A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Good Morning, Lasha," one girl said, jovially taking a seat opposite her. She spared Oliver a glance, but otherwise said nothing to him, and instead launched into excited conversation with her quiet friend. "Did you see? The older students are going all out with this clothing competition.

Apparently, Lord Gargon put on a prize of fifty golds for whoever manages to make an outfit most to his father's liking. There are even some nobles competing."

'Fifty… Fifty… Fifty golds?' Oliver murmured to himself, feeling as though his brain was broken. Fifty golds, for a set of clothes? Fifty?

"That's only if they swear service to the Gargon's though, isn't it, Aime?" Another girl chimed in. "So it isn't really that good. It's basically a lifetime's wages that he's trying to buy them out with, and then likely a subpar contract. You know the Gargon's they'll be spinning it so that they can make money in the end."

"But fifty golds! That's crazy, isn't it, Lasha?" Aime said. Lasha nodded, but otherwise said nothing. Oliver briefly felt a flash of pity for the girl. It was like trying to draw blood from a stone getting Lasha to react to anything. The girl seemed unphased though, apparently used to the coldness of Lady Blackthorn, and she continued chatting happily.

"They're probably going to take in all the top five. If you think about it, fifty golds isn't that much if you can secure five permanent contracts with high-level tailors. I doubt it was Mill's idea. It must have been his father's. It seemed too sophisticated."

"You're so cynical, Beatrice," Aime chided. "True, for that sort of money, he definitely would have required his father's permission. But don't you think it's still cool nonetheless? I mean, these are students so much older than us! And Gargon has them all bowing their respect to him."n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

At this point, Oliver did wonder if he was invisible. They were talking so freely. They were so laid back. He felt as though he was getting a glimpse of someone else's life. Surely they'd forgotten he was here if he could be so relaxed..? But no, he felt another one of them steal a glance at him.

The rest of the table was gradually filling up too.

The door clattered open again, and Gargon stepped in, chatting loudly with members of his entourage. He said something, and one of the boys with him laughed loudly. The sound was unpleasant within the space of the quiet cozy room. It felt like their little bubble of relaxation had been violated.

"Ah! Good morning, Lord Gargon," Aime said, dipping her head, feeling the boy come to a stop behind her.

Gargon basically ignored her. It was a simple glance and a nod that he gave her, but even that was done with the barest shred of attention. His gaze was focused on Blackthorn, who had been forced to turn around and present herself properly as more people had come in.

"Lady Blackthorn," he said, "good morning."

She, for her part, nodded back. Oliver watched, curious about their relationship. He'd already begun to establish himself as something of an… enemy to Gargon. Was that what he was? He hadn't exactly intended it, but the two had been at odds in numerous instances, and there was just something about the rich-boy way he carried himself that made Oliver's skin crawl.

He was, after all, at an Academy storming with nobles. Even the Serving Class students here had far more privileged upbringings than he. He didn't think he resented them for that, but he did resent the weakness that came with it. It was the weakness coupled with that attitude of expectancy, as though the peasants should bow to their every whim.

This Lord Gargon – a Lord in title. That made him above Oliver in the social hierarchy, far above the house of Patrick. But in reality, they were in completely different worlds. He was like a different planet when compared to the tiny speck that was the peasant Beam.

But why?

Merely by virtue of birth? Sure, Oliver could accept that, to a degree. If his father was something impressive, his son should at least be given the chance to prove that he might be similarly as impressive… But Gargon just wasn't. No one here that he'd found was.

That might have been his own bias guiding his looks, for he expected to find the sort of hardness he sought amongst the peasantry, amongst those who lived hard lives. He had an admiration for hard work, because it was what had built him.

Maybe that was why he couldn't hide the distaste on his face as he was forced to look in Gargon's direction for but a moment too long. It was as though someone had put too many spoons of sugar in his tea – a beverage that Oliver was growing fond of recently – and just ruined the entire flavour.

He looked away, but still caught Gargon's eye twitch from the gesture.

"It would seem, my Lady, that a mere commoner has made its way into your domain," Gargon said lightly, though there was a clear threat in his words. "Shall I rid you of his presence?"

A commoner was a slang term that the nobles used to address all that was beneath them. It often included the peasantry in it, but most of the time it was used to refer to members of the Serving Class. There were very few contexts when it would be used as anything but an insult.

Oliver smiled, a wolfish smile.

Gods it felt good to have someone openly challenge him. He saw Blackthorn twitch next to him. Of all the people at the table, at least she was beginning to understand him.

Gargon didn't seem to feel the danger. Oliver could barely hold back the golden flecks that threatened to spring into his eyes. They were there waiting all the time, as of late. They claimed themselves to be the antidote to the throbbing in his head, and so he reached for them. But as with the instance of Bournemouth, Oliver did not have the ability to control that venom as he once did.