Over time, Freedman's name had never stayed the same.
Oktar. Lebella. Taknus.
Each name borrowed, each identity stolen.
That was the nature of a parasite—a demon born to imitate, to steal what belonged to others and wear it as their own.
They were the lowest of the low. The race even other demons despised. Creatures who survived by crawling beneath others' skins.
Freedman hated that.
He hated the way they whispered the word parasite like it was filth.
He hated that his very existence depended on theft.
And yet…
'But if I were to become a king…'
The thought struck him like lightning—mad, impossible, but glorious.
'If I could rise above the crawling and the hiding… if I could become the Faceless Imposter… then my name would no longer be borrowed.'
'It would be mine.'
The idea burned through him like a fever.
Velra no longer mattered. The noble vampire's dying breath was irrelevant compared to this revelation.
