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The powerful grew more powerful. Those born on their knees died crawling on their bellies.
“According to the story, you learn how to be real by being loved,” Key answered. “But I think when you become more real, you learn to love someone the right way. I was born wrong. Everything I’ve ever done was wrong. I’ve never known how to be anything someone wanted. If I learn more, I’ll learn to serve her better.”
Everyone conveniently forgot the worst elements of their favourite characters while dwelling on the failings of their least favourite.
In Eyam burning bones turned steel to something else, metal both unbreakable and hungry.
On days when she felt the worst, he would be the worst.
The whole world is stories. People’s lives don’t matter, not really. But if you have power, you can make them matter. Beggars starve in this city. Everyone says: there’s nothing we can do, but obviously there’s something they can do. They don’t care enough. If it was someone you loved, you’d run into the city with bread. Everyone’s the same, except you and I don’t pretend to care. The glassblowers’ guild believed my father was nothing, so they made it true. If they’d known their survival depended on his, they would have treasured him. Power is when you make other people believe in your story.”
Now I know any tale can be rewritten.
Masked crown, clawed gauntlets and the royal sword were given over for safekeeping. The sword to conquer the world, and the gauntlets to claw a way out of the grave.
One day the ravine will bleed into the sky and the screams of the dead will become cries of triumph.
She wore tears as other women wore jewellery, her beauty only enhanced by sorrow.
It’s awful tears only matter when they’re shed by the type of girl people see as pure. And it’s awful some girls only have their tears, with no other way to defend themselves.
Lia didn’t want to be helpless. Once given a weapon, given a chance, she would fight.
Emer had never known what to do with gentleness.
“You told me you were forgettable, replaceable, and insignificant,” Key said. “You said not to risk myself, unless I had an absolutely imperative reason. I do. My universe is altered by your wishes. And you never want him to touch you again.”
“Sometimes rage is all women can give each other.
You are no vague shadow, Marius Valerius. You look more like the First Duke than his first son. The First Duke was a marvel and a monster.
“You have your mother’s eyes. Don’t thank her for them. Clear eyes are no gift in the kingdom of the blind. The First Duke was a beautiful monster, at least.”
The Cobra was from another world. That was his truth. What was Marius’s? He remembered his allegiances.
“Now I save myself. What can you do when the story says you don’t matter? I have to matter to myself.”
“Do only innocents deserve to be saved? Then put me down for the long list of the damned.”
Eric said tragedies were sorrow given distance.
I trade in knowledge, so you hate me worse than poison. You don’t know me. You don’t know Octavian. You don’t know Lia. You don’t know yourself. You’re afraid to know. I’m not the coward of the court, Marius. You are.”
Believe me, Marius Valerius. I was never meant to be part of your story, but I always thought you should be the hero. You have to be one now. Or there are no heroes left.”
Now she believed the world was real, the edges of every facet cut.
She’d once felt like the only real thing, but now everyone felt true and precious except herself. Her friends thought it was shock. Rae believed she was getting ready to go home. She had to succeed, after what she’d paid for success.
People say, I’ll give anything. The universe listens. But the universe doesn’t listen when you say, Wait, not that.
Cold hearts could still be gold.
“She believed goodness was real, friends could be trusted, and love might be true. She died because she was wrong.”
At last the Last Hope broke his vow, and took down his sword.
First cut for gods lost in the sky, second for fiends in the abyss. Third cut for me, Marius Valerius. Fourth cut for you, Eric Mitchell. By the sword, I swear to be loyal and true.’”
“‘I swear to love all you love, and hate all you hate. You will feel no rain, as I will be a shelter for you. You will feel no hunger or thirst while I have food to give or wine in my cup. When my name is in your mouth, I will always answer, and your name will be my call to arms. I will ever be a shield for your back, and the story told between us will be true. Everything agreed between us, I will carry out, for yours is the will I have chosen.’”
Marius hadn’t known being damned and dishonoured would be such a relief.
“He’s having the most flamboyant and prolonged descent into madness I ever saw. But it says a lot about a man, when the form his madness takes is saving lives.”
The Golden Brothel, the treasure chest of the city. The wicked marquis’s hoard was the lives of those discounted as worthless.
“You saw this horse born,” Marius reminded him. “I told you his bloodline could find their way anywhere. You named him.” “That was a joke,” said Eric. Marius didn’t see what was humorous. He’d thought it was a nice name. The Cobra stared at the expanse of the warhorse’s arched neck, up to the rolling eyes. “So this is my noble steed, Google Maps?”
“Did you really push the king into the ravine?” “Yes.” “My dear!” A faint smile curved Horatia’s stern mouth. “Treason’s really getting to be a habit with you.”
Even if the sky was falling, Rae knew how to be a big sister.
As soon as she’d seen Lia, Rae had known she would trade places with her, would make any bargain. Rae tried to let go. Lia clung with her magic-steel fist.
Let me be your favourite story. Let me be the greatest story you ever heard.
When nobody believed in you, when even you couldn’t believe, you must arrange your broken pieces into a terrifying new shape. You could believe in the fantastic recreation of yourself.
She would do something great before she died. She would be an unforgettable part of the story.
If I believe she’s my sister, if she believes it, doesn’t that make it true? When you pretended to care for me, I believed in you. Did you ever believe in me?”
Even the dead. Given a light to follow, we can drag ourselves from the pit.
He was a statue with a splash of blood staining his cheek, like a red flower on stone. She recognized him at last. He was the Once and Forever Emperor, the Corrupt and Divine, the Lost and Found Prince, Master of the Dread Ravine, Commander of the Living and the Dead. None could stop his victory march.
They never had been, not in any version of the story. The Emperor was always Key.
Key. The key to the narrative. The hero of the story. Enough blood and tears could buy a life. After centuries hurling sacrifices into the ravine, finally the payment was enough. Yet when the Emperor returned, nobody noticed.
The Emperor said, “Be terribly afraid. I come to swear love undying.”
“I love you as a knife loves a throat,” he murmured as the dead overwhelmed her. “I crawled out of hell to fall at your feet.”
She knew him, and he was a nightmare and a catastrophe, doom she could not hope to control. With the Emperor’s rage came ruin on the world and blood on the moon. “The burning city is mine, and I am yours. I changed the story for you. So tell me the lie that you love me.” There was brutal tenderness in the hoarse love song of his voice.
