"Entertain me."
Those two words echoed endlessly in the hollow, fractured caverns of his mind. They didn't just ring; they clawed furiously at the inside of his skull, a divine, absolute mockery of his suffering.
God wanted him to entertain Him? Was this vast, sprawling world so painfully boring, so utterly devoid of consequence, that Devin's absolute ruin—the slaughter of his father, the butchering of his sister, the desecration of his home—made him the creator's chosen court jester? Was his profound tragedy the catalyst for God's first contact in this world?
Devin thought about the sheer, sickening arrogance of that mandate as the rushing abyss of his resurrection finally spat him out.
The transition was anything but gentle. The agonizing memory of the mechanical Cyprian sword chewing through his chest lingered like a phantom fire, burning hot and violent. But the sensation was quickly, jarringly overwritten by a barrage of new, entirely foreign stimuli.
The sharp, earthy aroma of roasted beans. The loud clatter of heavy ceramic mugs. The low, rhythmic hum of a dozen overlapping conversations.
Devin opened his eyes. The blinding, oppressive white light of the divine realm was gone, instantly replaced by the warm, amber glow of hanging oil lanterns.
He wasn't standing in a void. He was standing behind a wooden counter.
Before him stood a young woman, likely similar in age to his elder sister, Bridget. Her face was a blurry silhouette at first, distorted by the hot, heavy tears streaming relentlessly down his own cheeks. He was weeping openly, his chest heaving with the residual, crushing grief of a massacre that, to his mind, had just happened seconds ago.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice cutting sharply through the ambient noise of the room.
Devin blinked hard, forcing the tears away, and she finally came into sharp focus. She was strikingly beautiful, with bright eyes that held a strange mixture of deep concern and mild exasperation.
"Zain," she pressed, leaning in closer over the counter, "are you alright? You just started crying out of nowhere."
Zain. The name didn't register at first. Devin choked on a breath, nodding reflexively. "I'm... I'm alright," he managed to croak.
He stopped. His voice sounded completely alien to his own ears. It was deeper, slightly raspier than the Prince's refined tone.
He looked around, his heart hammering, desperately trying to anchor himself. He was in a shop. It was modest in size, but bursting with life. Wooden tables were crammed with patrons sipping dark liquids from steaming cups, tearing into fresh pastries, and engaged in animated, boisterous banter.
It was a suffocatingly normal scene. A peaceful, mundane chaos that felt entirely offensive to the bloody war zone he had just died in.
"Zain, are you okay?" the girl called out again, her tone sharpening with genuine worry.
It finally clicked. She kept calling him Zain.
Devin slowly looked down at his hands. They were resting flat on the polished wood of the counter. They were rougher, larger, bearing small, faded scars that he had never earned. He wasn't wearing his royal ceremonial tunic; he was wearing a simple, canvas apron.
He wasn't Prince Devin Trangdar anymore. He was Zain.
Curse God. Devin gritted his new teeth, a fresh wave of venomous, boiling hatred washing over him. He should have been brought back in his own body. He should have risen from the cold cobblestones of his ruined courtyard with the strength to rip the throats out of those Cyprian beasts. But no. That would be too simple. This humiliation, this forced masquerade in the skin of a peasant barista, was all part of His twisted amusement.
SMACK!
A sharp, explosive sting erupted across his left cheek, instantly snapping his head violently to the side.
The physical shock of the slap yanked him out of his spiraling, vengeful thoughts. He stumbled back against the wooden shelves behind the counter, his hand flying to his stinging face.
She was not only beautiful, but she was ferocious.
"What the hell was that?!" Devin shouted, the dormant arrogance of a murdered prince momentarily flaring up in Zain's raspy voice.
The girl stood her ground, though her hands were visibly trembling. Tears welled in her own eyes now, born of sheer frustration. "You weren't paying attention to me!" she shot back, her voice cracking. "You were staring off into nothing, crying like you'd just watched someone die, and you wouldn't answer me! You scared me, Zain!"
The anger drained from Devin as quickly as it had surfaced. She was right. He was a ghost haunting a stolen body, failing spectacularly to play the part.
He quickly lowered his voice, rubbing his burning cheek. "I... I'm sorry. I apologize. I was just... thinking about some things. Bad memories. That's all."
She studied him for a long, tense moment, her chest heaving slightly, before her shoulders finally slumped. She accepted the lie.
As the shift dragged on, the scattered pieces of this new life slowly began to fall into place.