Everything before that was a blur of isolated images and sensations. The sweat trickling down the small of her back to collect in the padding she wore beneath her armor. The thud of Achilles’s hooves beneath her, reverberating through her body like a war drum. The singing of the fury in her blood as the world narrowed to a single spot on her opponent’s shoulder. The infinite stretch of stunned silence after the final blow and crash of an armored man hitting the ground—the collective sound of at least a hundred spectators forgetting to breathe.

Even now, Gwen was only half present. Part of her knew she had arrived at the stable at the edge of the pasture her neighbors let her use—the rest of her was still on her horse, in that arena, floating on a cloud of glory.

She wasn’t the only one buzzing. Achilles was practically dancing as she tried to get his saddle off him and brush out the spots where his own armor had rested. He tossed his head and pranced, snorting his desire to do whatever they’d just done again. Gwen ran a hand down his nose, as steadily as she could for all that her own hands were still shaking.

“That was it, love, we’re done,” she murmured to him, trying not to let her own heartbreak at those words come through in her voice or her touch. “You did beautifully.”

The forge outside the house was cool—unsurprising, though Gwen had entertained the tiniest of hopes that maybe she’d come home to find her father working. Inside, though, there was a cheery fire burning in the hearth, and a stew bubbling away in the cast-iron pot.

She gave herself a bracing mental shake and prayed her father would not see how utterly everything had changed for his daughter.

“Hey, Dad,” she called, hanging her cloak on the iron hook her father had made for her when she was a kid—it was fashioned to look like a knight’s lance, and the blunted end of it was shiny and worn from the touch of her fingers over the years. “Dad?”

“I was weeding the garden,” came his voice from the back door. He walked in, wiping his hands on a rag. “Well?”

Gwen blinked at him. “Well what?”

“You’re going to make me ask? The interview for the internship, girl! Tell me how it went.” Her father gestured her over toward the fire and sank down into his chair. He was a large man, not tall or fat, but barrel-chested, the epitome of a village blacksmith. He’d never worn a big bushy beard like the man in the market—Don’t give sparks an extra place to rest, he’d always said, especially when that spot is an inch from your nose.