Gwen led Isobelle away from the village center and between the fields of Lambton and his neighbor, out to where the trees began. The transition was stark, for the farmers kept the land clear right up to the line of the forest. One moment they were walking through knee-high grass, and the next, they were beneath the ancient canopy of oak and blackthorn and ash. The weight of their age had given Gwen a strange, shivery feeling as a child—as if she were stepping back in time, able to glimpse the ghosts of what these trees might have witnessed centuries ago.

Like dragons.

Isobelle was being uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes focused on where she put her feet. Ahead of them was the creek whose groundwaters fed the village well half a league away, and its whispering chatter rose as they approached, filling the silence between them.

Gwen had grown up listening to Bertin’s stories. She’d always known dragons weren’t far lost to history—when she’d play in these very woods as a child, her parents would warn her to keep one eye on the branches and the other on the undergrowth, just in case. A village doesn’t lose its memories that quickly.

Isobelle, however, had just learned that dragons were real. Not a creature found only in ancient histories, but a flesh and blood monster that had nearly cost old Bertin his life.

They came up on the edge of the creek at one of Gwen’s favorite spots, where a crop of boulders interrupted its flow in a series of babbling, rushing rapids and tiny waterfalls. She began to climb them automatically, but stopped after the first boulder when she realized Isobelle was lagging behind.

Gwen turned, then dropped into a crouch, wishing the moon were not quite so fickle about hiding behind the clouds. Just now, it was difficult to see Isobelle’s face in the darkness.

Then Isobelle spoke. “No one is going to help those women,” she said quietly.

Gwen paused. She’d expected her to burst out with some comment about Bertin’s story, or the difference between the memories kept by castle and village.

Instead, Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze through the gloom. “No one in power is going to listen to those villagers who came asking for help. No one will believe them. I’m still struggling to believe them, and I just met a man whose face was disfigured by dragonsfire.”

The treetops began to whisper against each other, though the air below was still. The clouds over the moon shifted, allowing a wash of pale light to filter through the leaves, casting swaying spirits of silver across Isobelle’s face.