“Not nervous enough to stop him, alas.” Isobelle sighed. “The tourney will cement his place among the who’s who of the king’s court, and he needed the mining profits to successfully bid to host it this round.”

“It’s not his neck he risks by going up against superstition,” Gwen muttered. “Do you spend much time with him?”

“Thankfully no, but technically he’s my guardian,” Isobelle replied, with a small but heartfelt shudder. “My parents are diplomats, abroad in the service of the king. And that’s how I ended up the sacrifice this year. He didn’t have to ask anyone for permission, and when you put me together with my dowry, we’re quite the prize.”

Gwen felt herself tense, that old ache of helpless anger making it difficult for her to speak—she found herself gazing mutely at Isobelle, hoping at least the other girl would see the outrage and sympathy she didn’t know how to express.

Isobelle caught her eye for a long moment, then gave herself a little shake. “I should have been paying more attention and seen it coming.”

“You shouldn’t have to . . .” But Gwen left her sentence unfinished, because they both knew better.

They’d reached the ballroom, and Isobelle lay a hand on the latch to one of the double-tall doors, flashing Gwen a sidelong look. “We’re a bit early, but we can sneak in and watch the end of the dance lessons.”

Gwen’s steps halted, diverted from her anger, blinking slowly. “Dance lessons? I thought we were going to meet your combat instruct— Wait—”

But Isobelle had already pushed the door open, cheerfully ignoring Gwen’s protests.

That’s beginning to turn into an annoying habit, Gwen thought, though she was too full of pastries and sausages to work up a really good sulk.

She slipped through the crack in the door after Isobelle.

The grand ballroom was a massive space of cream and gold and intricately patterned details. Broad windows with sheer curtains lined either side of the space, allowing diffuse golden light to spill across the inlaid marble floor. The high buttressed ceiling arced up toward the center, from which hung a massive, ornately worked chandelier.

Antique weapons hung at intervals along the walls, decorative and menacing—above the fireplace at one end of the hall was a huge, ancient dragon-slaying spear. A reminder of days gone by, when knights rode out in glorious combat against the now-extinct monsters who threatened their loved ones.

If only that was the challenge ahead of me, thought Gwen rather desperately, hovering on the edge of this room that was the epitome of Isobelle’s world, and so decidedly not Gwen’s. A wave of dread swept through Gwen at the prospect of having to live in this place for the duration of the tournament and keep up the pretense that she belonged here.