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‘Measure yourself not by where others are, but where you used to be.’
“Ah, sarcasm. The whelp’s excuse for wit.”
We used to call him Blister.’ “‘Blister?’ I lifted one brow. ‘Why?’ “‘He only ever showed up after the hard work was done.’
“‘Get on with it, you fucking maggots! We’ll see how many dogs it takes to slay a lion!’
“It’s math. No songs sung for it. No shrines built in its name. But it’s how kings claim thrones and usurpers carve empires.”
“‘BEFORE HE BURNS his bridges, a man should learn to swim.’
“It is only through falling that we teach ourselves to fly. Our measure be not in how many times we stumble, but how oft we rise. Failure is how we learn.”
“From holy cup comes holy light; “The faithful hand sets world aright. “And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, “Mere man shall end this endless night.” The historian sneered. “I know the words to your so-called prophecy, madem—” “Before the Five, come unto one, “With sainted blade, ’neath virgin sun, “By sacred blood, or else by none; “This blackened veil shall be undone.” Jean-François blinked, the silence a thousand years wide. “… What did you say?” he whispered.
“That’s the way to wisdom, vampire. The wise man learns more from his enemies than the fool from his friends, but even the fool can learn if his friends are willing to call him one. Surround yourself with folk who confront you. If you’re not being challenged, you’re not learning anything. If you’re the smartest man in the room, you’re in the wrong fucking room.
“‘Doesn’t work that way. You can’t just melt a sword down and make another with it. If you liquefy the metal, you alter its chymistrie. Molten steel hardens into cast iron. Brittle. Weak. All those old stories about reforging shattered blades are just that,
“‘To those who fought,’ she declared. ‘And those who fell.’ “‘And those who lived through living hell,’ I replied.
‘The goddesses ruined a perfectly good arsehole when they put teeth in yer mouth, didn’t they?’
“Ye do what all m-must do when Mahné’s wings blot out their sun. Sing s-sweet songs for the beloved dead. But then pick up thy quill, and p-pen the next verse of thy life.
