And yet, the only thought that had lingered in her mind when the pink-garbed Lady Isobelle had tossed fifteen shillings her way was that it would buy her entry into the qualifiers.

She could ride, just once, and prove to herself that she was made of something as strong as any of them. That if only the world were different, she could’ve been a knight.

But all that would require her to actually put on her damned armor.

Gwen swallowed, shutting her eyes.

“Oh daaaang,” came a slightly muffled voice from the next tent over. “Did you see Darby? He’s got splinters sticking out of his leg as thick as a dick.”

Gwen froze, listening.

“Um, that’s a massive nope from me,” came a second voice, sounding slightly ill.

Laughter, and the reply: “Dude, what kind of knight feels faint at even the mention of blood? You’re a hundred percent in the wrong place.”

“He does have a point, you know,” came a third voice.

There were three of them, young knights gathered in one of the nearby changing tents, discussing the events taking place out in the lists. Despite her increasing sense of urgency, Gwen found herself tilting her head, leaning closer to the fabric wall of her own tent in order to listen.

“I’m only here because my dad would totally murder me if I backed out.” The ill-sounding knight gave a drawn-out sigh. “To be honest I’m hoping I can just, like, fall off my horse or something before the other guy’s lance hits. Sell it like I got knocked out honorably, you know?”

One of the other men laughed, though the sound of it was rueful. “I can’t believe you don’t want to try to win. It’s the Tournament of Dragonslayers, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.” His enthusiasm was puppy-dog-like. If puppies were also bloodthirsty and talked about dick splinters.

“Technically,” the third guy interjected, “it’s a once-every-four-years opportunity if you’re willing to travel. It’s just never been here in Darkhaven before.” He had a somewhat nasal tone that gave everything he said a rather pedantic air—like he knew everything, and wanted to make sure all those around him knew he knew everything.

“Not if you get split open and murdered by splinters your first ride,” countered the one with the puppy-dog enthusiasm.

“Uhhh,” said Sir Sickly.

“Put your head between your legs,” suggested Sir Puppydog, his tone somewhat callous. “Seriously, though. You’ve got to at least try.”

“Easy for you to say, already through to the tournament proper.” Sir Know-It-All sounded tense. “Harder to admit you care when you might not even get to compete.”

“Yeah, but the Dragonslayer tournament. Set aside the prestige, the glory, the prize treasure at the end. Have you seen the girl they’ve got as the sacrifice this year?”

A pause, and then Sir Know-It-All said slowly, “That good?”