“Do your priests not preach from their pulpits of the grace that lies in humility?” Jean-François asked. “Do they not promise the meek shall inherit the earth?” “I’ve lived thirty-five years with the name my mother gave me, coldblood, and never once have I seen the meek inherit anything but the table scraps of the strong.” Gabriel glanced out the window to the mountains beyond. The dark, sinking like a sinner to its knees. The horrors that roamed it unchecked. The tiny sparks of humanity, guttering like candles in a hungry wind, soon to be extinguished forever. “Besides, who the fuck would
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