Gwen went still, her mind filling with the image of that blue-eyed girl with the impish smile from the market a few days ago. Her interest as she inspected the horseshoes. The knowing glint in her gaze as she talked about Gwen’s father’s wares. Her laugh. Her . . . her momentum as she just sailed in, doing exactly as she pleased, taking charge of everyone around her.

Gwen didn’t hear anything else the knights next door said. Something red-hot had filled her, rising up from her very bones to inhabit her muscles and her skin and animate her at last. This time, she didn’t hesitate, strapping on each piece of armor in turn, letting that red-hot fury soak through the cold metal as it warmed to her body.

The next thing she heard, as she threw back the tent flap and reached for Achilles’s reins with one armored hand, was the herald standing on his platform by the lists.

“Next to compete in the qualifying round of the jousting tournament is newcomer Sir Gawain of Toussaint, against Darkhaven’s own Sir Evonwald!”

Gwen barely registered the cheers of the crowd—Evonwald was a local favorite, for all he was starting to get up there in years. Her field of vision through the slit in her visor was limited, but she swung her head around until she could see the raised platform where Lord Whimsitt presided over the tournament—and where the symbolic dragon sacrifice would sit, watching helplessly as her fate unfolded.

She was there. Blond hair perfectly styled, a dress this time of peacock blue to match her eyes, coolly watching proceedings. Holding a snack of some kind, surrounded by her noblewomen friends, and managing not to look like all this was building up to the absolute end of her life.

Gwen had expected to be so consumed by nerves that she’d barely be able to ride. Instead, she swung up into Achilles’s saddle as if her armor weighed nothing at all and accepted a lance from one of the tournament lance boys. She barely noticed riding up to the start of the lists, barely noticed fitting the end of the lance into the platform on her stirrup.

All her life she’d waited for this moment—and now all she could feel was a fury that had built into a white-hot torrent.

At the other end of the lists was Sir Evonwald on his horse, raising his hand to gesture to the crowd, accompanied by a resounding—if a bit stale—cheer in response. Then he turned toward Gwen.

“Sir Evonwald, ready?” the herald cried.

Evonwald slammed his visor down and wheeled his horse around with a flourish.

“Sir Gawain, ready?”

Yes. Bring it on.

Chapter Four
Sir Gawain’s not done yet . . . just watch