Though there was one thing he clung to. An excuse, perhaps, like the dead emperor. It was the soul of the wretch. Apathy. The belief that nothing was his fault, the belief that he couldn’t change anything. If a man was cursed, or if he believed he didn’t have to care, then he didn’t need to hurt when he failed. Those failures couldn’t have been prevented. Someone or something else had ordained them. “If I’m not cursed,” Kaladin said softly, “then why do I live when others die?” “Because of us,” Syl said. “This bond. It makes you stronger, Kaladin.”
