“Ishar, what … what good is it to fight now? Why struggle? Why care? The Stormfather is gone. Jezrien is gone. We have lost, finally. Honor is dead.” “Yes,” a quiet voice said. “Honor is dead.” Both Heralds spun to see Kaladin Stormblessed slowly pushing himself up to a seated position, hair disheveled, blue uniform rumpled, dirt on his face. He looked at his right hand, what was left of it, and grimaced. Then he sighed and heaved himself to his feet. “But,” Stormblessed said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
