He stood on the citadel of the Mesarthim, and it was not of this world, and he was not who he had been. “So you could be anyone,” Sarai had said once. “A prince, even.” But Lazlo was not a prince. He was a god. And this was not a game to him. He nodded to Minya, and the space where his legend was gathering up words grew larger. Because this story was not over yet.
