“Everyone knew Arlathan Forest was haunted, wracked by old elven magic that lingered centuries later, dangerous and uncontrolled. A monument to the elves' lack of discipline, an old magister had once told Myrion.”
"Vir Assan," Strife said. "The Way of the Arrow. Be swift and silent, strike true, and do not waver. It's a hunter's saying, but in this case, we're the prey.”
“Death walked with every Warden, and you learned to bury grief beneath duty. Easier to do that, it seemed, before grief's edge had been honed by love and friendship. But regret had a weight of its own, and he wished he'd seen that sooner.”
"Vir Adahlen," Strife said, and grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. "Way of the Woods. Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Normally that means the food you catch and eat. In this case, the gift of the hunt is me knowing about this little hill."
“Vir Bor'assan, Strife thought, keeping his eyes on the guard. It was one of the first things the Dalish had taught him. The Way of the bow: as the sapling bends, so must you.
In yielding, find resilience; in pliancy, find strength.”