“But before we could decide which one of us would have to brave it,” Bertin continued softly, “the dragon dropped from the sky, crashing down into the clearing, and lunging for Ranulf Turner. He hadn’t even time to cry out before his head was halfway down its gullet.”

The twinkle in his eye was gone now, and his voice lower, his gaze set somewhere long ago.

Isobelle lost all sense of where she was as the flames crackled before him, painting him the same hue as the great corroded bronze beast of his story, a dragon with foul, acrid breath and fire dripping from its mouth. She cried out and recoiled with everyone else as one by one, the man’s companions fell, crushed by a whip of its tail or torn apart by its great jaws.

Isobelle dragged her gaze away, glancing at Gwen beside her with a flash of a question, lips parting, though she hardly knew what she wanted to ask.

Gwen caught her eye, her own face grave—but she squeezed Isobelle’s hand, a comforting gesture.

If Bertin’s story were true, surely someone at the castle would have known of such a tragedy. Their descendants would remember. And they’d have spoken of it, wouldn’t they?

“There we were,” Bertin said, his gaze distant. “Only three of us left. Me, Elgrin, and Old Gregor pinned beneath a log, his leg broken clean in two.”

A child’s voice piped up, asking exactly what Isobelle was thinking. “What did you do, Bertin?”

The old man came back to himself and nodded gravely at the little girl who’d spoken. “We shared a long look, Elgrin and I. We always knew each other’s minds, and I knew what he planned to do. He took off toward the river, spraying arrows all the while, to turn the beast his way. At first, I thought he’d failed. Its great gaze held me, froze me in place—I couldn’t remember who I was or why I was there. I can still remember those great golden eyes, full of malice.”

His voice was dying away now, and Isobelle was leaning forward with everyone else, clutching Gwen’s hand tightly.

“And then one of Elgrin’s arrows pierced its eye, and the spell was broken. I could move, and as it roared and turned to find him with the eye that could still see, I charged at it with my axe. The beast’s hide was so thick I barely scratched its neck with my first swing. The great head started back toward me as I swung again. And as I swung a third time, liquid agony spilled down on my head.”

He turned his face again, allowing the firelight to land on the scarred flesh there, and Isobelle lifted her own hand, touching the smooth skin of her cheek.