All Darkhaven was buzzing about the tournament. Lord Whimsitt had hosted jousts before, but never on such a scale as this—where in the past there’d be maybe six knights in competition, now there were dozens upon dozens, drawn by the prestige and pageantry of the Tournament of Dragonslayers.

There were so many knights angling to compete, in fact, that the first week of matches didn’t even count toward the final tournament brackets, instead serving only to separate the wheat from the chaff. If an up-and-coming young knight wanted to compete against the established favorites, he had to first qualify for the opening round by jousting his way into it.

Which meant week one was an absolute bloodbath. Sometimes literally. Young, untested knights getting knocked flat in one charge, while the favorites of the tournament barely broke a sweat—with only the occasional surprise upset. Still, the crowds flocked to the lists, because what better way to pass a beautiful late summer’s day than by watching unspeakable violence unfolding before you for your entertainment? Plus, there were snacks.

Gwen stood in the changing tent, willing herself to move. The hum of the spectators was like nothing she’d ever heard before, vibrating in every fiber of her being. The crowd was like a living creature—like one of the ancient dragons, demanding blood sacrifices to be kept at bay.

She’d snuck into the changing tent an hour ahead of time, making a few trips to carry her armor and her sword.

It had taken her months to get each piece exactly right, requiring her to work between commissions, when her father was asleep. Countless hours in the heat of the smithy, sleepless nights spent designing and planning, a whole host of new calluses and burns covering her hands and arms. The hardest she’d ever worked in her life for anything, and Gwen had begun running her father’s smithy when she was thirteen.

But now that it came time to don the armor and emerge in public as a knight, she found herself rooted to the spot.

Something happening in the lists made the crowd erupt into a roar, quickly tapering off into a groan. Someone must have been badly injured to elicit such a universal visceral response.

Outside the tent, Achilles whickered a comment on the crowd. The sound unfroze Gwen enough for her to turn her head and call out to him where he waited, already wearing his armor, just behind her tent. “Hang in there,” she murmured to him—or to herself. “We can do this.”

Not for the first time, a snide voice in her head demanded to know why she was doing this. Sneaking into the qualifying round for one ride, only to vanish again afterward, win or lose, would gain her nothing. And it risked everything—disgrace, imprisonment, even terrible injury or death. Or, worse, her father finding out.