Who exactly is Lotjed? The question circled like a starving vulture in the fractured, chaotic caverns of Devin's mind. He stood shivering in the exact center of the butchered room.
He was entirely naked. His stolen, muscular skin painted in the rapidly coagulating, rust-colored blood of the girl he had unwillingly murdered.
Every single passing second felt like a physical, suffocating weight pressing down on his chest. The copper stench of the room was making him lightheaded.
He thought back to the very few, fleeting interactions he had shared with the man. Devin had only truly seen him once after Lotjed officially stepped away from his role as the head of Trangdar's royal security. That single, isolated encounter was late at night in the palace gardens. It was the night the old man slipped him this exact trail line frequency, written on a piece of heavily encrypted parchment.
Lotjed had looked at the young prince with those ancient, calculating eyes and told him it was a line to be used only when the crown itself could not save him.
Was this trail line only supposed to be for me? he wondered, staring at the brass phone on the floor. A frequency tied entirely to my specific, biological existence?
If so, how did it connect when dialed from the stolen, unregistered brass phone of a Cyprian sleeper agent? Did Lotjed recognize the vibration of his soul over the monstrous vessel he wore?
KNOCK. KNOCK.
A sharp, incredibly authoritative rap on the thin wooden door violently dragged Devin back to his bloody reality.
He flinched. His feral, venom-laced muscles twitched instinctively, ready to strike, ready to tear apart whoever stood on the other side. He had to force the Cyprian biology down with sheer willpower.
"Devin. Open up, it's me."
The raspy, muffled voice commanding him from the hallway was unmistakable.
Panic and profound relief collided in Devin's throat, nearly choking him. He quickly rushed to the door, his bare, bloody feet sticking slightly to the floorboards with a sickening shhhk sound. He didn't even attempt to throw a tunic over his gore-soaked body. He didn't try to obscure the horrific massacre resting on the bed behind him. How could he possibly tidy this up, anyway? It wasn't a mess. It was a slaughterhouse.
His trembling fingers fumbled with the heavy iron deadbolt. He threw the latch and pulled the door open.
Lotjed stood in the dimly lit hallway. He was draped in a heavy, dark traveling cloak that obscured his features and swallowed the ambient light. But the moment the door cracked open, the old man stepped inside with the fluid, terrifying speed of an apex predator.
He didn't walk; he glided. He quickly kicked the wooden door shut behind him, throwing the deadbolt and sealing them in the copper-scented tomb.
Lotjed didn't look at the pulverized furniture. He didn't look at the blood splattered in violent arcs across the cheap plaster. He didn't even glance at the mangled, unrecognizable remains of Emerald resting on the ruined mattress.
His eyes, sharp, ancient, and unyielding, locked entirely onto Devin.
Without a single word of hesitation, and without a shred of disgust at the thick gore coating his grandson's skin, Lotjed stepped forward and immediately pulled him into a fierce, crushing embrace.
It was the desperate, breathless hug of a man who thought his bloodline had been entirely erased from the earth.
Devin stood completely frozen. His bloody arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, stunned by the sheer, uncalculated warmth of the gesture. He was a monster, covered in sin, being held by a legend.
But the warmth lasted only a fraction of a second.
Lotjed stiffened.
He pulled back abruptly, his calloused hands gripping Devin's bare shoulders like iron vises. His thick brow furrowed, a deep, dangerous confusion violently shadowing his scarred face as he physically processed the vessel standing before him.
The old assassin looked at the broader shoulders. He looked at the rougher, sharper jawline. He stared at the subtle, dark veins pulsing unnaturally beneath the pale skin—the unmistakable, biological marks of Zain Ricky's venomous mutation.
"You're not Devin," Lotjed whispered.
His voice was suddenly thick with a dangerous, lethal edge. The grandfather was gone; the Royal Cleaner had arrived. Lotjed's right hand twitched, instinctively dropping from Devin's shoulder to reach toward the hilt of a curved, wickedly sharp dagger hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.
Devin didn't breathe. He knew with absolute certainty that if Lotjed drew that blade, Zain Ricky's body would be dead before it hit the floor.
But Lotjed didn't draw the blade.
He froze, his hand resting on the pommel, staring deeply, intensely into Devin's eyes. The silence in the bloody room stretched until it felt like the very air might snap.
Lotjed was searching for something. And then, he found it.
His grip on the dagger loosened. His expression shifted rapidly from murderous suspicion to profound, existential shock.
"But... you are Devin," he breathed, the words barely audible over the hammering of Devin's own heart. "How?"
The realization hit Devin like a physical blow to the chest. This perfectly mirrored his terrifying encounter with Fenrys at Marinakas the day prior.
Is it possible? Devin thought, his mind racing. Is it possible for sub-humans I was exceptionally close to—those who possess the exact same genetic anomaly—to physically feel the resonance of my old soul? Was the Holy Gene acting as a divine, invisible beacon beneath this monstrous flesh? Was that the situation with Fenrys? And if so, did God know this massive, glaring flaw existed in His perfect camouflage?
"Lotjed, it's me," Devin finally croaked, his stolen, raspy voice trembling under the weight of the moment.
He desperately needed to unload the burden. The isolation was crushing him. He almost began frantically explaining his horrific predicament right then and there. He wanted to tell Lotjed about the blinding white realm. About the absolute, sickening cruelty of the creator. He wanted to explain how he was punished with the twisted, dark ability of Soul Swap.
He opened his mouth, the heavy words gathering rapidly on his tongue.
But before a single syllable of the divine truth could escape his lips, the world simply ceased to exist.
He didn't pass out. The universe was violently, unapologetically ripped away from him.
The suffocating stench of drying blood, the damp, rotting wood of the apartment, the bewildered, scarred face of his grandfather—it all vanished into an absolute, rushing void.
It didn't take a genius to realize what was happening. He had called him once again.
God.