Becoming the Mercenary King

The cries of a newborn pierced the quiet night, followed by the anguished wail of a grieving father. A child had just entered the world, but his mother had left it in the same moment. The father, overcome with grief, scooped up the infant, whose eyes had yet to open, and stumbled outside, gazing desperately at the sky.

"I don't know what I've done to anger the gods," he cried out. "Why must you keep taking from me? You took my clan, my homeland—and now, you've taken my wife, brought down by her own son. What did I ever do to deserve your wrath? Do you find joy in tormenting a man who has lost everything?"

Tears streaming down his face, he lifted the infant above his head in a gesture of defiance. "I won't let you take my son!" he shouted.

Before he could say another word, the nurses who had assisted with the birth rushed to him, gently prying the baby from his grasp.

"Please, sir, calm down," one of them urged. "You could have hurt the poor boy. It's not his fault."

The grieving father turned sharply to the woman who had spoken. "It's not about fault, woman. I'm trying to save him. If he lives, he'll face nothing but tragedy. Our bloodline is cursed—no child deserves that fate."

His anguished cries had drawn the attention of the city guard, who finally stepped in to restrain him. "Calm yourself, Zevin," one guard urged gently. "You're not in your right mind. Let the nursemaids care for the boy. Take time to grieve, then come for your son. He's the sole heir to your clan, isn't he? You always said that was what mattered most."

The man finally calmed, allowing the guards to escort him away as the child was returned to the nursery.

A week passed before Zevin visited his son again. At last, he bestowed a name upon the boy—a name from his clan's tradition: Ezra. After ensuring the infant was healthy, he gently placed a note in the baby's cradle and quietly left. Not long after his departure, Zevin was found hanging lifeless in his home, his grief having claimed him. The child was soon placed in the care of the local orphanage, carrying only his name and the weight of his father's final message.

The Orphanage Director opened the note in the carriage and read it. 

"To whoever finds my son,

His name is Ezra—Ezra of Clan Elthar. I ask only that he knows he is loved, despite the pain that brought him into this world. I could not stay to guide him, but I leave him with the strength of our name. Tell him our people were proud, that he comes from a line of warriors. Let him know that fate may be harsh, but he can choose his own path, one greater than I could have given him.

Raise him to know kindness, courage, and the value of his own life. Perhaps he will find the peace that eluded me.

May he live free of this curse, and may he find happiness that I could not.

— Zevin Elthar"

"That poor, poor man," the orphanage director murmured, shaking her head as she folded the letter. "Not the first love-stricken soul driven to death by loss. I doubt this child will live a life free from hardship."

She closed the letter carefully and slipped it into a drawer, labeling it with the infant's name: Ezra.

Fifteen years passed in the blink of an eye and Ezra had never been adopted and he wasn't an adult until the next year. He knew why he was never adopted it was obvious to anyone who saw him. His appearance.

Thick, rope-like dreadlocks grew wildly from his head like snakes. His skin was the color of freshly turned soil, and a large gash crossed his nose, a reminder of his narrow escape from some back alley thugs. His piercing black eyes seemed to absorb light, giving him a menacing look that often got him into fights.

He looked strange, to say the least, especially compared to his pale-skinned counterparts, whose hair ranged across a spectrum of colors and whose eyes sparkled in a variety of shades. His unique appearance marked him as an outsider in this vibrant crowd, yet there was an undeniable charisma in his rugged demeanor, a presence that intrigued those around him. Though not enough to take him into their homes.

Ezra walked into the orphanage and immediately heard the orphanage director engaged in conversation with a voice he had never heard before.

"I hear rumors that you have a young boy here—dark skin and wild hair. I have an offer for you," the unfamiliar voice said.

The woman hummed in agreement. "We do have a child that matches that description. He's almost an adult, if you're looking to adopt him."

"Well, good. It seems my search has come to an end. You see, I'm in the gladiatorial business, and I'm not here to adopt. I want to buy this specific child and have him fight for me."

Ezra had turned the corner by this point and watched silently, staying just out of view of the orphanage director, who seemed to notice him and began to sweat.

"Well, surely if you wanted him, you could just adopt him and enter him as a gladiator that way," she suggested, her voice trembling slightly.

The stranger let out a hearty laugh. "Well, yes, I could do that. But you see, according to the law, you can only enter free beings as gladiators at twenty. Making your own child a slave is also illegal, so I wish to buy him instead."

Ezra glared at the man standing before him, and the director's expression shifted to one of strange fear. "Well, how much are you willing to pay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man's cruel smile widened as he rubbed his hands together. "If you give him to me right now, I'll offer you twenty gold."

Ezra could see the greed flicker in the woman's eyes as she glanced between him and the stranger. Finally, he cut in, his voice steady and cold. "Just take the damn deal, hag. You probably would have already taken it if I wasn't standing here. Getting rid of the problem child and all that. Just make sure you take care of the kids."

The stranger turned to face Ezra, stepping back as he met the young boy's scowl. "Quite fearsome looking indeed," he said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Well, you heard the boy. I'll take him off your hands right now if you're ready."

"Of course, this money will be put to good use, I swear it by the Twelve Righteous Gods," the stranger replied, his tone smooth and self-assured.

Ezra scoffed and stepped forward. "Just let me say goodbye and grab a few things. I won't run off, so don't worry."

He walked into the orphanage's main room, where the sound of playing children filled the air. "I'm leaving, everyone!" he announced, drawing the attention of the children, who immediately objected with cries of protest.

Ezra moved past their pleas and headed into the director's office. He opened her drawer and retrieved the note left by his father.

He turned around and walked back through the main room, listening to the cries of the children once again. He marched past them, knowing that if he stopped, he would likely change his mind.

"Alright, let's just go. I'm already starting to regret this," he muttered.

The stranger smiled, leading him to a carriage, where he handed the director a pouch that was presumably filled with gold coins. Ezra climbed onto the carriage beside him.

"I'm Dammon, and I assume you're young Ezra," he cooed, his voice dripping with false cheer. Ezra simply nodded in response.

"Now, how much fighting experience do you have?" Dammon asked.

This old man seems way too happy about this, Ezra thought to himself before answering, "Enough to protect myself. I get into a lot of fights because of how I look—people always seem to think I'm glaring at them. I'm confident I can win against most back alley brawlers in a straight one-on-one."

Dammon's smile deepened. "Perfect, just perfect! I'll turn you into a great gladiator and make my money back a hundredfold."

Ezra sighed in response. This was probably the only way he would get a chance to leave this city, anyway. He would find a way to earn his freedom eventually; he just hadn't planned that far ahead yet.