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July 15 - October 21, 2025
You can’t spend forever floating between worlds, Cousin, she thought. Eventually you’ll need to decide where you want to belong. Life was so much harder, but potentially so much more fulfilling, when you found the courage to choose.
‘Sincerity’ is a word people use to justify their chronic dullness.” “Well, I like sincere people,” Shallan said, raising her cup. “It’s delightful how surprised they look when you push them down the stairs.” “Now, that’s unkind. You shouldn’t push people down the stairs for being sincere. You push people down the stairs for being stupid.” “What if they’re sincere and stupid?” “Then you run.”
“No, no. You should never debate an idiot, Shallan. No more than you’d use your best sword to spread butter.” “Oh, but I’m a scholar. I enjoy things with curious properties, and stupidity is most interesting. The more you study it, the further it flees—and yet the more of it you obtain, the less you understand about it!” Wit sipped his drink. “True, to an extent. But it can be hard to spot, as—like body odor—you never notice your own. That said . . . put two smart people together, and they will eventually find their common stupidity, and in so doing become idiots.” “Like a child, it grows the
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She’s deeply mysterious.” “I’m mysterious,” Kaladin said. “I used to think you were. Then I found out you don’t like good puns—it’s truly possible to know too much about somebody.”
Port and starboard instead of left and right. Galley instead of kitchen. Nuisance instead of Shallan.”
“It’s good to see you smiling.” “That was smiling?” “It was the Kaladin equivalent. That scowl was almost jovial.” She smiled at him. Something felt warm within him at being near her. Something felt right.
I could simply shove it all away? Storms.” He tried to imagine it. Not spending his life worrying about the mistakes he’d made. Not hearing the constant whispers that he wasn’t good enough, or that he’d failed his men.
The Vedens loved ostentatious greenery. Not a subtle people, all brimming with passion and vice.
“Sometimes, a hypocrite is nothing more than a man who is in the process of changing.”
But she had learned that nobody was strong all the time, not even Dalinar Kholin. Love wasn’t about being right or wrong, but about standing up and helping when your partner’s back was bowed. He would likely do the same for her someday.
Lectured by my own daughter again.
Navani liked groups—but of course, Navani wasn’t a scholar. Oh, she knew how to pretend. But all she really did was nudge here and there, perhaps provide an idea. Others did all the real engineering.
“‘In some things, yes. You will love. You will hurt. You will dream. And you will die. Each man’s past is your future.’ “‘Then what is the point?’ I asked. ‘If all has been seen and done?’ “
‘The question,’ she replied, ‘is not whether you will love, hurt, dream, and die. It is what you will love, why you will hurt, when you will dream, and how you will die. This is your choice. You cannot pick the destination, only the path.’”
“In truth, by leaving, I was seeking only one thing. “A journey.”
Dalinar couldn’t define, even to himself, what he found so striking about the tales. Was it their optimism? Was it the talk of paths and choices?
He pulled her to him and took a deep breath. Shallan shivered, then whispered, “Good for you.” “Shallan! You’re a Radiant. You’re not supposed to condone something like this!” “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I only know that the world is a better place for the death of Torol Sadeas.” “Father wouldn’t like it, if he knew.” “Your father is a great man,” Shallan said, “who is, perhaps, better off not knowing everything. For his own good.”
“Yeah, maybe. In any case, I think I know what it’s like to feel like you’re lying to the world. So maybe if you figure out what to do, you could tell me?” She leaned into him, listening to his heartbeat, his breathing. She felt his warmth. “You never did say,” she whispered, “which one you prefer.” “It’s obvious. I prefer the real you.” “Which one is that, though?” “She’s the one I’m talking to right now.
“The writer was a Dawnsinger, one of the original inhabitants of Roshar. The Dawnsingers weren’t spren, as theology has often postulated. Nor were they Heralds. They were parshmen. And the people they welcomed to their world, the otherworlders . . .” “Were us,” Dalinar whispered. He felt cold, like he’d been dunked in icy water.
“Could you . . . not go?” he asked. She shook her head. “Maybe I could get a transfer?” he said. “To the highprince’s standing house guard?” “Would you do that?” “I . . .” No. He wouldn’t. Not while he carried that stone in his pocket, not while the memory of his brother dying was fresh in his mind. Not while lighteyed highlords got boys killed in petty fights.
“Maybe someday you’ll learn how to be there for the living, not just for the dead.”
Without Stormlight, Shallan trailed farthest behind, Pattern at her side. Exhaustionspren circled in the air above, like large chickens. Though she tried to push herself, she wasn’t a soldier, and often was the biggest limitation to their pace. Of course, without her mapmaking skills and memory of Thaylen City’s exact location, they probably wouldn’t have any idea which way to go.
“We weren’t able to confine ourselves to what we were given.” When has any man ever been content with what he has? “When has any tyrant ever said to himself, ‘This is enough’?” Dalinar whispered, remembering words Gavilar had once spoken.
I tried my best to hide this, the Stormfather said. “So we could continue living a lie?” It is, in my experience, the thing men do best.
If the journey itself is indeed the most important piece, rather than the destination itself, then I traveled not to avoid duty—but to seek it. —From The Way of Kings, postscript
“Do you realize how fond I was of this jacket?” “Oh, Adolin.” “Really, Shallan. Surgeons should take more care with the clothing they cut open. If a man’s going to live, he’ll want that shirt. And if he dies . . . well, he should at least be well dressed on his deathbed.”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Save the city. Be Radiant, Shallan.” She kissed him, then turned and stood.
Szeth feared not pain, as no physical agony could rival the pain he already bore. He feared not death. That sweet reward had already been snatched from him. He feared only that he had made the wrong choice.
that law was the product of the many. Szeth had been exiled because of the consensus of the many. He had served master after master, most of them using him to attain terrible or at least selfish goals.
You could not arrive at excellence by the average of these people. Excellence was an individual quest, not a group effort.
“Was I supposed to save those soldiers, sword-nimi?” Szeth said. “I am a Radiant now.” I think they would have flown like you instead of falling down, if they’d wanted to be saved.
That sword is too funny
Looks like we’re cornered, the sword said. Time to fight, right? Accept death, and die slaying as many as possible? I’m ready. Let’s do it. I’m ready to be a noble sacrifice.
“Simple. The best way to rob someone is leave them thinking that nothing is wrong. . . .”
The enemy howled and sang, exulting in the fray. She painted the ground red and sprayed the enemy with blood that felt real. She serenaded them with the sounds of men screaming, dying, swords clashing and bones breaking.
halberd
“Journey before destination.”
I almost teared up!
A moment of Veil. A moment of Radiant. Shallan peeking through— Adolin’s hand tightened around her own. Shallan’s breath caught. There, she thought. That’s the one. That’s the one I am. He knows.
“I’m barely hurt, Shallan. Renarin got to me.” “Then it’s all right if I do this?” Shallan asked, hugging him. He responded, pulling her tight. He smelled of sweat and blood—not the gentlest of scents, but this was him and she was Shallan.
Shallan had found that no matter how bad things got, someone would be making tea.
“I’m an artist, Adolin. I appreciate a nice picture when I see one. Doesn’t mean I want to pull it off the hook and go get intimate.”
“Oh? And is that what women are supposed to seek in a mate? Is it in the Polite Lady’s Handbook to Courtship and Family? The Bekenah edition, maybe? ‘Ladies, you can’t possibly marry a man if he can’t fly.’ Never mind if the other option is as handsome as sin, kind to everyone he meets regardless of their station, passionate about his art, and genuinely humble in the weirdest, most confident way. Never mind if he actually seems to get you, and remarkably listens to your problems, encouraging you to be you—not to hide yourself away. Never mind if being near him makes you want to rip his shirt
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“The question becomes,” he whispered to her, “how many people need to love a piece of art to make it worthwhile? If you’re inevitably going to inspire hate, then how much enjoyment is needed to balance out the risk?”
“And I can’t take her with me. Someone needs to care for her.” A grimy hand reached toward the doll, but Wit pulled it back. “She’s afraid of the darkness. You’ve got to keep her in the light.” The hand vanished into the shadows. “I can’t leave Mama.” “That’s too bad,” Wit said. He raised the doll to his lips, then whispered a choice set of words. When he set it down, it started to walk on its own. A soft gasp sounded inside the shadows. The little doll toddled toward the street. Step by step by step . . . The girl, maybe four years old, finally emerged from the shadows and ran to get the
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He needed to be soup so bland, it was water. What a conundrum.
“Life before death, little one,” Wit whispered.
