If Gwen was going to die, she would do it thinking of Isobelle’s laugh, not the mockery of this monster. She would die picturing her blond hair and blue eyes and her particular way of wrinkling her nose when Gwen said something unexpected. She would die thinking of the look on Isobelle’s face when she came to Gwen’s tent after her defeat of Sir Ralph—the sudden lifting of all her reservations, the joy and yearning and release in those glorious eyes.

Gwen dragged in a breath, chasing away the spots swimming in her vision. She thought of Isobelle’s arms around her neck, of waking in the blackberry thicket with Isobelle’s head on her lap, of the way Isobelle’s fists had uncurled and softened as Gwen held them in hers.

Gwen found she could shift her weight, moving onto the balls of her feet, clawing her way back toward some kind of agency.

She could imagine Isobelle so vividly it was like having her there, standing at Gwen’s side. Gwen could picture her, hands on her hips, eyes wide with alarm. What are you doing? she would cry. Go on—MOVE!

Gwen felt a groan rise up inside her, a sound that burst into an agonized cry by the time it reached her lips and wrenched her body into movement. The dragon blinked once in surprise, and that was all the reprieve Gwen needed to lunge forward, stepping up onto its clawed foot and launching herself upward to swing her sword in a glittering arc toward the only vulnerable part of the dragon she could reach.

The wing membrane tore with a long, satisfying rip like that of a canvas tent, spattering the stone with a fine mist of blood from the delicate capillaries branching out from the creature’s elongated arm. The dragon let out a scream of fury and pain so loud Gwen lost all sense, coming back to herself lying flat on her back. The beast had flung her aside, knocking her helmet loose—Gwen gulped in a breath of air, dizzy. A sluglike wave of liquid flame dribbled from the dragon’s mouth, illuminating the scene in time for Gwen to see its foot come down on her helmet, flattening it as if it were no more substantial than a costume piece of paper and paste.

Roaring again, the dragon crouched, its muscles bunching—Gwen realized what it was going to do an instant before it launched itself into the ceiling of the tunnel and erupted through the stone like a whale breaching the surface of the ocean.