Impossible things are really rough to do, you know.

The Stormlight rising from his exposed skin was enough to illuminate the chasm, and it cast shadows on the walls as he ran. Those seemed to become figures, crafted by the bones and branches stretching from the heaps on the ground. Bodies and souls. His movement made the shadows twist, as if turning to regard him.

This is going to take a while. I'm a fantasy author. We have trouble with the concept of brevity.

I want you to go back into the barrack and tell the men to come out after the storm. Tell them to look up at me tied here. Tell them I’ll open my eyes and look back at them, and they’ll know hat I survived.

I'm convinced that responsibility is some kind of psychological disease.

The look of disbelief that ran across the boy's face was somehow more disturbing than the despair it had replaced. This creature had given up hope long ago; he probably begged out of habit rather than expectation.

Breeze turned to look out the window. "You were always the best of us, Sazed," he said quietly. "Because you believed in something.