Death is a bored clerk, with too many orders to fill. There is no reckoning. No profound moment. It creeps up on us from behind, and snatches us away while we shit.

Sometimes, when someone lives in danger for too long, the only time they feel alive is when death's breathing on their shoulder.

Names turned over by time, like the plough turning the soil. Bringing up the new while the old were buried in the mud.

King Uthil says steel is the answer. I say his sight is short. Dust is the last answer to every question, now and always.

And Yarvi realized that Death does not bow to each person who passes her, does not sweep out her arm respectfully to show the way, speaks no profound words, unlocks no bolts. The key upon her chest is never needed, for the Last Door stands always open. She herds the dead through impatiently, needles of rank or fame or quality. She has an ever-lengthening queue to get through. A blind procession, inexhaustible.

He's really dead?"Benna blew out his cheeks. "Well, his head's off, and spiked above the gates, so unless you know one hell of a physician...

Of all things, men most love to watch ohers face Death. It reminds them they yet live.