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Summary
“Liar...” The word felt like a sharp dagger on Cazador’s tongue, prolonging his endless agony.
“Not at all, my little poet! Lying is not my speciality. Magic is,” Mephisto responded, as if they were discussing the weather. “Have you figured out who I am by now? Surely, such a smart boy has pieced it together. Not that I was particularly secretive.”
“I know who you are,” Cazador rasped.
“Humour me, then. Speak my name. Say it out loud.”