Life isn't made of choices, it's made of trades. Some are good, some are bad, but they all have a cost.

Holland stared at his own hand, the knife’s edge crimson.
They left they body where it fell.
And brought another in.
“No,” snarled Holland at the sight of him. A boy from the kitchens, hardly fourteen, who looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Help,” he begged.
Then they brought another.
And another.
One by one, Athos and Astrid paraded the remains of Vor’s life before Holland, instructing him again and again to cut their throats. Every time, he tried to fight the order. Every time, he failed. Every time, he had to look them in their eyes and see the hatred, the betrayal, the anguished confusion before he cut them down.
The bodies piled. Athos watched. Astrid grinned.
Holland’s hand moved on its puppet string.
And his mind screamed until it finally lost its voice.

Fencing is a game of living chess, a match where reflexes only work in combination with intent, and mind and body must work together at every moment.

For someone who never stood still, Lila felt like a pin in Kell's world. One he was sure to snag on.

She used to think that if she stole enough, the want would fade, the hunger would go away, but maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of what she didn’t have, of what she wasn’t, but what she was.

Ah, there you are, Bard,” came a familiar voice, and she turned to see Alucard striding over.
“Saints, is that a dress you’re in? The crew will never believe it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” growled Kell.