Some things you can never leave behind. They don't belong to the past. They belong to you.

I stare at her. I've always known that it's impossible to argue with Belinda, not because she's particularly good at it, but because she's so bad at it- that there is no common ground to work from. She simply sees the world she wants to see it and no amount of logic can change her mind.

I was woefully ignorant in the social graces. I was being raised, after all, by Pellinore Warthrop.

There was, like, this black hole where the world used to be, and we were both falling toward it. What could we hold on to?

When you look death in the eye and death blinks first, nothing seems impossible.

What doesn't kill us sharpens us. Hardens us. Schools us. You're beating plowshares into swords, Vosch. You are remaking us. We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.

A moment comes in war when the last line must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold dear from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost. His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield. With a cry only he could hear, the hunter turned. And ran.