Dioses de la locura y las mentiras. Arin había enloquecido.

Recordó el castigo del dios de la música, al que habían encerrado en el cuerpo de un árbol durante un ciclo del panteón: cien años de silencio.

—¿Y cuando crezca y sea lo bastante grande como para comerse a un hombre?—Entonces haré que lo cuide Arin.

—¿Cómo conseguiste sobrevivir con esa boca que tienes, esclavito? ¿Le rogaste a tu dios de la suerte?

—El dios de los tontos te quiere a su lado, Arin. ¿En qué estabas pensando para venir a la capital?

He told himself a story. Not at first. At first, there wasn’t time for thoughts that came in the shape of words. His head was blessedly empty of stories then. War was coming. It was upon him. Arin had been born in the year of the god of death, and he was finally glad of it. He surrendered himself to his god, who smiled and came close. Stories will get you killed, he murmured in Arin’s ear. Now, you just listen. Listen to me.

It dropped ice to the bottom of his stomach. He thought of the ruined bodies he'd seen, including the ones he himself had ruined. He realized that he had somehow expected that he'd never have to think again about the way people damage other people. The night of the invasion. Kestrel's back. His own. Roshar's scarred face. His own.

She'd betrayed her country because she'd believed it was the right thing to do. Yet would she have done this, if not for Arin?He knew none of it. Had never asked for it. Kestrel had made her own choices. It was unfair to blame him.But she wanted to.

She turned to look at him, and he was already looking at her. “I’m going to miss you when I wake up,” she whispered, because she realized that she must have fallen asleep under the sun. Arin was too real for her imagination. He was a dream.“Don’t wake up,” he said.