Steven Poore

Your tills are talking to me and want me to take them home. Does this often happen?

Your fortune teller cursed me. Foul spirits haunt every supermarket I go to. I can't show my face in Morrisons.

This is the twilight shift, dear. Neither here nor there. But if you go into the dark, there'll be no turning back. Stay out of the office and you'll be happy. Trust me.

Speculative fiction both requires and rewards an open mind.

This is what a castle sounded like when it died, and he knew he would never forget it.

Never accept help from a dragon. Dragons do not offer help. They offer fate.

Here's a tragedy for you. Arca the Brave, one of the last heroes of Cape Magister, the man who held the line at the Usurper's Fields, who saw even the mighty Guhl fall and die... now he sleeps on my floor and begs for scraps like a dog. Perhaps there are some wars that are not worth fighting.

Men may act as cruelly as dragons, but dragons will never act as men do.

I wondered: if I was so hell-bent on chaos, why would I adopt a military rank? Perhaps there was a part of me that needed rules, needed regulations and order.

All true Northerners should bare steel to their enemies, and stand true to the course they have chosen, for when the heart is divided by fear then the battle is already lost.

Just a girl? Hardly. In Hellea, you were a boy, a storyteller, a rogue who infiltrated the deepest cellars of the greatest library in the world. A born trickster as well. Before that, what were you? A warrior trained by a prince, a storyteller's daughter. And more, I should think. But never just a girl, Cassia.