A/N: How Morzan became a dragon rider.
Chapter 2
The Son of the Whore
As usual, the child lurked behind the half-rotten boat near the tavern's entrance—a vessel that sometimes served as his bed for the night. Or at least, for the hours when his mother entertained one of her usual lovers. His companions were the harbor rats and mangy cats, seeking refuge in the same boat on cold winter nights.
None of the regular patrons could recall when this peculiar decoration had appeared, or if there had ever been a time when it wasn't there. In truth, the tavern keeper's father-in-law—a former sailor who once owned the boat—had originally left the small skiff by his shop's entrance, intending to sell it.
Either it had never fetched the price he had hoped for, or its sentimental value outweighed whatever sum it could have earned. So it remained in the same spot, even as the tavern changed hands.
The boy nestled behind the boat and waited. Each time a patron pushed the tavern door open, a surge of rancid oil, suffocating heat, stale food, and sour wine spilled into the night for a few fleeting moments, making his empty stomach churn. When a large group of men descended the two steps separating the inner hall from the entrance, he seized the moment—darting in behind them and slipping beneath the empty tables along the edges of the room.
As night settled over the harbor's piers and the streets emptied of honest folk, the tavern filled with old sailors, dockworkers, boatswains, seafarers, and castaways. Only then did the boy timidly emerge from his hiding place, slipping into the drunken crowd, begging.
Tonight, he was lucky—the tavern keeper hadn't spotted him immediately to chase him out with kicks. Wine had flowed freely, and most were already deep in their cups. The boy clung to the hope of earning a scrap of bread.
Yes, he knew this well—he had to earn his food, for nothing was ever freely given to him. Before they tossed him a crust of bread or the head of a herring, he would first have to do everything in his power to amuse them.
The boy stood in the center of the dimly lit hall and began to dance, spinning on his bare, skinny legs. He followed with a few harbor jokes and performed endless antics, drawing bursts of laughter from the drunken crowd.
Many times, the boy's mere appearance provoked laughter. His long, awkward legs—bare and thin—invited ridicule as he moved them clumsily back and forth. The same went for his mismatched eyes, one blue and the other black. Though he always tried to hide this deformity beneath his long, raven-black hair, those eyes inevitably became the target of the cruelest taunts.
"Hey, bastard!" shouted one of the dockworkers from a group that had already drunk far more than they should have. Just moments earlier, they had been on the verge of coming to blows, but the boy's presence had prevented it. "Did your mother have a fling with a blue-eyed man and a dark-eyed one at the same time? Is that why you've got eyes from both of them?"
The boy lowered his head and bit his lips hard until they hurt.
"See what happens when you've got too many fathers?" shouted another man. "Each one gave you something, so you've got no reason to complain!" And the whole group burst into laughter.
And so, they tormented him until boredom set in, tossed him some scraps, and forgot about him. The boy withdrew into his corner, sitting quietly as he gnawed on the hard crust and the bone he had fought so hard to earn.
Then, he stepped out once more into the night.
He looked around, breathing in the salty breeze carried by the gentle spring winds—sweeping in from the sea and curling through the narrow, grimy alleyways of the city. The boy judged it was still too early to return to his mother's shack. Too early, because she likely hadn't yet rid herself of her company, and he had no desire to cause trouble by showing up and bothering one of her clients. So, he settled into the hollow of the boat—after first chasing away two cats—and set about counting the stars.
How many there were up there in the heavens! They seemed to multiply as they flickered, as if calling out to him. How he longed to rise up one night… to soar like a night bird and reach them! But his brief moment of delight did not last. Soon, his heart sank once more into misery. The stars might have been beautiful, but they were distant—far away, up there. The world down here was awful. Especially for him.
The tavern door creaked, and two men stepped into the narrow alley. The boy shrank as deep as he could into the boat, holding his breath so they wouldn't see him. What he had experienced earlier was the better side of the tavern. But he knew its worst side too.
If a patron drank too much and the boy became a nuisance, or if the tavern keeper got his hands on him when no one compassionate was around to intervene, he rarely escaped without kicks or slaps. And if someone lost a coin or misplaced a handkerchief, he was always the one accused of stealing.
Of course, a couple of times, those accusations weren't entirely false—he had swiped small things before—but he usually saved that for the open spaces of the harbor and the marketplace, places where he could run and vanish.
Especially after the terrible incident last winter—the memory of which made his legs tremble and his stomach clench.
.*.
That winter night had been bitterly cold—the one when they tormented him so. A biting wind sliced through the narrow alleys, freezing his face, numbing his hands and bare feet, and cutting through his thin shirt, sending shivers down his spine.
The boy couldn't bear to stay in the boat any longer, so he slipped into the tavern early. He danced until his skinny legs ached, told every filthy joke he had overheard from the sailors, and even performed somersaults on the stained floor. He poured his soul into entertaining them, making everyone laugh. Then, one of them—a boatswain, known around the harbor for his hard heart—called the boy to sit at the table and placed a full plate of food in front of him.
The boy stared at him with his mismatched eyes, bewildered. But the man urged him to eat. Perhaps the boatswain had been so amused—or simply so drunk—that he had ordered a plate of food for the boy.
The child dove into the meal—luck had never shone on him so brightly before—and emptied the plate before his benefactor could even blink.
The boatswain found this hilarious and ordered a jug of wine for the boy, insisting—amid laughter and teasing—that he drink it all in one go. The boy choked, the sour taste of the wine repulsed him, but he knew his benefactor would be angry if he refused.
Between gasps, retches, and coughs, he emptied the jug. Through his dizziness, the boy could hear the men around him laughing and jeering, the tavern keeper's voice cutting through, demanding payment. Then, the boatswain reached for a coin in his belt—and didn't find it where it should have been.
The man's laughter vanished as if by magic. Fury consumed every fiber of his muscular frame, and his rage erupted upon the boy beside him. Grabbing the child by his scrawny legs, he flipped him upside down, ripping at his patched shirt and rifling through his trouser pockets. Then, he slammed the boy's small hand onto the wooden table, shouting for him to return the stolen coin and threatening him with terrible vengeance.
The boy writhed, swearing he had neither seen the coin nor touched it, but the boatswain held him fast with arms like iron clamps. Finally, drawing a dagger from his belt, he severed the last joint of the boy's little finger, wrenching a scream of terror and pain from him. He might have done worse if the other patrons hadn't intervened, pulling the boy from his grasp and spiriting him out into the night.
The boy staggered back to the shack he shared with his mother, perched at the edge of the harbor beneath the city walls. Seeing him in such a state, she hurriedly sent away the man who had been sharing her bed that night. She tended to his wound until the bleeding stopped, wrapping his hand with clean linen torn from one of her own undergarments. Once he had calmed, she held him close, whispering comforting words.
And that night, for the first time, the boy heard that his father and mother had loved each other.
They were both poor—he, a sailor from a northern town whose ship regularly docked at Teirm; she, a maid in the house of a wealthy merchant—but they had planned to marry as soon as they had saved a little money.
"Just one more voyage," his father had told his mother, "and we'll have the money we need."
But they were young, and their love pulled them irresistibly toward each other, so they rushed to be together. When the sailor left, the young woman hadn't yet realized she was pregnant. Months passed, but the sailor never returned. Meanwhile, the swelling of the maid's belly became undeniable, leading to her dismissal from the merchant's house.
Alone and desperate, she settled in a shack on the outskirts of the harbor and city, searching for work to support herself and the baby she was expecting. Most of the time, she took in laundry; at other times, she managed to work as a waitress, cook, or cleaner in taverns. But as her belly grew, she was often dismissed, forcing her into the seediest corners of the harbor.
Every day, she searched, asking after her beloved, but no one had seen or heard anything of him. And then, just weeks before she was due to give birth, the terrible news reached her.
Her beloved's ship fell prey to foreign pirates. Before the dragon riders and their dragons could intervene and destroy them, the scoundrels had already slaughtered some of the bravest men—including him.
So, the unfortunate woman accepted that she would give birth alone, without a husband, and to the dreadful fate awaiting her and her child in a society that did not forgive moral transgressions.
When the baby came into the world, the woman's situation worsened. No one would take her in as a laundress or hire her in their shop as a waitress. The little money she had once earned was now completely gone. Then one night, driven mad by hunger, she left the baby alone in the shack, wailing, and went out to the harbor. The descent was easy—especially for a young woman alone with a child, shunned by the world. No matter how hard she tried, honest work as a laundress was rare to find.
By now, everyone simply called her a whore.
That's what the boy learned on that cold night, nestled in his mother's warm embrace, while the sharp pain from his severed finger drove him mad.
But his mother had told him something else, too. She had told him he must be strong, endure, persevere. If his father had lived, everything would have been different. His stomach would be full, their home warm, his body clothed in fine garments. But most of all, he would have had a name. Because, as it seems, a name is one of the most important things a person can have. Those who tormented him at night—the tavern patrons, the market workers, the men at the harbor, the boatswain—they all had names.
But he had not.
That night, the boy made up his mind. They might mock him now, laugh at his expense, strike and kick him, force him to beg or steal just to eat. But one day, he would become someone.
And then, they would see what awaited them.
.*.*.
When the dragon riders arrived in the city, the boy was still asleep in the shack. It was the shrill cries of the dragons that tore through the morning, waking him as the giant, winged lizards sliced through the sky above the sea and harbor.
Still groggy, the boy stepped into the shack's doorway, rubbing his eyes to chase away the remnants of sleep. If nothing else, the dragons were magnificent. Morning light glinted off their scales, their varied colors melding together in a shifting cascade. Their thick bellies loomed like overturned ships, while the delicate membranes of their wings at times eclipsed the sun. Some of them spewed fire.
The boy seized the largest stone he could find and hurled it skyward with all his strength.
"Get lost, you wretched lizards!" he shouted. "You saved everyone else—but not my father!"
It was foolish to think his stone could reach so high, foolish to think the dragons would even notice him. He was far too small, beneath their concern. Yet, somehow, his anger settled.
Feeling calmer, he stepped back into the shack and drained the last of the water from a half-empty cup left on the table overnight. His mother lay asleep, alone on the broken bed.
"Mother, I'm heading to the market," he called as he stepped outside.
The woman murmured something in her sleep, turning onto her side and pulling the bedding over her head, shielding herself from the morning light.
The boy kicked small pebbles as he walked, whistling a monotonous tune while heading toward the city center. The dragon riders were wealthy. Maybe one of them would spare him something to eat.
By the time he reached the market, the dragons were gone. The dragon riders had stood before the gathered crowd, reading aloud the decree summoning the children to present themselves two mornings from now. Before departing, they had pinned copies of the proclamation to wooden signboards along the streets.
"To hell with them," the urchin muttered, slipping into the crowd, listening to the hum of their chatter about the grand event.
His empty stomach rumbled like the dragons' growls, loud enough that a few turned to look at him. Slipping behind stalls and baskets, he moved unnoticed, ears keen to catch what had happened—since he couldn't read. Seizing the moment amid the vendors' distraction, he swiped an apple from a basket and, farther along, snatched a loaf from a stall. Seeking refuge, he ducked beneath a cart, out of prying eyes, and devoured them.
This had worked out after all, he thought. The dragon riders hadn't given him anything to eat, but with everyone fixated on the dragons, it made no difference. At least his stomach was full.
Satisfied and full, he tucked half the loaf into his shirt, saving it for his mother, and did the same with half of the apple.
Later, as he wandered along the waterfront, he chewed the last of his apple, flicking its seeds at the gulls. When the sun climbed high and boredom set in, he turned toward the shack. By now, his mother would be awake, and he was eager to bring her the bread and share the news.
.*.*.*.
On the morning of the second day, nearly all the residents of Teirm had gathered early in the market square. At the heart of the grand plaza, the golden dragon, Glaedr, lay stretched out lazily, his massive form at ease but ever watchful, while beside him stood his dragon rider, Oromis. The crowd's gaze was fixed on them—but also on the small boy standing proudly at their side, cradling a newly hatched blue dragon in his arms. Fingers pointed, voices whispered, curiosity thick in the air.
A short distance away, upon a similar table to the one in Kuasta, rested the crimson dragon egg, waiting. Waiting for a child whose heart would stir its own, calling it forth from its hardened shell.
In a city as vast as Teirm, beyond the adults accompanying their children, many others had gathered—some drawn by the spectacle, others eager to trade. Peddlers had set up stalls along the market's outskirts, offering everything one could need—food and clothing, tools and trinkets, and rare goods carried from distant lands.
The testing of the children had begun early, yet the red egg remained still. The dragon rider Oromis watched the young hopefuls approach—among them, several elven children, residents of the city, who bowed deeply in elaborate courtesy before his golden dragon, then stepped forward to face the egg. He wondered if today would bring them as much luck as the last. The red egg lay silent, indifferent, while the line of children stretched on.
Suddenly, shouting erupted at the edge of the square, near the peddlers' stalls. A commotion. Two men had cornered a child—one seized him by the scruff of the neck, while the other drove his boot into him. The dragon rider's gaze locked onto them. Whatever grievance they held against the boy, they had no right to treat him so.
Raising the hand that bore the mark of the dragon, Oromis halted the testing process in an instant. Leaving Glaedr to guard the egg, he strode forward, his steps long and purposeful, closing the distance from the heart of the square to the wretched scene unfolding at its edge.
"This is unacceptable!" Oromis thundered.
The two men, frozen in fear, released the child at once, their hands fumbling with their hats as they bowed before him in a clumsy display of submission.
"He's a thief, my lord—a filthy little bastard who does nothing but steal," one of them spat.
"He's not even worthy of standing before the dragon's egg," the other added, as the crowd murmured in uneasy agreement.
The dragon rider examined the boy closely, noting the drops of blood trailing from his right nostril. His clothes were patched but clean. His feet were bare, yet his nails were neatly trimmed. His black hair, long and unruly, had been carefully washed and combed. And his eyes…
Those eyes held Oromis captive. One was black, as dark as the boy's raven-colored hair. The other was blue, as clear as the sky on a cloudless day.
"The decree says: all children," Oromis shot the men a sharp glare, his voice firm, his stance unyielding. Then, extending his hand toward the boy, he called: "Come, child!"
His voice, calm and deep, carried the weight of a command beyond defiance. The two merchants, along with those who had murmured around them, fell silent, heads bowed in unquestioning submission.
While the scene unfolded, the boy slipped away from his tormentors, seeking refuge behind the dragon rider. He sniffled, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. Then, something happened—something he hadn't expected.
Oromis raised his palm. A silver light flickered before the boy's mismatched eyes. The bleeding stopped. The pain vanished.
For a moment, the boy simply stared at his benefactor, still unable to grasp what had just occurred.
"I didn't come to steal," he murmured. "I only came to find you—to ask for your help. To take my mother and me away from here… away from a place where no one wants us."
The boy's eyes traced the dragon rider in awe. Never had he seen such beauty in the streets, the docks, or the harbor's hidden corners—though, he had to admit, neither had he ever encountered such sternness in a gaze. Yet this lord inspired trust in him.
For the first time, as the boy spoke, he did not brace himself for a slap across his cheek. "My dream is to leave this place far behind, and my mother agrees."
A sorrowful smile touched the dragon rider's lips. One of the greatest sorrows in the world is being unable to help those in need.
"Our order is clear—we escort the new riders of the eggs back to Vroengard. It is not our intention to interfere with local authority, but before we depart, we will speak with the city's officials about you. Come!"
The boy followed the dragon rider like a loyal pup as he led him back to the table where the red egg lay waiting. His gaze lingered in awe upon the golden dragon, its scales gleaming like fire, before shifting to the small boy standing beside it.
In his arms, the broad head of the blue dragon turned—its gaze locking onto him. Then, suddenly, the creature let out a piercing cry.
"Hi…" murmured the brown-haired boy, lifting his wounded, silver-streaked palm toward him.
The urchin hesitated, about to respond—when the crimson egg rolled toward him, its surface shuddering, and the dragon within let out a piercing shriek.
.*.*.*.*.
Within hours, his life had changed irreversibly. Without fully understanding why, the dragon of the crimson egg had chosen him—claimed him—as its rider. Before he could even react, the creature lunged, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the market's stone pavement.
The rest blurred into a dream—hazy, fleeting impressions slipping through his grasp. By the time clarity returned, the choice had already been made. It was too late to refuse the honor bestowed upon him.
As his eyes fluttered open—at first unfocused—he glimpsed two heads, one blue and one red, looming over him. And beside them, the curly-haired boy's face hovered in quiet recognition.
"My name is Brom," the boy had said, offering his hand to help him up.
"Mine is Morzan."
Most of Teirm's residents had already departed, their hopes dashed. Yet a handful remained at the market's edge, murmuring in discontent, questioning the dragons' judgment.
Paying them no mind, the dragon rider and his golden dragon meticulously examined the crimson hatchling, just as they had the blue one the day before. She was just as healthy—a strong female, her wings powerful, her teeth sharp, claws like daggers, horns gleaming.
From the very first hour, she was devoted—fierce, unyielding—to the one her heart had chosen.
A few hours later, the boy would proudly present his strange new companion to his mother. Together—the two of them, or rather, the three—sat on the doorstep of their hut at the edge of the harbor walls, gazing out over the endless sea.
"Master Oromis said we can't take you with us," the boy murmured, his voice heavy with sorrow. Never before had he been separated from his mother—even in his deepest dreams, he had always imagined they would leave together.
"But I will come to see you," he promised, hoping to ease the grief in her eyes—eyes that, for some time now, had struggled to hold back tears.
Then, suddenly, he lifted his head, pride flickering beneath his anguish. "But if you want, I won't go! I'll give the dragon back and stay here, with you."
At those words, the small dragon hissed in sharp disapproval, its eyes flashing as it cast a warning glare at the woman.
She laughed. Time had stolen smiles from her lips, but these last few hours—despite the shock—had filled her heart with hope for her son's future. The dragon rider himself had honored her humble home with his presence and given his word: he would care for her child, for he would be his teacher.
So, she reached out and wrapped her son in a gentle embrace.
"This is your path, my boy," she said, her voice breaking with emotion. "If the dragon has chosen you, it means you are stronger and braver than all the rest. Ah, my own flesh and blood…" Her eyes glistened with tears. "How proud your father would be to see you now—if only he had lived..."
The boy buried his face against his mother's bosom, clinging to her as if she were the only anchor in a world shifting beneath his feet. The red dragon, seemingly stirred by the sorrow, latched onto the fabric of his tunic, whimpering softly.
The time for farewell had come.
"I will return, Mother," the boy vowed. "And when I do, you will see them all tremble before your son."
Years later, Morzan would return for his mother—just before the end.
.*.*.*.*.*.
"You don't have shoes, do you?" Brom sat on the ground, fingers working at the laces of his own patched-up pair. "Here, take these," he said, handing them to the other boy.
"And what will you wear?" Morzan asked, puzzled, his mismatched eyes lingering on the young dragon rider. "Do you have another pair?"
"No," Brom replied, hesitating. "But I really don't mind. Your feet are injured, and…"
"Upon our arrival in Vroengard, each of you will receive whatever is necessary," Master Oromis declared.
Morzan took the patched-up pair in his hands, turning them over, inspecting them with quiet deliberation. But he did not put them on. Instead—just when Brom least expected it—he seized him by the shoulders and pulled him into a fierce embrace.
"You and I—we will be friends forever," he declared, his voice unwavering. "As long as I live, I will never forget what you just did."
A/N: That chapter was harsh—but so is life. Sometimes, even more so.
According to Inheriwiki, Morzan had mismatched eyes and was missing the distal phalanx of a finger.
Morzan drank—for many reasons. Perhaps he could no longer bear to face who he had become—or what he had done. Or maybe being forced to drink in the tavern had been a traumatic experience—just like everything that followed. But sometimes, we become exactly what we despise, repeating what we most wish to forget.
The ancient philosopher Socrates believed that no one is born evil—something I, too, believe. It is circumstances that shape a person's character.
Those who are granted wealth, power, or authority must also have the wisdom to manage them well.