That was the thing about bad dreams in the Wild North. You still had them when you woke up.

Nox didn’t say a word. He waited, counting the seconds in his mind. Sometimes you counted bullets and sometimes you counted time. Either one could kill you.

All the while, that seemingly sympathetic sun was growing a little fiercer, smiling a little broader. Sometimes the land didn't have to get you. You got yourself.

In Altadas, chance was a loaded die—and just as often a loaded gun.

There weren’t many amulet smugglers around these parts. They mostly served Regime territory down south, where the so-called “demons” reigned. If you didn’t want a monster for a child, you’d pay a pretty penny for one of those necklaces. And if you were caught smuggling them, well, you’d pay with your pretty head.

The silence just allowed the echoes of the question to play out in Nox’s mind, reminding him of his own unwinnable war against the never-ending tide of conmen and criminals. He was trying to clean up these parts, but every time he rubbed away a stain, he found another layer of dirt beneath. So, you could give up—or you could keep on scrubbing.

His father used to tell him that you can't eat principles. And no, you couldn't. But you could live by them.

She looked at her right hand, where the index finger was cut to a stump. Some said she lost it in an accident, when she was playing soldier with a live grenade. Others said she was taught a lesson by the law, and they took her trigger finger to make her keep on learning. Those were the lessons the Coilhunter liked. Why, he was quite the teacher himself.

You hang your heroes. That way they’ll never disappoint you.' It also brought to mind his own retort: 'But what about your enemies? What about thevillains? What do we do with those?