No time to debate ethics. Nisong gathered the last fourteen shards, cleaning and carving them as quickly as her shaking hands would allow. She thought the lettering was still accurate enough to work. There was only one way to find out.

Outside, she heard a crack. Lightning? But there’d been no flash. The gates – they must have found something to batter them with. The soldiers could climb the walls, but she supposed they didn’t know what was waiting on the other side – not for sure.

“Everyone to the gates, including the prisoners,” she said. “Now.”

Constructs were better than people this way. They moved quickly to obey – no confusion or questions or hushed whispers.

In the courtyard, the rain hammered at the paving stones. Every footstep seeped moisture into her weathered shoes. Strange, that even now, she could still be irritated at the feeling of cold water between her toes, at the squish of wet fabric. The commands clacked together in her three separate pouches, barely audible above the sound of the storm.

Something pounded again at the gates.

The villagers she’d taken prisoner huddled in a group, hands pressed to wounds, arms wrapped around hurting children. Surely some of the attacking party had family or friends on this isle; surely if it came to it she could use them as hostages. But then the crowd behind the gates roared, and she knew: they would not stop to ask questions or to hear any negotiation attempts.

To them, she was just a monster, mindless and hungry.

The bodies were piled in a corner of the courtyard. Someone, she wasn’t sure who, had gathered juniper to burn with them. A kind gesture, but a waste of time. She darted to the bodies as the din outside the gates rose.

Coral knelt next to her as she worked. “They’ll breach soon.”

“Get a weapon.” She took Coral’s arm, guiding her toward the palace. “Keep yourself safe.”

Frond stepped away from the constructs lined up by the gate, knife in hand. He still held the carving he’d been working on – a bird in flight, the feathers almost complete. He looked at it as though he’d forgotten he held it, and then knelt to set it on the ground. “I’ll be your weapon,” he said. “Someone should protect you while you work.”

She wouldn’t have chosen Frond, but there wasn’t time to assemble constructs to guard her. And would it even make a difference once the soldiers broke in past the gates? Frond was a carver, not a fighter. He was short, his hair constantly in his eyes, his gaze always distant. He didn’t belong on a battlefield; she’d dragged him on to one. She would have chosen Shell, who was at least competent with a spear.

But Shell was dead.