The Stone Sky

I think,” Hoa says slowly, “that if you love someone, you don’t get to choose how they love you back.

They’re afraid because we exist, she says. There’s nothing we did to provoke their fear, other than exist. There’s nothing we can do to earn their approval, except stop existing – so we can either die like they want, or laugh at their cowardice and go on with our lives.

But there are none so frightened, or so strange in their fear, as conquerors. They conjure phantoms endlessly, terrified that their victims will someday do back what was done to them—even if, in truth, their victims couldn’t care less about such pettiness and have moved on. Conquerors live in dread of the day when they are shown to be, not superior, but simply lucky.

Well, some worlds are built on a fault line of pain, held up by nightmares. Don’t lament when those worlds fall. Rage that they were built doomed in the first place.

But for a society build on exploitation, there is no greater threat than having no one left to oppress.

How can we prepare for the future if we won’t acknowledge the past?

When a slave rebels, it is nothing much to the people who read about it later. Just thin words on thinner paper worn finer by the friction of history. (“So you were slaves, so what?” they whisper. Like it’s nothing.)

When we say that “the world has ended,” remember – it is usually a lie. The planet is just fine.

To those who’ve survived: Breathe. That’s it. Once more. Good. You’re good. Even if you’re not, you’re alive. That is a victory.

Conquerors live in dread of the day when they are shown to be, not superior, but simply lucky.

The Fulcrum is not the first institution to have learned an eternal truth of humankind: No need for guards when you can convince people to collaborate in their own internment.

But breathing doesn’t always mean living, and maybe… maybe genocide doesn’t always leave bodies.

Don’t be patient. Don’t ever be. This is the way a new world begins.

Syl Anagist's assimilation of the world had been over a century before I was ever made; all cities were Syl Anagist. All languages had become Sylanagistine. But there were none so frightened, or so strange in their fear, as conquerors. They conjure phantoms endlessly, terrified that their victims will someday do back what was done to them - even if, in truth, their victims couldn't care less about such pettiness and have moved on. Conquerors live in dread of the day when they are shown to be, not superior, but simply lucky.

And then we will understand that people cannot be possessions. And because we are both and this should not be, a new concept will take shape within us, though we have never heard the word for it because the conductors are forbidden to even mention it in our presence. Revolution.

Nassun frowns. “What’s genocide?” He smiles again, but it is sad. “If every orogene is hunted down and slain, and if the neck of every orogene infant born thereafter is wrung, and if every one like me who carries the trait is killed or effectively sterilized, and if even the notion that orogenes are human is denied … that would be genocide. Killing a people, down to the very idea of them as a people.” “Oh.” Nassun feels queasy again, inexplicably. “But that’s …” Schaffa inclines his head, acknowledging her unspoken But that’s what’s been happening

Orogene.” It’s petty, maybe. Because of Ykka’s insistence on making rogga a use-caste name, all the stills are tossing the word around like it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not petty. It means something. “Not ‘rogga.’ You don’t get to say ‘rogga.’ You haven’t earned that.

Say nothing to me of innocent bystanders, unearned suffering, heartless vengeance. When a comm builds atop a fault line, do you blame its walls when they inevitably crush the people inside? No; you blame whoever was stupid enough to think they could defy the laws of nature forever. Well, some worlds are built on a fault line of pain, held up by nightmares. Don’t lament when those worlds fall. Rage that they were built doomed in the first place.

Some worlds are built on a fault line of pain, held up by nightmares. Don’t lament when those worlds fall. Rage that they were built doomed in the first place.

You know the end to this. Don't you? How could you be here listening to this tale if you didn't? But sometimes it is the how of a thing, not just the endgame, that matters most.

We will never be anything but strange to them. I answer in angry basso push-wave throbs. This is not about them.

So where they should have seen a living being, they saw only another thing to exploit. Where they should have asked, or left alone, they raped.

Because that is how one survives eternity,” I say, “or even a few years. Friends. Family. Moving with them. Moving forward.

This is our role: To weave together those disparate energies. To manipulate and mitigate and, through the prism of our awareness, produce a singular force that cannot be denied. To make of cacophony, symphony.

Time grows short, my love. Let’s end with the beginning of the world, shall we? Yes. We shall.

and that this was the source of their magical peculiarity. This was what made them not the same kind of human as everyone else. Eventually: not as human as everyone else. Finally: not human at all.

And yet because you are essential, you cannot be permitted to have a choice in the matter. You must be tools—and tools cannot be people. Guardians keep the tool … and to the degree possible, while still retaining the tool’s usefulness, kill the person.

I definitely haven’t been in the best place while working on this book, but I can say this much: Where there is pain in this book, it is real pain; where there is anger, it is real anger; where there is love, it is real love. You’ve been taking this journey with me, and you’re always going to get the best of what I’ve got. That’s what my mother would want.

for a society built on exploitation, there is no greater threat than having no one left to oppress.

Don’t lament when those worlds fall. Rage that they were built doomed in the first place.