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I squeezed my eyes shut, snatched the compact axe affixed to my calf, and threw it as roughly as I could. I peeked through one eye just as it struck the sword, blowing it out of the man’s hand.

My gaze leapt between the hinges on my leg, my fingers, and the hatchet, which had landed a few feet behind him. It worked. It flew. I’d tested the weapon before, but not while in mortal danger. It really, really worked!

I squealed, stomping my giddy feet on the ground—then sobered. The noble stared at me, the sword on the grass beside him. His wrinkled forehead suggested he didn’t make a habit of disguising his reactions, his thoughts scribbled across his face.

Who sized a hatchet that short? And what such weapon, especially when thrown by a person with no apparent fighting skills, was robust enough to best a sword?

Yet my little piece had just punted the shit out of one. Right from his grip.

He swiped his blade, straightened, and aimed it at me again.

Punk swooped in circles. The orange razor-cut atop her head bristled, which meant she was stressing. By now, I would have expected her to distract the stranger, to peck him away from me, maybe chip all that blue from his eye sockets.

Yet something kept the bird from acting. Something cleaved her loyalty in half.

My butt hurt from the fall, though a quick jut of my hips reassured me that none of my sides had cracked.

The stranger’s eyes followed the motions. That look hewed its way into me, into a tiny depression located in my chest.

I scooted backward. He stared at me as if I were a novelty.

A breeze tangled the branches, causing a great big shiver through the trees, maize-colored leaves falling and scattering around us. The girl that I’d perfected over the years did not buckle and shrink. If I couldn’t whip her up against this falcon doppelganger, I had no chance at the castle, with its hundreds of guards.

“I’m not a witch,” I repeated. “I’m not a puppet.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Who the fuck do think you are?”

He slit his eyes. “Someone should cut out your tongue.”

“It won’t help. I have a spare.”

“And I have a sword,” he replied, jabbing it at me.

I gave him a fake smile. “And what miserable sod did you steal it from?”

Raising a quilled brow, the young man lifted the back of his cloak, exposing a mahogany and gold crest of leaves. The symbol had been embroidered into the fabric.

Oh. That’s who the fuck he was. That’s why Punk hadn’t lifted a feather to him.

The moon embossed his hair and the sculpted spread of his body. Recognition hit me: the stranger from the courtyard this morning, one of the knights that had appeared from the training yard. Although I hadn’t seen his face, it was him. Definitely him.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to remember me.

The expensive layers of cloth bespoke of a highborn. However, if he’d been suited in armor or chain, gripping a damn shield, or at least wearing the standard colored cloak, I might have gotten a hint.

Knights of Autumn wore claret and chestnut mantles. But not this chap. Other than the fancy embellishments and swords—worthy of a typical nobleman—his ensemble had flown over my head. Also, he’d apparently traveled here on that horse I’d seen earlier, probably a knight’s ride, some breed of warhorse. If I’d known anything beyond the minimum about the equine world, that animal would have given this man away, too.

Was there any chance that the black, gold, and mahogany deemed him a lower knight or sentinel?

Maybe? Please?

“Aire, First Knight of Mista.” He cocked his head, giving me a superior look. “And you are...?”

Dammit. “I’m just passing through.”

“You are merely passing through with an axe?”