A young scholar walked down the hall, arms full of books stacked too high against his chest. The titles were clear—War History of the Dragonborns, Chronicles of the First Conquest, Rites of the Dragonrite, and a few darker tomes bound in black leather.
One slipped.
It hit the polished marble floor too loud.
"Ah—damn it!"
He adjusted the stack before the rest could follow.
"Of all days…"
He crouched carefully, trying to keep the others from sliding free.
"Steady… steady…"
Before his fingers touched the fallen book, a sound stopped him… a soft cry drifted from a shadowed corner. A young white haired boy sat there, sobbing. His skin was too white and too pale but now it was ruined with purple bruises, red burns, and split lips. One side of his mouth was swollen, blood mixing with tears as they ran down his chin.
He exhaled quietly and picked up his book and stood, though the weight in his arms made him wobble slightly as he approached.
"Beaten again… Your Highness?"
The boy looked up. His eyes were rimmed red, but there was no surprise in them. This was not the first time they had met like this. He wiped at his face with the back of his burned hand.
"Lord Morgant… They said… they said a true white blooded shouldn't burn. They set me on fire this time and laughed when I screamed. My knuckles look at them they're like charcoal now…"
His voice trembled.
"They said I should burn now and stop dreaming of ever becoming a Dragonborn. They said I would never survive the Dragonrite because I trembled from a simple burn."
The boy looked down at his charred skin, his voice cracking.
"T-They said Tiamat's blood will turn me into ash... because I'm unworthy. Because I'm a half breed… a bastard of the King."
Morgant felt a heavy sadness at what his brothers had done to him this time. He set his books aside and pulled one from his own stack—a dark tome secured with a leather strap. He held it out to the boy.
"Here. Take it."
The boy stared at it, confused.
"W-what is this? A book won't stop them from burning me. Paper can't fight fire."
Morgant knelt, taking the boy's charred, trembling hands and closing them firmly around the cold leather.
"A book is not just paper and ink, little one. In the right hands, it is the deadliest weapon in existence. Read this, and I promise you… you will never have to beg for mercy again."
He gathered his books and rose, leaving the boy seated on the cold floor, clutching the dark volume. The child was still uncertain but he had seen the care in Morgant's eyes.
Morgant rose, his black hair catching the dim light as he adjusted his remaining books. He looked back and gave the boy a sharp, knowing wink.
"Tiamat does not care who your mother is, or what blood your father carries. If your hair, skin, and eyes are white and if courage truly lives in your heart then He may choose to grant you His power. So open that book, boy… and prove yourself worthy of His blood—worthy of Tiamat."
As Morgant's footsteps faded into the shadows of the hall, the boy's sobs finally stopped. Slowly, with fingers that still smelled of smoke, he began to unbuckle the iron strap.
The very next day, the hall had been deathly silent until a single, wet scream tore through the morning air. Morgant was passing by, his usual stack of books cradled in his arms, when he saw the result.
The young boy stood on the grass, trembling and caked in dirt. His bruises were still dark, and his clothes were tattered, but his charred hand was as steady as stone. It gripped a dripping sword with the white knuckled intensity of a man who had finally found his purpose.
At his feet, one of the "pure" heirs, his older brother lay in the dirt. He was gasping, his hands clutching a throat that had been opened with the cold, surgical precision of a butcher.
The dying brother rasped, blood bubbling and spraying with every frantic breath.
"Y-You… bastard… son of a b-vitch—"
Around them, the other pure blooded heirs screamed in horror.
"He cut him! Drakovitch cut him!"
"Brother! No, brother!!"
"MURDERER! You're a murderer!"
Morgant stood still, watching. He saw it immediately… the angle of the cut, the placement, the restraint. It was not wild, nor born of desperation… it was deliberate.
Drakovitch had applied exactly what was written in that book. A faint smirk touched Morgant's lips.
"The wound is precise. Clean. A single motion. Well done, Your Highness, you aimed for the carotid. Efficient. Minimal struggle."
Drakovitch, still just a boy, breathing hard as he watched the older brother who once burned and beat him now struggle for his life from the wound he had given. And that color the deep red staining their flawless white skin… did something to him. It became his favorite color.
For the first time, he smiled. A shrill, unhinged laugh slipped from his throat as his brother's life faded before him and as the so called pure white ones began to panic.
In the present, Drakovitch swayed a sword, slicing cleanly through wooden dummies with deadly precision. In seconds, their heads fell. The mountain fog hung thick around him, mingling with his labored breath.
"His memories… it's as if I truly am Drakovitch."
He plunged the sword into the dirt, using it to steady himself.
"Half-breed Dragonborn… a bastard of the king… I was the first ever reborn to wield Tiamat's power as a half blood. Being half blood isn't why others fail, nor is being pure blood—it's because they lack the heart to become a monster."