Free Rise of the Dragons by Morgan Rice Page A

from under her and scurried off, and
she wondered why he did not rebuke Maltren instead of her. That angered her,
leaving father and daughter looking at each other in a standoff of rage, she as
stubborn as he, neither willing to budge.
    Finally, her father wordlessly turned,
followed by his men, and marched back towards the fort, knowing she would
follow. The tension broke as all the men fell in behind him, and Kyra,
reluctantly, joined. She began to trudge back through the snow, seeing the
distant lights of the fort, knowing she’d be in for an earful—but no longer
caring.
    Whether he accepted her or not, on this
day, she was accepted amongst his men—and for her, that was all that mattered.
From this day forward, she knew, everything would change.

CHAPTER SIX
     
     
    Kyra marched beside her father down the
stone corridors of Fort Volis, a rambling fort the size of a small castle, with
smooth stone walls, tapered ceilings, thick, ornate wood doors, an ancient
redoubt that had served to house the Keepers of The Flames and protect Escalon
for centuries. It was a crucial fort for their Kingdom, she knew, and yet it
was also home to her, the only home she’d ever known. She would often fall
asleep to the sound of warriors, feasting down the halls, dogs snarling as they
fought over scraps, fireplaces hissing with dying embers and drafts of wind
finding their way through the cracks. With all its quirks, she loved every
corner of it.
    As Kyra struggled to keep pace, she
wondered what was troubling her father. They walked quickly, silently, Leo
beside them, late for the feast, turning down corridors, soldiers and
attendants stiffening as they went. Her father walked more quickly than usual,
and though they were late, this, she knew, was unlike him. Usually he walked
side-by-side with her, had a big smile ready to flash behind his beard, clasped
an arm around her shoulder, sometimes told her jokes, recounted his day’s
events.
    But now he walked somberly, his face
set, several steps ahead of her, and he wore what appeared to be a frown of
disapproval, one she had rarely seen him wear. He looked troubled, too, and she
assumed it could only be from the day’s events, her brothers reckless hunting,
the Lord’s Men snatching their boar—and perhaps even because she, Kyra, had
been sparring. At first she had assumed he was just preoccupied with the
feast—holiday feasts were always burdensome for him, having to host so many
warriors and visitors well past midnight, as was ancient tradition. When her
mother had been alive and hosting these events, Kyra had been told, it had been
much easier on him. He was not a social creature, and he struggled to keep up
with social graces.
    But as their silence thickened, Kyra
started to wonder if it was something else entirely. Most likely, she figured,
it had something to do with her training with his men. Her relationship with
her father, which used to be so simple, had become increasingly complicated as
she grew up. He seemed to have a great ambivalence over what to do with her,
over what kind of daughter he expected her to be. On the one hand, he often taught
her of the principles of a warrior, of how a knight should think, should
conduct herself. They had endless conversations about valor, honor, courage,
and he oft stayed up late into the night recounting tales of their ancestor’s
battles, tales that she lived for, and the only tales she wanted to hear.
    Yet at the same time, Kyra noticed him
catching himself now when he discussed such things, silencing himself abruptly,
as if he’d realized he shouldn’t be speaking of it, as if he realized that he
had fostered something within her and wanted to take it back. Talking about
battle and valor was second nature to him, but now that Kyra was no longer a
girl, now that she was becoming a woman, and a budding warrior herself, there
was a part of him that seemed surprised by it, as if he had never expected her
to grow up. He seemed to not