Lies are rust on iron. A blemish on power. - Pierce Brown

The legends of our age die one by one, like autumn leaves; and when they are gone, will we be lesser for their absence?
It seems cheap.
With his death imminent, the worlds feel emptier. Almost as cavernous as they did when Cassius fell. One by one, the titans of my youth disappear, and freed from their shadow, I do not feel liberated. I feel bereft.
Nothing is permanent. No one escapes.
"The bill comes at the end," I whisper.

"You know the curse of this world?" I ask, looking at the body the Carver made for me. "The greatest gifts were given to the worst of us."
"Not realizing they are gifts is what makes them the worst," he replies.

All my people sing of are memories. And so I will remember this death. It will burden me as it does not burden my fellow students - I must not let that change. I must not become like them. I'll remember that every sin, every death, every sacrifice, is for freedom.