You're afraid of your own anger.

Alone with Giddon again, Bitterblue considered him, rather liking the mud streaks on his face. He looked like a handsome sunken rowboat.

Your horse is named Small. Yes. Mine is named Big. -Fire and Brigan

And what was it about the dark that made her question things she’d never questioned before, in the day.

At least her last words to him had been words of love. But she wished she'd told him just how much she loved him. How much she had to thank him for, how many good things he had done. She hadn't told him nearly enough.

They seemed no closer to the tops of the peaks that rose before them. It was only by looking back, to the forest far below, that she knew they'd climbed.

Everyone was willing to take some small risk to lessen the damage of their ambition and disorder and lawlessness.