A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

It was too painful to dwell on, so he did not. That did not stop the dreams from coming regardless.

The rest of Greeves' letter had come with harsher words. He declared in no uncertain terms that he too would be coming to Blackwell, whether he had to kill a string of nobles to get there. Again, Oliver found himself looking at Marianne as she read the merchant's curses aloud with an unflinching expression. He curled into himself, embarrassed even from a distance by the foul-mouthed merchant.

And so it went. Greeves swore to drag himself to Blackwell. He said he would finally have a piece of the market square there – a place nearer the top, as he called it. He swore to be a leech, when the time came for Beam to return to battle. He swore that he'd sell weaponry off it, and make a killing, for he knew who the victor would be, who would claim the most heads.

When his foul-mouthed declarations had died down, he ended it with a more solemn note, something as honest as anything that Oliver had ever heard Greeves say.

"Take care of yourself, kid. It was my honour to fight beside you."

Those words hung in the carriage for nearly a minute. Marianne the maid, found herself staring at that boy of fifteen, with the scars gracing his cheeks, as he looked out of the window. She'd seen the wounds on his body, she'd seen him spar the Captain in the garden, and she'd heard tales of his glories.

She suddenly found herself realizing that she couldn't grasp him at all. She couldn't even fit it inside her mind, just who this boy was – for he was merely a boy. But Greeves' words had nudged her slightly towards understanding. Her mind tickled golden for a second, as the slightest grasping of it reached her.

For a boy of fifteen, noble or otherwise, to be receiving such words from a foul-mouthed merchant. Somehow, amongst everything else, it served to strike home just how special the youth that she had tended to was.

As Oliver glanced back to her, she regained herself, and began reading once more.

The letter ended with shorter segments from other people.

Judas said he was thinking of joining the army, if he could, but then Greeves had called him stupid for it, saying that he wouldn't be able to fight under Oliver until he turned eighteen. Judas had decided to wait till then, and if life was boring, he decided he would seek Oliver out, and ask to fight under him.

He added after that that he was making no promises. The wounds on his back still kept him up at night. He was hoping to find a good woman to take care of him before then.

Oliver grinned at that, but did not say anything. Marianne noticed the expression. It seemed out of place on the grim boy's face.

With Judas, there came tidings from Mrs Felder, thanking him.

There came tidings from one of the elders, whom he had fought alongside.

Then a handful more families had written to him, thanking him again. Many of them seemed to believe the truth that he was a noble. They called him sir as they wrote to him. It was penned in Greeves' hand, and Oliver could only imagine what the merchant had been thinking as he wrote it.

Those that had called him ser, and not been able to see the truth of it, yet offered him thanks regardless, he did not begrudge them that. Those who had been closest to him knew, and that was what mattered.

With Dominus' sacrifice, the way had been truly opened for Oliver. He stood in his room, realizing that now. Even with his death, his master had secured a future for him, a way for him to improve his skill.

And now certain of where he stood, thanks to the letter he had received from the villagers, Oliver was feeling more confident about facing such a future.

Here he was, in another unknown place, in the clothes of a noble, in the room of a noble, with hardly an idea of what was expected of him. Yet there was a stillness to his heart, as he assured himself that all would be well. The world had been simplified for him. The complicated matters had been handled. All he needed to do was raise his strength.

He had not forgotten his promise to Lord Blackwell. If he secured the Third Boundary before he left The Academy, then there would be men waiting for him to command. There was solidness in that too. Solidness in both the future, and the past. It left him fully able to enjoy the present, to the end that the aching in his head allowed him.

Once more, he smiled as he looked around his room. An unlit candle sat on a table by his bed. There was a wooden chest at the end of the very same bed. Other than that, the room was entirely empty. The last of the daylight was streaming through the small glass window, which had been left ajar, allowing a cold breeze in.

He kneeled on his bed as he reached up to grab the window, and close it.

He set his pack down on the bed, and left it there, as he eyed the fireplace – that would need lighting. Lombard had left him with a good selection of clothes, and a good selection of coin. Blackwell had ensured that he had armour and a sword. Oliver had to trust that those were the only things that he needed, for he had a sudden feeling that he was on his own now.

He might have stayed in his room to enjoy it longer. No one had given him any ideas of what was expected of him to do next. In truth, he hadn't really been listening to the woman that had ushered him in.

But like a dog, he found himself unable to settle, without knowing a little more about where it was that he was left. He didn't trust any of the others to see that he was well attended to. He would not wait for them to call upon him, if he did not need to. He stood up from his bed, and strode across to his door with authority, pulling open the latch, and stepping outside.