Astrid looks up from her grimoire to find an axe swinging directly for her head.

It’s been six years since someone tried to kill her, yet her reflexes are still sharp; she throws herself sideways and spins to face her attacker, just as the blade sinks into the spruce tree—right where her neck had been a moment ago.

She staggers back, twisting her ankle when her boot snags on the uneven forest floor, and swallows the yell that creeps up her throat.

The assassin yanks at the hatchet, now firmly stuck in the trunk, while Astrid tries to figure out what the Hel to do. If she had her vials, she’d melt his skin off with a potion, but her vials are in her pack and her pack is currently at the foot of the very tree he’s just pulled his hatchet from. He notices where her attention lies. Not taking his eyes off Astrid, he picks up her pack and tosses it into the frostbitten undergrowth.

Well, shit. There goes her best chance of killing him.

She drops her book in the snow, as much as it pains her to do so. She’ll need both hands for this.

Wind bites at her cheeks as she watches him, waiting to see what he’ll do. He’s not tried to use magic, so perhaps he has no magic to wield. Bloodless, then. He’s got at least five inches on her and he’s bulky with muscle, but she’s trained since she could walk. On a good day, she reckons she could take him, but with her ankle . . . She tests her weight on it, wondering whether she should run instead, but it almost crumples beneath her. Running is out of the question.

He lunges and she flings a hand out, fingers splayed. Panic flares in his eyes, barely visible through his mask, and she feels a fleeting satisfaction when he hesitates. A man without magic has no hope of besting a witch. Usually, anyway.

Before doubt can overwhelm her, before any traitorous thoughts can puncture her courage, she mutters a prayer to Sqaõi and casts the first spell that comes to mind. The spell that still haunts her.

“Forsvare!”