that fended them off, that created the Flames, that built the towers, that forged the Sword of Fire. Because of them, the dragons were kept at bay. Their power protected us all.”
Alva turned and looked at her meaningfully, as Kyra stood there, riveted.
“A power that runs through you, Kyra,” he said.
She felt a chill at his words.
“Where is she, then?” Kyra asked, her voice nearly a whisper. “Does she still live?”
Alva looked away and sighed. He fell silent for a long time.
“One of her kind turned to the wrong side,” he said, sadness in his voice. “He used his power in the wrong ways. His energy turned dark, uncontrollable. From him there is said to have spawned the troll race.”
Alva turned and looked at her, eyes shining with intensity.
“Don’t you see, Kyra?” he pressed. “The trolls of Marda are descended from your kind, from the blood that runs through you. We are waging not only a war of soldiers, of men. This is a war of races, ancient races, ancient bloodlines. And it is a war of dragons. It is a war that has been raging for thousands of years, and that has never really stopped. It is a war of forces you can never understand. And your mother is at the center of it. Which means you are, too.”
Kyra frowned, struggling to comprehend.
“You must train, Kyra,” he insisted. “Not to learn how to wield a spear—but to understand this ancient energy that flows through you, that controls all. To understand who you are.”
“Is my mother alive?” She was almost afraid to ask.
Alva looked at her for a long time, then shook his head.
“You may see her only in dreams, or not at all. You are too young yet. Not until you know more about yourself, your source of power. Your mother’s source of power.”
She wondered.
“Where can I find that?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long time, then finally, he replied:
“The Lost Temple.”
The Lost Temple. The words shocked her, ringing in her ears like a mantra. It was a mysterious place she had heard of only in myths and legends. Yet the second he mentioned it, it resonated within her and she knew he was right.
“Once the capital of Escalon,” he continued, “the seat of power for thousands of years. Now it lies an ancient ruin, nestled against the sea on the western coast. It is there you will find her, Kyra. And there, and there alone, you will discover the weapon you need. The only weapon that can save Escalon.”
“What weapon?” she asked, amazed.
But Alva merely looked away.
Kyra felt a sudden flash of concern.
“My father,” she wondered. “Is he…dead?”
Alva shook his head.
“Not yet,” he replied. “He remains captive, in Andros. Until his execution.”
Kyra felt a chill at his words, and she stood there, debating.
“Go to him,” he warned, “and you will die. The choice is yours, Kyra: will you choose your family, or your destiny?”
Kyra looked up to the sky, wondering, feeling so confused, so torn. The world seemed to freeze at that moment.
When she looked back at Alva, to her shock, he was gone. She blinked, looking everywhere, finding no one.
There came a rustling behind her, and Kyra turned and was shocked to see Kolva standing there, having emerged from the woods, looking back at her with intensity. It was amazing seeing his face, the resemblance it bore to hers; in some ways, it was like looking in a mirror. It made her think of her mother, and his connection to her, all the more. Her other uncle was the last person she had expected to see, and yet he came as a very welcome face, especially now, as she grappled with the decision before her.
“What are you doing here?” Kyra asked. “I thought you had gone to the tower.”
“I have already returned,” he replied. “The tower is but one cog in a great wheel, a battlefield in a greater war. War is coming, Kyra, and I am needed elsewhere now.”
“Where?” she asked, surprised.
He sighed.
“A place far from here,” he
Alva turned and looked at her meaningfully, as Kyra stood there, riveted.
“A power that runs through you, Kyra,” he said.
She felt a chill at his words.
“Where is she, then?” Kyra asked, her voice nearly a whisper. “Does she still live?”
Alva looked away and sighed. He fell silent for a long time.
“One of her kind turned to the wrong side,” he said, sadness in his voice. “He used his power in the wrong ways. His energy turned dark, uncontrollable. From him there is said to have spawned the troll race.”
Alva turned and looked at her, eyes shining with intensity.
“Don’t you see, Kyra?” he pressed. “The trolls of Marda are descended from your kind, from the blood that runs through you. We are waging not only a war of soldiers, of men. This is a war of races, ancient races, ancient bloodlines. And it is a war of dragons. It is a war that has been raging for thousands of years, and that has never really stopped. It is a war of forces you can never understand. And your mother is at the center of it. Which means you are, too.”
Kyra frowned, struggling to comprehend.
“You must train, Kyra,” he insisted. “Not to learn how to wield a spear—but to understand this ancient energy that flows through you, that controls all. To understand who you are.”
“Is my mother alive?” She was almost afraid to ask.
Alva looked at her for a long time, then shook his head.
“You may see her only in dreams, or not at all. You are too young yet. Not until you know more about yourself, your source of power. Your mother’s source of power.”
She wondered.
“Where can I find that?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long time, then finally, he replied:
“The Lost Temple.”
The Lost Temple. The words shocked her, ringing in her ears like a mantra. It was a mysterious place she had heard of only in myths and legends. Yet the second he mentioned it, it resonated within her and she knew he was right.
“Once the capital of Escalon,” he continued, “the seat of power for thousands of years. Now it lies an ancient ruin, nestled against the sea on the western coast. It is there you will find her, Kyra. And there, and there alone, you will discover the weapon you need. The only weapon that can save Escalon.”
“What weapon?” she asked, amazed.
But Alva merely looked away.
Kyra felt a sudden flash of concern.
“My father,” she wondered. “Is he…dead?”
Alva shook his head.
“Not yet,” he replied. “He remains captive, in Andros. Until his execution.”
Kyra felt a chill at his words, and she stood there, debating.
“Go to him,” he warned, “and you will die. The choice is yours, Kyra: will you choose your family, or your destiny?”
Kyra looked up to the sky, wondering, feeling so confused, so torn. The world seemed to freeze at that moment.
When she looked back at Alva, to her shock, he was gone. She blinked, looking everywhere, finding no one.
There came a rustling behind her, and Kyra turned and was shocked to see Kolva standing there, having emerged from the woods, looking back at her with intensity. It was amazing seeing his face, the resemblance it bore to hers; in some ways, it was like looking in a mirror. It made her think of her mother, and his connection to her, all the more. Her other uncle was the last person she had expected to see, and yet he came as a very welcome face, especially now, as she grappled with the decision before her.
“What are you doing here?” Kyra asked. “I thought you had gone to the tower.”
“I have already returned,” he replied. “The tower is but one cog in a great wheel, a battlefield in a greater war. War is coming, Kyra, and I am needed elsewhere now.”
“Where?” she asked, surprised.
He sighed.
“A place far from here,” he
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