As his people positioned themselves in and around the pass, Akin though that he might have misunderstood the Valerian addiction to war. He had assumed it was spurred by greed. By a savage sense of superiority. It had never occurred to him that Valerians also went to war because of love. Arin loved those hours of waiting. The silent, brilliant tension, like scribbles of heat lightning. His city far below and behind him, his hand on a cannon's curve, ears open to the acoustics of the pass. He stared into it, and even though he smelled the reek of fear from men and women around him, he was caught in a kind of wonder. He felt so vibrant. As if his life was fresh, translucent, thin-skinned fruit. It could be sliced apart, and he wouldn't care. Nothing felt like this.

The Winner's Curse