Mammoths at the Gates (The Singing Hills Cycle, #4)

by Nghi Vo

In that moment, they were and weren’t the cleric Chih had grown up with. This was someone new, and something in Chih ached, because growing up, growing older, was always a kind of loss, even if what was gained repaid it all and then some.

“We might as well be men, if we forgot,” called Almost Brilliant. “And advocate, we are not men.”

We are not beasts, and I know this because no goat grieves as I do. No raven will have her own wings cut so she can no longer fly. No crocodile will bear a wound because it is better than forgetting. I wish I were a beast.