Shell darted in front of her, his spear held high. He struck out at the first guard, and the next, keeping them at bay.

Nisong raised her cudgel. “To me!” she called down the muddy street. How long would it take her other constructs to get to her?

Eight more guards poured out of the house. They bowled over Shell as though he were a sapling. He blocked two more strikes and then went down, trampled beneath their feet.

Nisong breathed in sharply, tasting smoke at the back of her throat. One step forward and she took a guard unawares, slamming her cudgel into the side of his head. She heard the satisfying crack of his skull. Blood sprayed, warm, across her lips. Cold mud squelched beneath her feet.

Leaf and Coral stepped to her sides. Grass hefted the torch in her hand and threw it inside the house. The furniture in the entryway was made of woven reeds; it caught easily.

Clever Grass, Nisong thought approvingly.

The fire distracted the guards. Leaf was slight but fair with a sword. He knew how to turn events to his advantage. He sliced at the throat of one of the guards as she whipped her head toward the flames. She went down in a bloody heap. Six more guards left.

Coral couldn’t fight, but the guards didn’t know that. She held two wicked-looking knives and stood like she knew how to use them, her jaw set. The six of them circled, looking for openings.

“Your governor is breathing in smoke,” Coral said. “He’ll die if you don’t help him.”

They hesitated. Only one guard pressed in to attack, and Nisong fended him off easily. She heard a growl from behind her.

War constructs surged around them, flanking the six guards and pushing them back, snapping at their legs and arms.

Shell.

Nisong rushed to his side, shoving past the furred hides of war constructs. He lay in a bloody heap near the palace door, limbs caked in dirt. For a moment, their gazes met. She waited for him to groan, to push himself to his feet and lament his broken spear.

And then she realized: he was not blinking.

The mud soaked into the knees of her pants. She was kneeling, taking his cold hand in hers. He’d been the first one to share memories of a past life with her, though he’d said they were like a dream. Ginger. A fire. A man and woman and a child that he’d loved. She had memories of a life before too, but in this life, Shell was family. He’d taken point every time they’d disembarked on a new island, his back straight and spear held at the ready. And he’d died the same way. Around her, the war constructs tore at the guards. The men and women screamed, the constructs snarled and Nisong wondered if she, a made thing, could weep.