The first iron-thing hit Dominic like a decision.
It came on two legs and too many edges, all of them humming with the Spire’s thin song. He met it with a cut that should have split a boar—and his blade shivered as if embarrassed. Sparks flared. The thing didn’t bleed. It sang.
“Keep them off the captives!” Lena shouted.
Six freed farmers stumbled for the ditch, wrists still glowing where the silver cords had bitten. Kest and two Unsung hauled them toward the roots, cutting gags with knives meant for bread. Lark planted his feet on the berm, sling already whirring. The first stone snapped an iron-thing in the eye slit; the hum faltered, recalibrated, hated him for being accurate.
Kael laughed, a slick, vicious sound, and dragged one of the creatures half a pace backward by its own shad
