For oh, reader—you didn’t think she came alone, did you?

One by one, they come from beneath the trees, women bearing torches of their own. One by one they kneel, hearts thumping and skin crawling, to jam their torches into the hard earth and strike their flints. The sparks fly, catching and blazing to life in bursts of orange and gold—distant lighthouses marking the shoreline in a great ring around the two combatants.

There is Hilde, fierce as the Viking warriors that lurk deep in her blood, screaming her defiance as she grabs for her flaming brand, and there is Jane, white with fear but never wavering, raising her torch before her like a shield, trembling but holding fast.

There is Sylvie, her own anger burning as bright as her flame, thrusting it up toward the sky. Braver than the man trying to claim her for his own, and made of stronger stuff.

Olivia is there, deadly and determined, nothing of the demure maid about her now as she lifts her torch skyward and faces the creature that would kill the ones she is here to protect.

There is Madame Dupont, her face set, her torch in one hand and her sword in the other, striding toward the danger from which she once ran. Watch as she reclaims the part of herself she thought it was too late to find again.

And they are not the only ones who have come.

Now we see Delia the hedge witch, her coven arrayed to either side, curving around the arc of the great circle the women have formed. With them stand the women of Aberfarthing, returned to their burned and broken home, pushing past their terror to stand in support of the one champion who rode out for them. Some weep as they raise their torches. Some are gaunt with grief, or diamond-hard with anger. None of them waver.

And there is Isobelle, their general, who has placed each of them just so. Who has rallied them and brought them together, and who raises her voice now, bellowing with a roar equal to the dragon’s. “Forward!”

This is the oldest and the wiliest of the dragons—the one that has outlived all its fellows. The beast that has seen off the knights who went before, who took one of its deadly eyes, but fell before its baleful stare.

This creature could not be defeated with bravery alone.

But perhaps with unity . . .

As one, the women walk toward it, their hearts trying to leap free of their chests, their hands trembling, their faces set.

This is what it will take to defeat this last, great dragon. This is why it has never been done, until now.

This, reader, is women’s work.