When she pulled back to meet Gwen’s eyes, she could see the other girl was half delirious with exhaustion, with pain—and with victory. Her face glowed in the moonlight.

“It’s—it’s dead, right?” Gwen panted, lips trembling, half trying to twist around to see.

Isobelle’s eyes burned with tears and with the smoke rising from the body of the dragon behind them. “Yes, it’s dead. You did it. It’s over.” She stroked Gwen’s cheeks, her scorched fingertips stinging. Isobelle pressed her lips to Gwen’s temple. “It’s okay, it’s over.”

Gwen shivered, pulling herself in against Isobelle, entirely unashamed to seek the comfort in her touch. “I couldn’t have, without you,” she murmured, her lips against Isobelle’s collarbone. “We did it together. You, and me, and all of them . . . how . . . ?”

Isobelle stroked Gwen’s hair, trying not to look down at the awful burn on Gwen’s arm, which seemed redder and more brutally painful by the moment. “I told them where I was going. I don’t think anyone could have stopped them all from coming, Gwen. You were never alone.”

Gwen mumbled something into her skin. Isobelle caught only a few words, Gwen’s voice quaking too badly from pain and adrenaline. “. . . knew you were out there . . .” was one of the phrases Isobelle heard. “. . . wouldn’t let me . . . I was falling for so long . . . didn’t want to die alone . . .”

Isobelle’s heart squeezed, realizing Gwen was barely conscious, succumbing to the agony of her burned arm. Isobelle raised her head, desperate, about to cry out for help—when she realized the others were already coming toward them, a great circle of women who’d come to help defeat the dragon. Olivia was running, pulling her satchel of supplies off her back, Delia and a couple of the hedge witches on her heels.

The others were there, ready to carry them.

Gwen wasn’t alone, and neither was Isobelle.

They never had been.

Chapter Fifty
Never Sende a Manne to Do a Woman’s Jobbe

The sun rose over Darkhaven town, setting the awnings and tents of Market Day ablaze with color against the brilliant blue morning sky. In the fortnight since the dragon attack on the tournament, rebuilding efforts in the town were well underway. More than one resident had chosen to keep their soot-blackened stonework, anticipating being able to point to a spot for generations to come and claim, “See? This is where the dragonsfire struck.” The thatch roofs all needed replacing, however, and teams from half a dozen nearby villages had come to assist in the effort before the onset of winter.

The forests around Darkhaven were all dressed in their best autumnal finery, and the crisp breeze brought the smells of fallen leaves to the market to mingle with the smells of frying batter, roasting meats, and spiced apples.