By the time Gwen and Isobelle got back to their suite of rooms, Isobelle’s friends were waiting for her. They swarmed Isobelle the moment she opened the door—even Sylvie seemed to have abandoned her suspicions of “Céline” in favor of spouting questions and speculations about the new sensation that was Sir Gawain.

Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze over Hilde’s shoulder, and an electrifying instant of wordless communication passed between them. Isobelle’s eyes gave a flash of anguish—even she didn’t want her friends right now—and then she was leading them toward her room, promising to tell them everything that had happened between her and Sir Gawain.

“What?” she was squealing—giving a good imitation of her usual mood—as they disappeared. “Of course he had his shirt on, they have to wear padding under all that armor!”

This left Gwen to slip quietly away, shutting the door to her own room with a sigh of relief. Her head was still spinning, though she could no longer tell how much was from being knocked off Achilles, and how much was from the utter shocking bliss of feeling Isobelle throw herself into her arms.

She carefully sank down onto the edge of the bed, and then lay down just as cautiously. She was beginning to figure out which movements hurt the most—anything that shifted her shoulder, or compressed her ribs, or curved her spine beyond a few degrees, or . . .

Yesterday, the catalog of injuries would have had her face down on the floor, despairing about her ability to get back up and do this again in four days, urging Isobelle to just run and try her luck at avoiding marriage in some other country.

But today, the adrenaline of victory was still fresh in her veins. She had actually won the unwinnable—beaten the tournament favorite, saved Isobelle from the worst of the fates awaiting her. All her fears and worries had been for nothing.

For the first time, Gwen could see the rest of the tournament opening up before her, the possibility of winning it all, of proving herself, of showing the world who she really was. After all, even Sir Awesome, the absolute epitome of what a knight should be and look like, had accepted her.

Sort of.

She decided not to tug at that particular thread. Isobelle was content with his word that he would not betray Sir Gawain’s secret and expose Gwen. If he betrayed them both . . . well, that would be a problem for the future.

Because today, Gwen was a goddamn knight.

At some point, Gwen must have fallen asleep, the cheers of the crowd echoing in her ears, and the memory of Isobelle’s lips on hers making her skin tingle—for the next thing she knew, her door was opening with a soft click.