Gwen caught the briefest glimpse of the sky overhead as the dragon burst up through the edge of the mountainside in a shower of house-sized boulders, saw the creature silhouetted for an instant against the pearly white of the waxing moon as it spread its wings—one whole, one torn—before the rocks and stones came showering down again, bringing the darkness with them.

Chapter Forty-Seven
Like she’d ridden straight out of legend

Isobelle’s horse burst out of the edge of the forest in time for her to see the side of the mountain explode, a massive shadow launching itself into the sky. Her horse squealed, rearing so abruptly that it fell, knocking the breath out of Isobelle as she tumbled from the saddle. Isobelle scrambled back to her feet as its hoofbeats disappeared back through the forest.

Then Achilles was behind her, whickering and prancing, pawing at the stones and sending up clouds of dirt and dust. Instead of running away from the destruction, he had run toward it, his warhorse breeding holding true.

Isobelle stared at him, at his empty saddle. “Where’s Gwen?” she cried, her voice hoarse. “Achilles, where . . .”

The horse ignored her, half rearing and driving his hooves against a splintered beam from the mine entrance. For one long moment Isobelle stood motionless as the terrible truth wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed.

Gwen was in there.

Isobelle threw herself down amid the rubble, grabbing at a chunk of rock and trying to toss it to one side, but the damned thing was so heavy she nearly went flying instead.

With a cry of frustration, she tried again, every muscle straining as she turned it end over end, gasping for breath. The rock tumbled down the slope and she began digging at the rubble with her bare hands, working frantically by moonlight. Achilles paced and snorted beside her, whinnying his agitation.

“Gwen!” Isobelle shouted, shoving aside chunks of rock and broken timbers, then pausing to listen as she called again. “Gwen, can you hear me?”

Silence.

The moonlight had turned the green skirts of her dress a silvery white, and as she grabbed a handful of fabric to shove it out of the way, her bleeding fingers left a black handprint behind, color stolen by the darkness.

“Gwen,” she whispered, letting the tears stream down her cheeks now, grabbing another rock and tossing it clear. “Gwen, don’t you dare. Gwen, please. This isn’t how stories end.”

And then suddenly, gasping for air, her pale face smeared with dirt, there was Gwen. Beautifully, brilliantly alive Gwen, who was reaching up with one gauntleted hand to shove the splintered remains of a timber beam to one side.

“Isobelle?” she croaked hoarsely, squinting at her as though she was quite sure Isobelle would dissolve into a beam of moonlight, even as she began to haul herself up through the hole that Isobelle had so painstakingly made. “Really?”