When Martins was fourteen years old, his chance for reconnaissance finally came. He devoured any information he could find. He listened to the gossip of the market women and to the talk of the city guards who frequented his father's workshop to have their cloaks mended.
He learned that King Fredon and Queen Anora still ruled, and that his eldest royal blood brother, Prince Ray, was even more of a tyrant-in-training than anyone had suspected.
He also learned, with a jolt that felt like another star-metal dagger to the heart, that the Queen had given birth again—a girl, a princess. The news fueled his hatred, making it burn brighter and colder. The dynasty had continued, unconcerned and unmourned. He was literally and figuratively beneath their notice.
The annual Royal Procession, celebrating the kingdom's founding, would wind through the city streets.
Ivana and Marvin had prepared martins for this great ceremony, as the commoners would be allowed into the Royal Palace.
It was the perfect opportunity to see his enemies up close, to study their faces, and to harden his resolve. He needed to know every nook and cranny of the house since it had been years since he entered the palace; he had literally forgotten every entrance to each department of the house.
He was dressed in the attire his parents had struggled to buy for him, but he wasn't as elegant as he used to be, and he wasn't that comfortable in those outfits. For all his ten years on earth with his formal family, he had always been dressed in royal attire. But he had no other choice but to manage with what was available that his parents could offer.
Martins stood between his parents observing the different parts of the house his eyes could capture, his father's strong hand was placed on his right shoulder, while his mother was holding his left hand firmly to her chest in love.
The trumpets blared. The crowd roared. First came the guard, their polished armor gleaming, their faces still hidden. Then followed by the court officials. And finally, the royal family.
King Fredon looked older; his iron-grey beard was now shot through with white, and his face was more deeply lined, but his eyes were the same: hard, calculating, and cold.
Queen Anora was still as beautiful as before, still sharp, her gaze sweeping over the crowd as if she were inventorying assets.
Prince Ray, now a full-grown man, looked bored and arrogant, flicking his fingers as if to shoo away the adoration of the peasants.
And then there was the new royal carriage, smaller and open-topped. In it sat a nurse, and beside her, a little girl: Princess Lyra.
She couldn't have been more than ten years old. She had a mess of curly golden hair that refused to be constrained by its ribbon and wide, curious eyes the color of violets. She wasn't waving regally; she was sitting so far over the side of the carriage.
She was staring at the crowd, at the vendors, at a stray dog chasing its tail, with an expression of utterly rapturous wonder. "What a beaut! Martins exclaimed.
The carriage the princess was sitting in passed directly in front of John. A small, chubby hand dropped a tiny wooden doll clad in a ridiculous helmet. It landed in the dust of the street right by Martin's feet.
The little princess's face crumpled. A single, perfect tear rolled down her cheek. It was not a royal, commanding cry, but a silent, genuine moment of childhood despair.
Without thinking, John darted forward. He scooped up the doll, brushed off the dust, and reached up just as the carriage paused for a moment. Then the carriage moved on.
Martins stood frozen in the street, his heart hammering not with hatred, but with something else—something terrifying. The image of her smile was burned into his vision. It was the absolute antithesis of everything his family—his old family—stood for.
After the event, he walked home quietly with his parents, without uttering a word. All that filled his mind was the thought of the princess and what had transpired between them. His plan, his glorious, hate-fueled plan, developed its first crack. Life went on.
The crack, however, did not heal; it widened. Against his will, against his very reason for existing, he found himself drawn to any news of the princess.
She is kind, the baker's wife said, always asking after the kitchen cats when she visited the markets with her nurse. She was curious, a guard mentioned, always asking questions about how things worked, from the catapults on the walls to how bread rose. She was, by all accounts, nothing like her family.
Martin's magic grew stronger at Sixteen. He kept practicing, not for vengeance anymore, but because the magic was a part of him. And control was the only way to feel safe in a world that had already betrayed him once.
His conflict was a constant, silent war within his own soul. The ghost of Prince Rayon screamed for revenge. But Martins, the weaver's son, remembered a violet-eyed girl with a sunny smile. He wished he didn't meet her, but he must accomplish what he came for. He must silence those that cut his dream off.
This looks exactly like a war for him, a silent one that he couldn't even voice out to anyone. This was more like a dilemma.
Some of the reason he reincarnated back was to know why King Fredon killed him. He already knew he possessed some magical powers, but why was he eliminated immediately after he used them? He also demanded to know why the queen didn't intervene and allowed the execution to proceed without disrupting it with the little she could do. Because mothers are emotional, she wouldn't just sit and watch her own son being executed.
These are the questions that gave him more sleepless nights. Until he gets the answers, he won't be fulfilled.