Chapter 5: The Dawn of Resolve

(Ethan’s POV)

The dawn softly seeps through the wooden window, casting gentle rays of gold on my face. The fire in the hearth has flickered out, leaving just a wisp of smoke and a warmth that smells like remnants of yesterday’s dreams. For a moment, I stay still, soaking in the sounds of life stirring anew—the distant chirping of birds, women chatting as they gather water, and the familiar creak of Martha’s footsteps on the floorboards.

It’s a new morning, a fresh start, and another chance to live again.

The aroma of herbs wafts into the room, mingling with the subtle scent of freshly baked bread. Martha’s voice floats through our little cottage, humming a lullaby—a tune she used to sing to me as a child in all my past lives. It tugs at my heartstrings. Even after seven lives, that melody feels like home.

Then I hear Jane’s giggle. That sound could heal entire kingdoms. She’s already up, her tiny feet pattering on the floor as her mother styles her hair. I fully open my eyes, letting the morning light wash over me. It’s a new day… but honestly, it doesn’t feel new to me. Each sunrise feels borrowed. Each breath feels like I'm stealing moments from death itself.

Martha comes into the room, her hair pulled back, her face a mix of love and concern. “Ethan,” she says gently yet firmly, “it’s time to wake up, dear. Morning’s already here.”

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes to hide the heaviness inside. She places a bowl of porridge beside me, smiling. “You need to build your strength, little one. We’ll head to the market later to see what we can trade.”

“Martha,” I say softly, looking up at her. “Before we go, I… I have to change something.”

She freezes mid-motion, raising an eyebrow. “Change something? What do you mean?”

I run my fingers through my hair—the same hair that once caught attention in every palace hallway. It’s crimson red, like embers—my father's royal crest's color. It is both a sign of power and a curse.

“I want to dye it,” I say quietly. “Black.”

Her eyes widen. “Dye it? Why would you want to do that, Ethan? Your hair is beautiful—just like your father’s. It’s part of who you are.”

“That’s exactly the issue,” I reply, my voice steady. “It’s who I am, and that’s what could get us killed.”

She just stares at me for a while, caught between shock and confusion. “Ethan,” she finally says, “you’re only five. You shouldn’t be thinking about things like this. Let me—”

“I have to,” I cut in, meeting her gaze. “If anyone sees me like this, they’ll know who I am. They’ll tell her.”

The words hang heavy in the air. “Her.” Queen Lunice, my grandmother, the woman stained with royal blood.

Martha’s lips press together tightly. “Ethan…” she starts but then stops. I can see the conflict in her eyes. She wants to argue, but something in my tone—something about how I said it—brings silence.

It’s the same silence she’s had in all my past lives before she’d finally answered, “Okay.”

So she sighs and gives a small nod. "If it makes you feel safer, we can dye it." But we’ll need something dark—maybe ashes, oil, and a bit of clay.”

As she prepares the mixture, I watch her hands work with practiced speed and strength. I think about how many times those hands have saved me—how often they’ve bled for me.

When she finishes, she kneels beside me, dipping her fingers into the bowl. “Close your eyes,” she murmurs.

The cold mixture touches my scalp, soaking into my hair. It’s an odd sensation—like washing away the warmth of my old life. The red fades to black, one stroke at a time. I feel lighter, almost invisible. It’s oddly liberating.

When she’s done, she brushes a stray lock from my forehead and smiles faintly. “There, no one would ever guess you were a prince.”

Her words are meant to soothe, but they sting. Because it’s true—I’m not a prince anymore, not for now. I am merely a cursed child hiding behind another name.

I glance at the mirror next to the bed and barely recognize the boy staring back at me. The red is gone, replaced by a deep black that makes my pale skin seem ghostly. My cursed mark, the twisted scar beneath my left eye, looks even darker now.

I touch it carefully, wincing. “We’ll need to hide this too.”

Martha nods slowly, understanding. “The mark… they’re looking for it.”

“Yes.”

In another life, I learned to cover it with powder made from crushed herbs and burnt bark. I still remember the formula—every ratio, every stir. So I teach her, step by step. She listens intently, almost as if she’s following the guidance of an elder instead of a child.

She looked at me intently, as if she wanted to ask how I knew all of this, but she didn't say anything.

Once we’re done, she applies the powder carefully, her fingers light against my skin. “There,” she says softly, smiling. “Perfect. No one will recognize you now.”

I give a small nod. “Thank you.”

But inside, something is changing.