“Boom!” shouted Jane, performing a dance of her own invention, whirling in a circle and shaking her hips. “And that was just with a handkerchief! Wait until you see what magic my girl can work with a scarf!”

“Well,” said Sylvie, who was clapping slowly, “this is going to make things very interesting.”

Isobelle couldn’t stop staring. Sir Ralph was being loaded onto a stretcher, so heavy in his armor that the attendants had to pick up one end and drag him along like a cart with no wheels toward the waiting medical team.

Gwen had won.

Gwen had won.

“Isobelle, what are you—” Sylvie’s voice rang out behind her, but the rest of her words were lost to the roar of the crowd.

Isobelle had shoved open the gate to their viewing box and was elbowing her way through the crowd outside. Isobelle was running.

Chapter Thirty
This goes a lot more smoothly in the ballads

Gwen’s head was ringing so badly she could barely see, her dizzy gaze swinging from the doubled vision of her opponent being dragged away in a stretcher, to the box where Isobelle was watching. She could only see a blurry haze of color there, all the girls blending together.

There was a roaring in her ears—sick and confused, she had the electrifying realization that she might be about to pass out. If she did, the physicians would examine her. And the second they removed her helmet . . .

Gwen clenched her fist around her sword, firming her feet against the ground and sucking in a deep, bracing breath, willing herself to stand firm.

Then she realized . . . the roaring in her ears was not the rush of imminent unconsciousness. It was the crowd. They were cheering, screaming, undulating all around her like a single living thing.

Cheering . . . for her.

Gwen staggered one step back, turning in a slow half circle—then thrust her sword skyward, her blood singing.

The crowd went insane.

Dimly, she could hear her own name—or a version of it, the masculine version of it—being chanted, rising over the more indistinct roar of applause and cheers.

Ralph was gone, eliminated from the tournament. He had no claim over Isobelle, not anymore. Elated, her heart pounding, Gwen swung her gaze over toward Isobelle’s box.

She was gone.

Instantly, her elation drained. She let her sword fall, searching again for Isobelle’s green-clad form among her friends. But she could see the others clearly now: Sylvie watching with an air of stony confusion, Jane cheering wildly, Hilde with her hands clasped, leaning out over the rim of the box to get a better look at the knight who had taken the crowd by storm.

Isobelle wasn’t there.

Slowly, mechanically, Gwen raised her arm to slide her sword back into her sheath—and nearly dropped to her knees as a sickening jolt ran up her arm.