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Chapter Forty-Seven Like she’d ridden straight out of legend

Isobelle’s horse burst out of the edge of the forest in time for her to see the side of the mountain explode, a massive shadow

launching itself into the sky.

Her horse squealed, rearing so abruptly that it fell, knocking the breath out of Isobelle as

she tumbled from the saddle.

Isobelle scrambled back to her feet as its hoofbeats disappeared back through the forest.

Then Achilles was behind her, whickering and prancing, pawing at the stones and sending up clouds of dirt and dust. Instead

of running away from the destruction, he had run toward it, his warhorse breeding holding true.

Isobelle stared at him, at his empty saddle.

“Where’s Gwen?” she cried, her voice hoarse.

“Achilles, where...”

The horse ignored her, half rearing and driving his hooves against a splintered beam from the mine entrance.

For one long

moment Isobelle stood motionless as the terrible truth wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed .

Gwen was in there.

Isobelle threw herself down amid the rubble, grabbing at a chunk of rock and trying to toss it to one side, but the damned

thing was so heavy she nearly went flying instead.

With a cry of frustration, she tried again, every muscle straining as she turned it end over end, gasping for breath.

The rock tumbled down the slope and she began digging at the rubble with her bare hands, working frantically by moonlight.

Achilles paced and snorted beside her, whinnying his agitation.

“Gwen!” Isobelle shouted, shoving aside chunks of rock and broken timbers, then pausing to listen as she called again.

“Gwen,

can you hear me?”

Silence.

The moonlight had turned the green skirts of her dress a silvery white, and as she grabbed a handful of fabric to shove it

out of the way, her bleeding fingers left a black handprint behind, color stolen by the darkness.

“Gwen,” she whispered, letting the tears stream down her cheeks now, grabbing another rock and tossing it clear.

“Gwen, don’t

you dare. Gwen, please . This isn’t how stories end.”

And then suddenly, gasping for air, her pale face smeared with dirt, there was Gwen.

Beautifully, brilliantly alive Gwen, who was reaching up with one gauntleted hand to shove the splintered remains of a timber beam to one side.

“Isobelle?” she croaked hoarsely, squinting at her as though she was quite sure Isobelle would dissolve into a beam of moonlight,

even as she began to haul herself up through the hole that Isobelle had so painstakingly made.

“Really?”

“Really,” Isobelle managed, somewhat laughing and mostly crying, grabbing Gwen under the arms when her hips got stuck, and

pulling .

Gwen scrambled and kicked, and then came free.

They collapsed, clinging to each other.

“Isobelle,” Gwen whispered, as Isobelle tried to wrap herself around the other girl, only to find that armor was extremely effective at preventing embraces.

“Isobelle, I’m sorry. You were right. We absolutely should have run away to France.”

Isobelle’s tears began all over again, a sob shaking her body.

“No, Gwen, I was wrong. I’m so sorry. I tried to stop you being

who you are, I tried to make you fit into their mold, and I—”

Gwen’s lips found hers, and though the kiss tasted like earth and salt, Isobelle wanted it to last forever.

But far too soon,

Gwen was drawing back.

“There’s no time,” she gasped.

“I don’t know if you saw, but...”

Isobelle’s eyes widened.

“The dragon!” She let go of Gwen instantly, and they both rolled away from each other, coming up

on all fours and rising to their knees to look for the great beast. It had flown out over the forest in a wide circle, but

it was clawing its way through the air back toward them now, one wing shredded.

And it was making a noise that made Isobelle freeze inside—that made her want to flatten herself to the ground or run away

to hide in the nearest hole.

It was bellowing its fury, the low, rough roar of its voice overlaid with a high screech that

made her hair stand on end.

“Gwen, I’m back where I started,” Isobelle managed.

“We should run away.”

Gwen gently took her hand.

“I can’t,” she said softly.

“I know,” Isobelle said, and her tears were falling again, but she made no effort to stop them.

Some things deserved to be

cried over.

“I know.”

“I think I could kill it, if only I could get near it without looking it in the eye,” Gwen said, tracking the creature as

it came closer.

“It has some sort of hypnotic power, an ability to paralyze—I broke through it before, but I don’t know if

I can do it again, especially while I’m trying to fight the thing. I just need one clear moment to strike.”

Isobelle wrenched her gaze away from the dragon and settled it on Gwen.

“One moment?”

Gwen nodded slowly.

Isobelle gathered her courage around her like her own suit of armor.

“I can make that happen.”

Gwen’s gaze snapped across to her.

“You can distract it?”

“I can give you your moment.”

“You’re sure?” There was such a tangle in Gwen’s familiar gaze—hope, worry, a dazed understanding that they were talking about

fighting a dragon .

“I promise,” said Isobelle.

Gwen hesitated, her fear obvious in her eyes—and then nodded.

“All right.”

Isobelle knew time was of the essence, but she couldn’t help kissing Gwen again quickly.

The men back at the castle would

have sent her on her way.

They would have insisted she hide somewhere safe.

It never would have occurred to them—they never

could have imagined —that she could help.

But Gwen simply took her at her word.

With her life on the line, Gwen trusted her to be there.

The dragon landed in the woods that stood between the village and the fields beyond, thudding down with a great cracking of

smashed and splintered trees and another scream of rage.

Isobelle and Gwen broke apart.

Gwen sheathed her sword with a scrape of steel, reached for Achilles’s reins, and swung up

into the saddle in one fluid movement.

“Isobelle...”

“Go!” Isobelle shouted.

“When the moment comes, I’ll be there!”

Gwen gazed down at her from atop her warhorse, the words that hung between them shimmering like a skyful of stars.

All the things they wanted to say but hadn’t time for.

All the things they didn’t need to say at all.

For an instant, Isobelle pictured the smith’s daughter she’d first seen at the market, their eyes meeting across a table full

of horseshoes.

How had they ended up here?

And then Gwen twitched Achilles’s reins, turning him toward the great beast. She leaned down to pull the spear from his saddle,

touched her heels to his flanks, and, as brave as his rider, he launched himself forward.

Her spear at the ready, her black hair streaming behind her, the moonlight gleaming off her armor, she looked like she’d ridden

straight out of legend.

She was magnificent .

And she was so much more than a knight. She was a hero.