britta pursed her lips, but then nodded, the weight of command evident in the tightness around her eyes. “We must break out to the south and make for Tenoach.” She turned and led them to the upper walls of the keep. Outside the walls, bodies floated in the water of the lower city, surrounded by an all-too-familiar red taint that spread like oil across the surface. Drachnorian soldiers waded out into the streets, escaping from flooded buildings, only to be welcomed by the twang of archer arrows from the upper walls. Men stiffened as the missiles found their mark, then sank beneath the watery surface without a sound.

Britta raised her voice, calling for Harald, who hobbled over, his leg heavily bandaged and face drawn with pain. “How does the situation look to the south?”

“The Nagun are staying in the buildings in the lower city,” Harald reported, wincing as he shifted his weight. “The water doesn’t seem to bother them as much as it does the Drachnorians.”

Britta’s brow furrowed as she processed this information. “We will have to cut our way out then. Take a third of the men and secure access to the city’s south gate. The rest can pass through as we evacuate the city.”

Harald nodded and hobbled away, already calling orders to nearby soldiers. Britta turned back to Riasean, her eyes falling once more on the Heartstone. “How long do we have before the water recedes?”

Riasean glanced at the flood, calculating the volume and drainage routes. “Maybe an hour, or less,” he replied, acutely aware of the precious artifact still clutched in his hand. The stone seemed to respond to his thoughts, its inner flame brightening slightly.

Britta sighed, the sound carrying the weight of her kingdom’s fate. She turned toward Gall, her expression tightening. “What of Faline?”

“She will keep her distance to avoid losing more Shatain,” Gall answered, his hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of his Mordblade. “The Heartstone’s power will have weakened her substantially. But she won’t abandon the siege—she’s too close to what she wants.”

Before Britta could respond, shouts rang out from the lookouts stationed around the ramparts. Gall’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he glanced back over the wall.

“We have a more immediate problem,” he said grimly.

They hurried over to the south-facing section of wall. Below them, a column of Drachnorian soldiers advanced through the flooded streets, shields held high over their heads in makeshift protection against the rain of arrows. They struggled through the chest-deep water, but their determination was undeniable as they poured through the eastern gate of the keep that the Shatain had compromised.

Arrows rained down upon the invaders from the defending archers, but there were too many targets and too few defenders. For every soldier that fell, three more pushed forward. The first wave reached the rampart steps and began to climb, their wet boots slipping on the stone, but their progress was steady.

The defenders at the base of the stairs formed a desperate line, but they were outnumbered. Slowly, the sheer weight of enemy numbers pushed them back up the steps.

Riasean looked down at the Heartstone in his hand, feeling its power pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. He had used it once without understanding—perhaps now he could use it with purpose.

“I can stop them,” he said quietly, raising the stone.

Gall’s hand closed around his wrist, restraining him with surprising gentleness. “So you think,” he said. “The stone may have other ideas. Still, save your strength—and the stone’s power—for when we truly have no other option.”

Riasean hesitated, then nodded, sliding the Heartstone into a secure inner pocket of his soaked tunic. Its warmth pressed against his chest like a second heart.

Britta drew her sword, its edge catching the torchlight. “To the stairs,” she commanded. “We hold them there until Harald secures our escape route.”

As they moved to join the defense, Riasean felt the weight of the Heartstone against his chest—not just physically, but with all the responsibility it represented. Somehow, amid Landros’s doom, he had become the bearer of one of the most powerful magical objects in the realm. But could he master its power in time to ensure any of them survived to see another dawn?