“Unbelieeevable,” Sir Puppydog replied fervently. “She may well be the hottest girl I’ve ever seen. What I wouldn’t give to have a crack at her.”

“So all that bullshit about honor and glory was just that, huh?” Sir Sickly had recovered enough to snap at his companion. “You’re just in it for dibs on the hot girl?”

“Why not both?” Sir Puppydog retorted cheerfully.

Gwen was torn between being put off by their conversation and being fascinated by this glimpse into the way they talked when they thought there weren’t any women in earshot.

She’d half forgotten that one of the many favors bestowed upon the winner of the tournament was the opportunity to marry one of the land’s most sought-after bachelorettes, chosen by some arcane process behind the scenes. Symbolically, she was the dragon sacrifice being offered up to appease one of the ancient beasts. A few hundred years ago, she’d have been handed over to a dragon to be gobbled up in a ritual believed to keep the dragons from attacking the countryside.

Now, she was being offered to whichever knight won the tournament, one object among many in the prize pot, her whole life determined by the flick of a wrist in a bloody sporting event.

Gwen wasn’t sure the poor girl wouldn’t have been better off with the dragon.

“I think I know the one you’re talking about,” Sir Know-It-all was saying. “Isn’t she a bit . . . forgive me for saying so, but a bit stupid?”

Laughter. “That seems like a good thing to me,” replied Sir Puppydog.

Gwen felt the muscles in her jaw contract, something stirring deep inside her body.

“Seriously, though.” Sir Puppydog wasn’t done. “So. Fucking. Hot. Tournament or no, I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.”

“You and every other guy here,” drawled Sir Know-It-All.

“They can have her, just so long as I get there first.” Sir Puppydog’s tone was tense.

There was a roaring sound rising in Gwen’s ears—she longed for something to hold on to, to lean against, something for support. Bad enough the poor girl was being married off to whoever won the tournament—but to be treated like this, ogled and hunted and slobbered over like a piece of meat?

Gwen wasn’t used to letting anger win. She ignored it most of the time, shoving it away into some dark, distant recess of her mind, because anger didn’t matter. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t let her change anything about herself, her life, the world around her.

But just now, the anger wouldn’t let her push it away.

“What’s her name again?” Sir Sickly asked, his voice sounding dim and muffled through the rushing in Gwen’s ears.

“She’s a fixture here—Isobelle, I think. The super-hot blonde. Lady Isobelle, yeah.”