His first instinct is to clamp down on his own control of the construct, as if it were a fierce corpse on the verge of breaking ranks. No; it is safe, he tells himself sternly. It is only Harrow, and it is only a single bony arm.

As effortful as activating the talisman, he lets his grip on the arm slip, fraction by fraction. The glowing characters along its surface flicker and dim like lanterns in a breeze.