When the catapults fall silent, Voyne can only assume they have exhausted their munitions. But it has been enough.

The attack on the gates never comes.

Etrebia has been held at bay.

Tears burn Voyne’s eyes. There is no hope of any repeat performance, not without resupply, but the Priory has done the impossible. She can only hope that it breaks Etrebia’s will; that in the morning, they will look out and see the camp pulling up stakes, retreating. It is what she would do. Take the measure of their new opponent, and return again when ready.

“My gambles do work,” her king says, and she feels his hand settle briefly on her scalp. Her skin crawls, but she remains still, because—he is right. He must be right. “Now I only wait on you to help me feed our people.”

She tries not to let her relief sour. Hopefully, there will be no need of his madwoman; they can discuss in the morning.

For now, there is work to be done; in the absence of impacts and the crumbling of stone, she can hear crying. Screaming. People have been hurt, likely killed. “I must go to them,” she says. She half expects him to stop her, but he lets her go. Down the stairs once more, down to the yard, where Ser Leodegardis, Ser Galleren, all the rest, have gone to work.

Torches flare to life. There is far more destruction than she anticipated. Stone to move, wounded to tend to. But it could have been far worse, and her brain feels cooler as she gets to work. As she does what she was built to do.

They have been working side by side, hand in hand, for no more than fifteen minutes when Voyne sees movement to her left. Quick and fleeting, nothing more than a shadow. Something falling, she thinks, though it makes no noise.

“Is that Phosyne?” Leodegardis says, startled. Voyne’s blood runs cold, then hot, and she shakes her head.

“Leave her.” She doesn’t have time to care about the madwoman, her bizarre “logic” or her heresy.

“She’s running,” somebody else says, and Voyne snarls and pulls away from their efforts. Damn the witch’s chaotic nature. And damn Cardimir for making Phosyne her problem. There, in the gloom, a flash of movement, Phosyne’s pale face; her dark robes blend into the shadows. She is running, and full tilt.

“Go,” Leodegardis murmurs, and she can’t tell if he’s entreating her to rush after his pet, or warning her that she must follow Cardimir’s orders, even when they are foolish.

The sooner she has penned Phosyne up, the sooner she can attend to those who really need her.

She follows.