The tapestries in the ballroom had been covered in war banners, the coats of arms of the great houses of the county of Darkhaven, and those of all the visiting knights and nobles, strung up on display. The center of the room was dominated by a table that must have been brought through the doorway in pieces, and which was now covered in maps of the region. The grand organ was hidden behind a crowd of bodies; every knight, squire, and nobleman who could find a place had crammed into the room, craning their necks to see what was under discussion.

Isobelle stormed past the man at the door, who belatedly shouted her name after her, though it was unclear whether he was trying to stop her or announce her.

“Lady Isobelle of Avington!”

Lord Whimsitt looked up from the head of the table. “Ah, Lady Isobelle,” he said genially, though there was a note of steel beneath his purr that she couldn’t miss. “There you are. Excellent timing, we can cross another thing off our list.”

Isobelle ignored that, wasting only a moment to catch her breath. “What has happened to Gwen?” she asked, once she knew her voice wouldn’t shake.

“Gwen?”

“Sir Gawain.”

A sound traveled around the room when she said Sir Gawain. A whisper of anger from those Gwen had unseated. From those who felt she’d unseated them, just by existing.

“The girl is in jail,” said Whimsitt, with a flick of his fingers.

“She’s not,” Isobelle shot back.

“She’s escaped? Then she will be in the jail again, as soon as we have recaptured her,” he snapped.

It was at that moment—as though her brain had been waiting for the chance to present what it had noticed when she had first scanned the room—that Isobelle’s gaze lifted from Lord Whimsitt’s red face to the wall behind him.

To the place where the dragonslayer’s spear had once been, and was no more.

Like snow slowly drifting down to settle on her, turning her skin cold and dousing that internal fire with a slow chill, the knowledge came to Isobelle.

Gwen had not run away. Gwen had run toward.

“She’s gone after the dragon,” she breathed.

This time, the sound rippling through the room wasn’t anger, but laughter. Snickers, the low buzz of soft remarks the speakers thought were witty.

“Why are you laughing?” Isobelle snapped. “Why aren’t you chasing down the dragon yourselves?”

It was Sir Ralph who replied. “Because there is no need. It has seen the castle, it has assessed the threat we pose, and it will not likely return. This is not the same place it knew centuries ago, and it is old enough and wise enough to understand that. It would not have come at all, save that the reopening of the mine awakened it.”