Gwen felt herself take a single, staggering step back. Her vision swam and her head rang the way it did after an opponent got in a good hit, only there was no stiff armor supporting her, no horse beneath her to keep her upright. And when her vision cleared, it was no enemy’s visor in front of her eyes, but Isobelle’s face.

Isobelle drew a breath, stricken and pale, remorse writ clearly in her expression.

Gwen spoke first. “You’re wrong,” she managed in a low, even voice. “I am better than they are. And tomorrow I’m going to prove it.”

She slipped past Isobelle, twisting to avoid the hand that reached out to her, and threw herself back into the hot, loud chaos of the ballroom, heading for the doors. She thought she felt a pair of intense blue eyes tracking her as she lost herself in the crowd, but she didn’t look back. Perhaps she had only dreamed it.

Interstitial

Let’s pause for a moment here.

Lift your head and flip through the pages—there are still eighty to go. We’re still ten chapters from the end, and yet this is the eve of the great battle, isn’t it? This, right here, is the grand showdown that will determine whether likeable but not-for-her Sir Orson will take Isobelle as his prize, or whether Gwen will save Isobelle from a fate worse than . . . well, worse than a lot of things, anyway.

Surely there are only two ways the story could proceed from here: Gwen wins and Isobelle is saved. Or Gwen loses, Sir Orson sweeps the tournament, and both Gwen’s and Isobelle’s dreams are shattered.

There is, perhaps, a third option, where Gwen and Isobelle both swallow their pride and somehow flee together before the tournament even begins, but that feels a little unrealistic given the style with which they both just imploded.

Anyone who has ever loved a good story knows to be wary when it seems like the climax is approaching but the storyteller is just getting settled in. It suggests that the storyteller is about to pull the metaphorical rug out from under your metaphorical feet—a terrible, unfair manipulation by all accounts. Unforgiveable, really, what said storyteller’s about to do. For all intents and purposes: she is about to lie to you.

So, as the sun peeps over the forest bordering Darkhaven town and dawn begins to trickle across the hills and dales and picturesque thatched roofs, down to the tournament grounds already beginning to fill with fans, let us ponder a single question:

Given a choice between winning, losing, or running away . . . what could possibly happen that would be worse than all three of those fates?

Chapter Forty-One
The crowd went wild