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girl-in-the-tower · 4 years

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“Maybe this trophy isn’t real love.”

title: the crown of nangijala (II)

characters: theo yule

quote source: x

summary: Whoever said that ‘the truth shall set you free’ was a damn liar. That was a lesson Theo learned from a young age.

tags: family dynamics, backstory, angst

trigger warning: mentions of miscarriage and blood

There was an old proverb in the Glacier Mountains: “Fig cake in the morning is the sign of good tidings.”

Theo supposed it was not a particularly odd saying in a kingdom which seven hundred years ago relied entirely on foreign import due to its inability to sustain its own agriculture system. Everlasting snow means more than runny noses and thick coats; it also means starvation, pneumonia and a shorter life expectancy. Especially when the country itself had never so much as seen a light sheen of ice since it was founded. But people are resilient. They adapt, they improve and they rely on others in order to stay alive. Or least just until they can figure out that the crazy old lady that had never left her home might be the solution they have been looking for all along. Sure, the state of her house is terrible, but the backyard’s full of life and she can bake a fig cake for herself every morning when most families go without fresh food for months and months on end. So she must be doing something right.

Nevertheless, Theo couldn’t help thinking that it was just a crock of shit. Not the saying, no. That he always understood as the product of a senile mind and the desperation of a people who truly never asked for anything like this impossible situation that’s been thrust upon them due to the machinations of royals far too removed from any semblance of reality. It was the fig cake that specifically bothered him, and only because he had to watch his mother eat one every single morning at breakfast right in front of his father who never failed to remind her to add honey on top so it will become just sweet enough for it to be enjoyable. He hated the way his mother absently nodded as she cut the cake in perfect pieces and served everybody their slice before she handed over the remains to their butler so he could take it to his daughter, who in three months would have given birth to his second grandchild.

It was a ritual that Theo has known his mother to perform every morning, without fail, since the day he was born. It had been something that had lived with him for as long as he could remember, and yet it hadn’t been until now that he truly noticed it.

“Bring this to Line and make sure she eats every last bite. She needs all the blessings she can get.” His mother’s voice, clear and commanding, was a far cry from its usual melancholic and detached tone. He found it childish to admit it, but it startled him every time he saw her like this: distant and regal, as if the state of Line’s pregnancy was a matter that hinged entirely on her goodwill and merciful nature. Did his mother truly have that much power over the lives of others?

Of course not. That’s absurd.

But he still couldn’t help but wonder.

“Poor girl. Dag says that this pregnancy has been extremely hard on her.”

His father had simply nodded as he folded the newspaper he had been reading until now, before handing it to the servant, who disappeared just as quickly as he had arrived. It was a common sight in their house, servants disappearing into thin air like that. Feeling someone kick him under the table, he spared a glance in Astrid’s direction, who immediately pointed at Helge’s now empty chair. For a moment, he wondered if she’d disappeared into thin air, just like the servant, but soon enough he felt a small hand tug at his left pant leg and when he lifted the table cloth just a little he could already spot her golden eyes stare right back at him. She smiled, her missing front teeth a reminder of last week’s tree climbing incident, and held her empty plate out in front of him. Theo suppressed his own oncoming grin and after making sure that neither his mother or father were watching, too preoccupied holding hands and whispering between themselves, he quickly dumped his piece onto the plate offered to him. As soon as he did, Helge was already back in her seat and partaking in the spoils of her victory against parental supervision.

He merely had to glance at Nils and Lukas’ plate to know that they had already relieved their own pieces onto Helge’s plate. Only Astrid, serious and responsible beyond belief, had struggled to finish her own share.

“Helge, are you last to finish your plate again?”

His father’s tone was jovial and affectionate, for Theo knew that Helge was his favorite, even if he had never said this out loud. No, it’s because he had never said it that Theo knew it was true, for his father was just that kind of man who found the truth a difficult and unpleasant subject that must not discussed in polite company. That had been the same lesson he had imparted onto his children as well, not consciously, which would have made it somewhat easier for Theo to hate him for his cowardice, but by the usual means that they had grown accustomed to: silent gazes that said more than words ever could. It sickened him to think just how attuned he has become to his father’s moods, to his way of thinking, that he could easily guess what he was thinking by just observing his shifting expressions.

At that moment, for example, Theo could tell that his father was aware of Helge’s little acts of rebellion. That not only did he tolerate them, but that he also found them amusing. His eyes were sharp and he most certainly immediately noticed the clean forks that he, Lukas and Nils had and that stuck out like a sore thumb next to Astrid and Helge’s. But while he did notice, he chose to keep silent and chuckle as he watched his youngest daughter, her cheeks puffed out from stuffing her mouth with too much cake, give a rapid nod as she turned back to devouring her treat.

Theo knew that his father would never say anything despite knowing what they got up to because it made his mother happy to see them all have a slice of fig cake every morning. His siblings knew this too, which is why they never complained about having to eat the same dessert every single day, and it was also why Helge, the only one among them who actually enjoyed it, never let herself be caught as she picked off everybody else’s slices from under the table. Theo supposed that it was somewhat touching, the concern they all showed towards his mother’s eccentricities, for that was all that it was: a mere superstitious fancy, for not even their mother could stand the taste of fig cake.

»»————-　✼　————-««

Theo often wondered what kind of person his mother had been before he was born.

He wonders if she had always had that slightly melancholic look about her, or if she had always enjoyed drawing pictures of sunsets. Did she always laugh in such a subdued manner? Did she always reach for his father’s hand whenever he leaned in to whisper something in her ear?

Had she always forced herself to eat fig cake each morning before?

No. That she did not do. That came later.

After the child, after the shock, after the blood...

But Theo was getting ahead of himself.

He was once again sitting at his desk in the room that shared its thin walls with his father’s office. He was supposed to be studying for his afternoon lessons, but all he could think about was that in two days Duke Aukland would make his biweekly visit to the palace and force him to recount the same story as always. So it was imperative that in those moments of peace and quiet he work on the matters consecrated in his secret notebook, for who knew when he’d have the time again. Yet, despite the urgency with which he is presented he cannot do anything but focus on the issue of his mother’s fig cake obsession instead. And that he knew from experience could not yield anything good, for he had done this before, a long time ago in fact, when he had first heard the story…

It was apparently a good day.

But then again tragedy rarely announces its arrival before noon. How much easier would life be if it simply had the decency to give its recipient a call before it showed up on their doorstep, boots all muddy due to the snowstorm that has taken it by such surprise...

Theo wondered if there’s irony in that.

But he was digressing. He was thinking about that morning.

Yes, as he mentioned before, it was a good morning.

His mother, rather young at that time, had just had breakfast and as her obsession for fig cake would not present itself for another 6 months, she was enjoying a bowl of rice pudding and reading what he assumed must have been a popular romance novel at that time.

If he had been a poet, he might have called his mother the ‘resplendent image of a contemporary female interpretation of the Romantic movement’. Or other such needlessly pretentious phrases. But as he was not he would simply say that his mother must have looked beautiful in the light of morning and glowing as only a woman that’s seven months pregnant and in love ever could.

She’d always had a regal air about her, even after the fact when she barely left the house and locked herself in her room for days on end. But in that morning she must have shined so brightly that she overflowed.

He only thought that because he knew that love and happiness are often prime targets when it comes to tragedy’s hunger. And what easier prey could there have been than his defenseless mother, secure in her joy and blind to the wickedness that is sown in the very fabric of this universe.

Perhaps if she had been more alert she might have noticed the signs. Pain had been a constant companion of hers during those seven months, but this must have left different. Theo couldn’t bear if it hadn’t, so he willed himself to believe that it must have been as he imagined it.

He has replayed that scene a million times in his head, so he has come to be convinced of his own creation.

He could almost see his mother bend over, startled by this sudden discomfort. It must have been sinister the way it creeped up on her all of a sudden. And yet she kept her composure and called for the butler - a middle-aged man that came and at once noticed that his mistress has been seized by unbearable torment, for he was intelligent and sharp. He knew that all that could be done then was to call the doctor, he delegated the task to a young maid who in the heat of the moment was so overtaken by emotion that she called her own medic, rather than the royal family’s. She was then promptly shoved aside by the royal cook who proceeded to make the call in her stead, for she was a stodgy woman who had already had three children of her own so she did not faint at the mere mention of pain or even at the sight of blood as it formed in a pool underneath his mother’s chair.

She must have still been calm at that point, for it did not do for a royal to show panic in front of their servant. Still, she asked that the maid bring her a towel so the blood would not stain the carpet anymore. That proved to be rather futile for as soon as the maid returned with the requested object, she had already been taken to the adjoined chamber by her doctor that has hurried there to such a degree that his coat was worn only on one side while the other dangled lamely behind him. His face must have been a mixture of despair and worry and he must have tried to encourage his mother the best he could, but he kept stumbling upon his words so much that it all became a mess. His mother nodded all the same, as a show of courtesy, but all that she could have focused on right then was the odd sensation of numbness that had passed through her.

This must have been the sign, Theo thinks. She must have somehow known that it was too late before she’d even stepped into the room. Before she’d felt agony to such a degree that she’d wished that she would die just to make it stop altogether. Before she’d seen the blood keep dripping, and dripping, and dripping...

Then, silence.

»»————-　✼　————-««

This is how it must have happened. Of that Theo was sure.

“But how can you know?” Astrid asked him once, when during one of their biology lessons they were given permission to spend the afternoon in the outside gardens and he decided to tell her this story to better pass the time. “You weren’t even born then.”

“It’s about feeling,” he’d never been good at explaining stuff like this and he could see it in Astrid’s expression that she found it incomprehensible, but he persevered. Perhaps for himself, if for nobody else. He was the one that needed to hear how the story ended. “I just close my eyes and imagine what must have happened...”

“Based on what?”

“On... impressions.”

Astrid’s brows were pulled down and she seemed to think hard about his answer, but she was only eight at the time so there was little for her to extrapolate from such a reply.

“Ok, and what about dad? He was there too, you know. Per told me.”

The matter of his father was always a complex one: he was there, but not really. Theo tried many times to imagine what he must have done while his mother was busy trying to keep someone else alive, but he could never come up with any image at all. His father was a translucent silhouette that always seemed to float in the near vicinity of that scene, but never came into full focus. Much like a flashing light he continued to exist only intermittently, only when Theo was not focused on his mother.

It’s odd how they’ve exchanged places. How he’d become material all of a sudden and taken shape and form and colour. How he’d become so large that he filled a room simply by existing in it. How he’d become so grotesque that Theo couldn’t help but watch him from the corner of his eyes waiting for...

For what?

He didn’t know.

It was his mother that became unnoticeable, but that was a story for another time.

For the moment he must think about his mother – or rather the image of his mother - and his father must become a distant dream.

He came to the conclusion that he must have been there, but might as well have not been either.

His response did not impress Astrid who once again affirmed that Per told her that their father was there. She was then hauled away by the twins that were begging her to teach them how to fish properly, their tutors’ tasks soon quickly abandoned.

Theo was invited too, but he Astrid’s dismissal angered him so he refused them. He turned around and started searching the lantern flowers that his tutor had asked him to grow. He didn’t turn around when he heard the three of them shuffle around or even when his sister called out for his to join them one more time.

He was better off alone. It wasn’t like they could understand.

»»————-　✼　————-««

That night the cook prepared for them the fish that the three of them had caught that afternoon and Theo simply watched them pick the bones apart from the flesh.

He wished they would choke on a bone.

Then he repented for having thought such wicked thoughts about his own siblings.

»»————-　✼　————-««

Only years later, when he was in his third year of high school and told Cyril this same story did he realize that he never spoke to Astrid about the next part of the story.

He didn’t want to remember it either, so he merely skipped over it all the time.

Or he wished that he could have at the very least.

“Dreadful business that was. Just dreadful.”

He wondered if his parents would cry at his funeral, but he figured not.

They’ve wasted all their tears on Theodoric. There was nothing left for Theo anymore.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland oc #theo yule #writing #backstory #oc backstory #twst oc

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noemibalbii · 3 years

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Six of Crows duology quotes

“Many boys will bring you flowers. But someday you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower, your favorite song, your favorite sweet. And even if he is too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter because he will have taken the time to know you as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart.”

“Kaz leaned back. “What’s the easiest way to steal a man’s wallet?” “Knife to the throat?” asked Inej. “Gun to the back?” said Jesper. “Poison in his cup?” suggested Nina. “You’re all horrible,” said Matthias.

“No mourners. No funerals. Among them, it passed for ‘good luck’.”

“The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true.”

“When someone knows you’re a monster, you needn’t waste time doing every monstrous thing.”

“She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.”

“He needed to tell her… what? That she was lovely and brave and better than anything he deserved. That he was twisted, crooked, wrong, but not so broken that he couldn’t pull himself together into some semblance of a man for her. That without meaning to, he’d begun to lean on her, to look for her, to need her near. He needed to thank her for his new hat.”

“I have been made to protect you. Only in death will I be kept from this oath.”

“Please, my darling Inej, treasure of my heart, won’t you do me the honor of acquiring me a new hat?”

“What do you want then?” The old answers came easily to mind. Money. Vengeance. Jordie’s voice in my head silenced forever. But a different reply roared inside him, loud, insistent, and unwelcome, You, Inej, you.

“Greed is your god, Kaz.” He almost laughed at that. “No, Inej. Greed bows to me. It is my servant and my lever.”

“The easiest way to steal a man’s wallet is to tell him you’re going to steal his watch. You take his attention and direct it where you want it to go.”

“Better terrible truths than kind lies.”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you some day, Brekker.” “I will,” said Kaz, “if there’s any justice in the world. And we all know how likely that is.”

“You can’t spend his money if you’re dead.” “I’ll acquire expensive habits in the afterlife.” “There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance.”

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough stone. “Stay in Ketterdam. Stay with me.” She looked down at his gloved hand clutching hers. Everything in her wanted to say yes, but she would not settle for so little, not after all she’d been through. “What would be the point?” He took a breath. “I want you to stay, I want you to… I want you.” “You want me.” She turned the words over. Gently, she squeezed his hand. “And how will you have me, Kaz?” He looked at her then, eyes fierce, mouth set, It was the face he wore when he was fighting. “How will you have me?” she repeated. “Fully clothed, gloves on, your head turned away so our lips can never touch?” He released her hand, his shoulders bunching, his gaze angry and ashamed as he turned his face to the sea. Maybe it was because his back was to her that she could finally speak the words. “I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all.”

“Some people see a magic trick and say, “Impossible!” They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good night’s sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for that skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind.”

“He’d broken his leg dropping down from the rooftop. The bone didn’t set right, and he’d limped ever after. So he’d found himself a Fabrikator and had his cane made. It became a declaration. There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not healed wrong, and there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.”

“Do you have a different name for killing when you wear a uniform to do it?”

“Facts are for the unimaginative.”

“When we get our money, you can burn kruge to keep you warm.” “I’m going to pay someone to burn my kruge for me.” “Why don’t you pay someone else to pay someone to burn your kruge for you? That’s what the big players do.”

“How do you get your information, Mister Brekker?” “You might say I’m a lockpick.” “You must be a very gifted one.” “I am indeed.” Kaz leaned back slightly. “You see, every man is a safe, a vault of secrets and longings. Now, there are those who take the brute’s way, but I prefer a gentler approach - the right pressure applied at the right moment, in the right place. It’s a delicate thing.” “Do you always speak in metaphors, Mister Brekker?” Kaz smiled. “It’s not a metaphor.” He was out of his chair before his chains hit the ground.”

“A liar, a thief, and utterly without conscience. But he’ll keep to any deal you strike with him.”

“You couldn’t train a falcon, then expect it not to hunt.”

“The life you live, the hate you feel - it’s poison. I can drink it no longer.”

Jesper: “If Pekka Rollins kills us all, I’m going to get Wylan’s ghost to teach my ghost how to play the flute just so that I can annoy the hell out of your ghost.” Kaz: “I’ll just hire Matthias’s ghost to kick your ghost’s ass.” Matthias: “My ghost won’t associate with your ghost.”

“But all he could think of was Inej. She had to live. She had to have made it out of the Ice Court. And if she hadn’t, then he had to live to rescue her.”

“He was going to break my legs,” she said, her chin held high, the barest quaver in her voice. “Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When i couldn’t scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn’t the Wraith anymore?” Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on. “I would have come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I’d crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together - knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

“Fear is a phoenix. You can watch it burn a thousand times and still it will return.”

“Maybe there were people who lived those lives. Maybe this girl was one of them. But what about the rest of us? What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns. We learn to write magic from the ordinary. That was how you survived when you weren’t chosen, when there was no royal blood in your veins. When the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway.”

“Crows remember human faces. They remember the people who feed them, who are kind to them. And the people who wrong them too. They don’t forget. They tell each other who to look after and who to watch out for.”

“Has anyone noticed this whole city is looking for us, mad at us, or want to kill us?” “So?” said Kaz. “Well, usually it’s just half the city.”

“She smiled then, her cheeks red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. It was a smile he thought he might die to earn again.”

“No mourners. No funerals. Another way of saying good luck. But it was something more. A dark wink to the fact that there would be no expensive burials for people like them, no marble markers to remember their names, no wreaths of myrtle and rose.”

“Have any of you wondered what I did with all the cash Pekka Rollins gave us?” “Guns?” asked Jesper. “Ships?” queried Inej. “Bombs?” suggested Wylan. “Political bribes?” offered Nina. They all looked at Matthias. “This is where you tell us how awful we are,” she whispered.

“We meet fear. We greet the unexpected visitor and listen to what he has to tell us. When fear arrives, something is about to happen.”

“You don’t look like a monster.” “I’ll tell you a secret, Hannah. The really bad monsters never look like monsters.”

Until this moment, Wylan hadn’t quite understood how much they meant to him. His father would have sneered at these thugs and thieves. a disgraced soldier, a gambler who couldn’t keep out of the red. But they were his first friends, his only friends, and Wylan knew that even if he’d had his pick of a thousand companions, these would have been the people he chose.”

“They were twin souls, soldiers destined to fight for different sides, to find each other and lose each other too quickly. She would not keep him here. Not like this.”

“At some point, Jesper realized Kaz was gone. “Not one for goodbyes, is he?” he muttered. “He doesn’t say goodbye,” Inej said. She kept her eyes on the lights of the canal. Somewhere in the garden, a night bird began to sing. “He just lets go.”

“I’ve been nothing but kind to you. I’m not some sort of a monster.” “No, you’re the man who sits idly by, congratulating yourself on your decency, while the monster eats his fill. At least a monster has teeth and a spine.”

“But if you couldn’t open a door, you just had to make a new one.”

“You’re not weak because you can’t read. You’re weak because you’re afraid of people seeing your weakness. You’re letting shame decide who you are. […] It’s shame that lines my pockets, shame that keeps the Barrel teeming with fools ready to put on a mask just so they can have what they want with none the wiser about it. We can endure all kinds of pain. It’s shame that eats men whole.”

“She could feel the press of Kaz’s fingers against her skin, feel the bird’s wing brush of his mouth against her neck, see his dilated eyes. Two of the deadliest people the Barrel had to offer and they could barely touch each other without both of them keeling over. But they’d tried. He’d tried. Maybe they could try again. A foolish wish, the sentimental hope of a girl who hadn’t had the firsts of her life stolen, who hadn’t ever felt Tante Heleen’s lash, who wasn’t covered in wounds and wanted by the law. Kaz would have laughed at her optimism.”

“No matter the height of the mountain, the climbing is the same.”

“But when someone does wrong, when we make mistakes, we don’t say we’re sorry. We promise to make amends.” “I will.” “Mati en sheva yelu. This action will have no echo. It means we won’t repeat the same mistakes, that we won’t continue to do harm.”

“Van Eck promised us thirty million kruge,” said Kaz. “That’s exactly what we’re going to take. With another one million for interest, expenses, and just because we can.” Wylan broke a cracker in two. “My father doesn’t have thirty million kruge lying around. Even if you took all his assets together.” “You should leave, then,” said Jesper. “We only associate with the disgraced heirs of the very finest fortunes.”

“You’re better than waffles, Matthias Helvar.” A small smile curled the Fjerdan’s lips. “Let’s not say things we don’t mean, my love.”

“A proper thief is like a proper poison, merchling. He leaves no trace.”

“She took a shaky breath. The words came like a string of gunshots, rapid-fire, as if she resented the very act of speaking them. “I didn’t know if you would come.” Kaz couldn’t blame Van Eck for that. Kaz had built that doubt in her with every cold word and small cruelty. “We’re your crew, Inej. We don’t leave our own at the mercy of merch scum.” It wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. It wasn’t the answer she wanted.

“I just don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life hiding the things I can’t do. Why run from the amazing things you can do?”

“She felt his knuckles slide against hers. Then his hand was in her hand, his palm was pressed against her own. A tremor moved through him. Slowly, he let their fingers entwine. For a long while, they stood there, hands clasped, looking out at the gray expanse of the sea.”

“Matthias knew monsters, and one glance at Kaz Brekker had told him this was a creature who had spent too long in the dark - he’d brought something back with him when he’d crawled into the light.”

“She wouldn’t wish love on anyone. It was the guest you welcomed and then couldn’t be rid of.”

“Brick by brick. Brick by brick. I will destroy you.” It was the promise that let him sleep at night, that drove him every day, that kept Jordie’s ghost at bay. Because a quick death was too good for Pekka Rollins.”

“Kaz narrowed his eyes. “I’m not some character out of a children’s story who plays harmless pranks and steals from the rich to give to the poor.”

“Inej had once offered to teach him how to fall. “The trick is not getting knocked down,” he’d told her with a laugh. “No, Kaz,” she’d said, “the trick is in getting back up.”

“It was because she was listening so closely the she knew the exact moment when Kaz Brekker, Dirtyhands, the bastard of the Barrel and deadliest boy in Ketterdam, fainted.”

“Our hopes rest with you, Mister Brekker. If you fail, all the world will suffer for it.” “Oh, it’s worse than that, Van Eck. If I fail, I don’t get paid.”

“This isn’t… it isn’t a trick, is it?” Her voice was smaller than she wanted it to be. The shadow of something dark moved across Kaz’s face. “If it were a trick, I’d promise you safety. I’d offer you happiness. I don’t know if that exists in the Barrel, but you’ll find none of it with me.” For some reason, those words had comforted her. Better terrible truths than kind lies. “All right,” she said. “How do we begin?” “Let’s start by getting out of here and finding you some proper clothes. Oh, and Inej,” he said as he led her out of the salon, “don’t ever sneak up on me again.”

“They fear you as I once feared you,” he said. “As you once feared me. We are all someone’s monster, Nina.”

“You still may die in the Dregs.” Inej’s dark eyes had glinted. “I may. But I’ll die on my feet with a knife in my hand.”

“Shame holds more value than coin ever can.”

“None of us move on without a backward look. We move on always carrying with us those we have lost.”

“You came back for me.” “I protect my investments.” Investments. “I’m glad I’m bleeding all over your shirt.”

“Why do you wear gloves, Mister Brekker?” Kaz raised a brow. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.” “Each more grotesque than the last.” Kaz had heard them, too. Brekker’s hands were stained with blood. Brekker’s hands were covered in scars. Brekker had claws and not fingers because he was part demon. Brekker’s touch burned like brimstone - a single brush of his bare skin caused your flesh to wither and die. “Pick one,” Kaz said as he vanished into the night, thoughts already turning to thirty million kruge and the crew he’d need to help him get it. “They’re all true enough.”

“You have no finesse,” a gambler at the Silver Garter once said to him. “No technique.” “Sure I do,” Kaz had responded. “I practice the art of ‘pull his shirt over his head and punch till you see blood’.”

“A gambler, a convict, a wayward son, a lost Grisha, a Suli girl who had become a killer, a boy from the Barrel who had become something worse.” [...] “What bound them together? Greed? Desperation? Was it just the knowledge that if one or all of them disappeared tonight, no one would come looking?”

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