Isandros was tired. Tired of blind men who saw the world as a chessboard, black and white. Tired of gallant heroes who saved lives by taking lives, tired of being a gallant hero. Tired of kings and queens who tried to use him as chess pieces, some of them preaching about peace and happiness, some of them fighting for peace and happiness. And utterly, utterly, tired of fighting for honor, of loyalty to kingdoms that didn’t deserve it. He didn’t regret any of it, of course. They were all pieces and fragments of him, the memories and actions that had led him here, who he was today, with three God titles under his belt. Saving people’s lives was all very well and good, but it was time he did something for himself. Not for others, not for kings and queens and those blasted nobles, not for the people who clung to him like molluscs because they were afraid of dying and wanted the Noble-and-Gracious-and-Forgiving-and-All-Powerful-Hero to save them from wars they had caused themselves. No. He was going to do it, because it had been their dream, before they had started running around everywhere, so busy with being heroes. And now that she was gone, her spirit risen to another world but her legends solidified into myths and stories, he was going to accomplish it. Their dream. For her, and for himself. He was going to have fun.