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Where are you going?” she called after me, her voice mocking. “What’s waiting for you out there?” “Nothing!” I shouted at her. “No one!

Leigh Bardugo
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He has served countless kings, faked countless deaths, bided his time, waiting for you.
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When we get our money, you can burn kruge to keep you warm.""I'm going to pay someone to burn my kruge for me.""Why don't you pay someone else to pay someone to burn your kruge for you? That's what the big players do.
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Shall I tell you the secret of true love? her father once asked her. A friend of mine liked to tell me that women love flowers. He had many flirtations, but he never found a wife. Do you know why? Because women may love flowers, but only one woman loves the scent of gardenias in late summer that remind her of her grandmother’s porch. Only one woman loves apple blossoms in a blue cup. Only one woman loves wild geraniums.That’s Mama! Inej had cried.Yes, Mama loves wild geraniums because no other flower has quite the same color, and she claims that when she snaps the stem and puts a sprig behind her ear, the whole world smells like summer. Many boys will bring you flowers. But someday you’ll meet a boy who will learn your favorite flower, your favorite song, your favorite sweet. And even if he is too poor to give you any of them, it won’t matter because he will have taken the time to know you as no one else does. Only that boy earns your heart.
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He swept the red cloak around Inej's shoulders in a rain of petals and blossoms as she continued to strap on her knives. She looked almost as startled as the flower seller."What?" he asked as he tossed her a Mister Crimson mask that matched his own."Those were my mother's favorite flower.""Good to know Van Eck didn't cure you of sentiment.""Nice to be back, Kaz.""Good to have you back, Wraith.
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He'd broken his leg dropping down from the rooftop. The bone didn't set right, and he'd limped ever after. So he'd found himself a Fabrikator and had his cane made. It became a declaration. There was no part of him that was no broken, that had not healed wrong, and there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken.
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And feast on the dead, I thought with a shudder. As if he could read my thoughts, he pressed a hand to my shoulder. His fingers were long and white, splaying over my arm like a waxen spider. If the gesture was meant to comfort me, it failed.
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Do you think I could have come to you again and again, if you had been less alone?You called me and I answered
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You're weak because you're afraid of people seeing your weakness. You're letting shame decide who you are.
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