“Szeth,” Kaladin said. “How old were you when they took you from your home?” “Eleven,” Szeth whispered, hoarse. “I was eleven.” Szeth wasn’t Kaladin. Szeth was Tien. Szeth wasn’t the young man who had gone to war, determined to save and protect. He was the child who had been ripped from his peaceful life, then transformed into a killer against his will. A scared little boy who just yearned to go home.
