That was one of the inherent flaws of faith. Belief without knowing. But worse yet: belief without action. It could be good in its own right. Beautiful, even, when embraced, but that had to be measured. Checked. Too many surrendered themselves to it. What they did not see was simple fact. Religion did not bring peace. It merely offered a means. It was up to man to create peace.

That was magic, sweetest.” The witch flexed her fingers, wriggled them in front of her. “Did she think it a wave of the hands? A slip of the tongue?” A kiss upon her skin. She could see the woman reaching out and taking her in hand, kissing each finger as though they were her possessions. Then it was gone. Charlotte blinked. The woman had not stirred. “Not all things are so simple. I was he and he was me and I took your poison into myself, and made it his. All things join beneath the earth. I burned, then so did he. More will burn. Come hair or wool, more will burn.

Even corpses had purpose, or could be given one. A man could make himself an island his entire life, only to have reason itself laid about him, a fabricated existence. Identity became relative, history nonexistent. As they said, dead men told no tales.

Logic kills. Faith burns. Better to be the one with the torch than the one on the pyre.

Are we not all one flesh? One mind? A sword brings power. Knowledge brings coin. With either, one can make blood reckoned, can earn names. The only thing that differs between a noble man and a working man is that they have now, while the other does not have it yet. Such things can be taken. They are always taken.

Say what you will, dear sister, we do what we do for the promise of our youth. Yet it is always they who scar beneath the points of daggers.

Everyone was trying to forget something, but they could never seem to find the way to do it. All they ever seemed to do was make it worse. Such quiet madness, the masses led.

Everything burned, everyone lied, and no one paid for it but the ones in the muck.

Hold mirth tight against your breast, but answer every injury with bladed heart.

All men were tools, as she saw it. Dangerous tools, when roused, but that was why one took care in efforts of control. It all came back to leverage. It wasn’t enough to ask a man if he would kill his brother. One had to make him see the consequences if he did not. Then one could only ask, which would he choose: brother or daughter? For all that kin might mean, most would choose the daughter.

The simple truth? History was never simply history. If it was anything it was another collar—another means to control.

Madness is a regenerating thing. Like a phoenix, when one strand dies, another burns anew.

Duty and honor are oft enough realm only for those with security to afford them.

Without shame, without conscience.