When Whimsitt rather tentatively suggested that Gwen be returned to the jail “where she belonged,” the instantaneous uproar from Isobelle, her friends, the Aberfarthing survivors, and more than a few of the knights threatened rather quickly to spill over into violence. Whimsitt had been forced to pardon Gwen for her “trespasses.”

But when Isobelle had pointed out that Gwen ought to be hailed as the victor of the Tournament of Dragonslayers—after all, she had slain a literal dragon—Whimsitt had dug in his heels.

“She is not nobility,” he retorted, face purpling. “And she is a she! And leaving all that aside, she entered the tournament under a false name, with false patents of nobility and lineage. She was never truly, properly entered into the tournament, so she cannot be the victor.”

He would have gone on to hand Isobelle over to Orson, if Orson hadn’t objected. His face set, not daring to look at Gwen at all, he’d simply demanded the tournament be declared a draw, null and void, with no victor at all. The prize money would go back into Isobelle’s dowry, and he would lay no claim to her hand in marriage.

Of course, that meant neither Isobelle nor Gwen had any money of their own to spend anymore. Though they hadn’t spoken about it, Gwen knew it weighed on Isobelle heavily, the knowledge that her wealth was still locked behind an ironclad gate that only marriage, to a man, would unlock for her.

But, for now, she and Isobelle were untouchable. And the name Sir Gwen seemed to be sticking.

The first few times Gwen had heard it, she’d bristled, annoyed that the world had decided to give her a man’s title. But Isobelle had pointed out to her that there weren’t any alternatives. There was no title for a knight who also happened to be a woman, and that by using the title of “Sir,” the people of Darkhaven were, each of them, insisting on calling Gwen a knight even if the law didn’t recognize her as such.

Isobelle gave a little cry of enthusiasm, tugging Gwen’s thoughts back to the present. She slid her hand from Gwen’s arm, took her hand, and dragged her along to a spot where Jane and Hilde were waving their arms to beckon them over.

Isobelle was careful to tug only on Gwen’s left arm. Her right was still in a sling, at Olivia’s insistence. The shoulder was certainly injured again—had probably never healed to begin with, Olivia had pointed out severely—but the burn was far worse than they’d realized that night on the field. Even with the aid of that lurid green ointment Olivia insisted on using, it was healing slowly. Gwen knew she would have a nasty scar there for the rest of her life.