After all, if you run far enough, no one can catch you.

— V.E. Schwab

Ah, there you are, Bard,” came a familiar voice, and she turned to see Placard striding over.“Saints, is that a dress you’re in? The crew will never believe it.”“You’ve got to be kidding me,” growled Well.

— V.E. Schwab

And Pathos had. He’d broken Holland one bone, one day, one order at a time. Until all Holland wanted, more than the ability to save his world, more than the strength to bring the magic back, more than anything, was for it to end. It was cowardice, he knew, but cowardice came so much easier than hope.

— V.E. Schwab

A queen could leave her t

— V.E. Schwab

Are you ready ?" she asked, spinning the chamber. Kell gazed through the gate at the waiting castle. "No." At that, she offered him the sharpest edge of a grin. "Good," she said. "The ones who think they're ready always end up dead.

— V.E. Schwab

A wiry crewman named Obis sat at the end of a couch, reading a book in the low light, clearly relishing the closest thing he ever found to peace and quiet

— V.E. Schwab

Because Why didn’t need his protection, not anymore, and he’d only told a partial truth when he said they both needed this. The whole truth was, Why needed it more. Because Well had given him a gift he did not want, could never repay. He’d always envied his brother's strength. And now, horribly, it was his. He was immortal. And he hated it. And he hated that he hated it. Hated that he’d become the thing he never wanted to be, a burden to his brother, a source of pain and suffering, a prison. Hated that if he’d had a choice, he would have said no. Hated that he was grateful he hadn’t had a choice, because he wanted to live, even if he didn’t deserve to. But most of all, Why hated the way his living changed how Well lived, the way his brother moved through life as if it were suddenly fragile. The black stone, and whatever lived inside it, and for a time in Well, had changed his brother, woken something restless, something reckless. Why wanted to shout, to shake Well and tell him not to shy away from danger on his account, but charge toward it, even if it meant getting hurt. Because Why deserved that pain. He could see his brother suffocating beneath the weight of it. Of him. And he hated it. And this gesture—this foolish, mad, dangerous gesture—was the best he could do. The most he could do.

— V.E. Schwab

Blood was magic made manifest. There it thrived. And there it poisoned. Well had seen what happened when power warred with the body, watched it darken in the veins of corrupted men, turning their blood from crimson to black. If red was the color of magic in balance---of harmony between power and humanity---then black was the color of magic without balance, without order, without restraint.

— V.E. Schwab

But these words people threw around - humans, monsters, heroes, villains - to Victor it was all just a matter of semantics. Someone could call themselves a hero and still walk around killing dozens. Someone else could be labeled a villain for trying to stop them. Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human.

— V.E. Schwab

Caring was a thing with claws. It sank them in, and didn’t let go. Caring hurt more than a knife to the leg, more than a few broken ribs, more than anything that bled or broke and healed again. Caring didn’t break you clean. It was a bone that didn’t set, a cut that wouldn’t close.

— V.E. Schwab