What Feasts at Night (Sworn Soldier, #2)

by T. Kingfisher

The hooded crow—kachulkni, we call them here—looked down at me with the wary interest and mild pity that crows and ravens always seem to have for humanity.

Tomorrow, in my experience, is only worth worrying about

when there’s something you can do about it.

I sometimes think the fundamental disconnect with civilians is that they think a war is an event, something neatly bounded on either end by dates. What anyone who’s lived through one can tell you is that it’s actually a place. You’re there and then you leave, but places don’t stop existing just because you aren’t looking at them.

“May we always have the choice to err on the side of mercy,” I said, lifting my wine.

“Something bad happened to both of us, too. We don’t deserve to fall apart either.”