From protoskeletal dust you conjured five full constructs: five constructs only as good as you were, tired and hungry. They scrambled like huge spiders across the counter and went for him. The Saint of Duty shouldered his godd**ned spear. That first time you were absolutely affrighted: a spear, a spear for the offhand. He used the butt of his sword—it would be lying to say that you now regularly called it the pommel—to smash the first construct’s skull to powder. The force was enormous. You tried to prop the skeletons back together from within your net, reknobble the spine, mould it with ash as a second skull’s mandible got flicked off into the stovetop. A third construct was beheaded with the spear, swung through the cervical vertebra—it became a shrapnel of bones—and for the last two, your killer lost patience. He sucked the thanergy from their bones and it felt like a slap to your face. They disappeared into gritty puffs of bone smoke.

Harrow the Ninth - Act Two, Chapter Nineteen