A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

When Verdant arrived with his sword, Oliver played with that too, as he tried to process all that he had learned since truly considering it last. Before, in the mountains, when he'd developed a new skill, it had been the result of extensive thinking, extensive experimentation. Now he had all the experience gained from battle to augment that thinking.

He translated the flow that he had picked up on into logical thought. He felt the balance of his blade, as he shifted from one stance to the next, in the poison water style, going from trickster, to hero, to monster. The shifts were swift, and they were exciting, and he moved with explosive danger.

He caught the looks from the soldiers as they watched him, and from the medical staff too. They'd brought woollen blankets with them to help them endure the cold as they watched, and they repeatedly switched with one another, as they went to fetch hot drinks from the dining hall. Uncomfortable though they were, they seemed to take great interest in what he was doing.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

He grinned, imagining how strange he must look to them, as he practised, but he found he did not care.

Only Verdant realized that they did not stare in curiosity, but with awe. Even Oliver's play and his practice – that which was meant to be done in private, as he learned new things – had a level to it now that it approached art, and invoked admiration. In the dead of night, when everything was washed in darkness, Oliver seemed to shine as he moved.

The more he watched, the more the priest of Behomothia was sure of what he saw. The Young Wolf, Oliver Patrick, was that which his visions had foretold. There could be no other answers. No other explanations.

…

…

As the early morning pressed on, and the air continued to drop, Oliver's sword did not slow, but the excitement that it had carried with it, started to change. The feeling spread to all corners of his mind, as one by one, he overturned things that he had neglected, improving and sharpening that which had potential.

He now knew progress to be a field as well as a river. As a field, there were various delicious treats growing on it, and each one had to be tended to carefully, and cropped just right, to allow that which was around it to grow.

He tended to all those crops, and with each one that he sated, he felt his strength growing, and he also felt him stepping nearer to that which he had avoided. Those parts of his mind that he did not wish to dwell in.

It started with the memories of the discovery of those children. A thought that he'd washed through many times. A thought he'd had to come to terms with on the battlefield, in order to clear his mind. Yet still, it sat, like a jagged rock, painful every time he stepped on it. The memories of failure.

There was nothing he could do to change it, but it did not cure what went with it. As he swung his sword, those darkened thoughts continued to flow. The death of Loriel. The memory cut so deep that it almost drew blood. The slaughter of the villagers at the hands of the Yarmdon.

Then Francis' army of monsters… and then his that grand pain, like a fire, burning through his flesh, when he'd suddenly lost consciousness, and awoke to find his Master mid-battle with a fragment of Ingolsol.

Strange memories. Memories that seemed like they didn't belong in his world. He dreamt of steel-plated armour, of swords, and cavalry, and grand armies clashing. He had not imagined a dark mage, casting icicles the size of houses. He had not imagined ever stepping so close to the Gods.

'And yet you always were…'

A voice in his head. He shivered, for the first time. His sword paused. The two medical overseers looked at each other, about to step in. But Oliver's sword resumed a moment later.

With the voice, he returned to the heart of the pain. The depths of fire. That which had made him lose control in front of Heathclaw. He, who'd managed to maintain a balance for so many years, completely losing himself. It was unheard of.

That, and the silence of Ingolsol within him. The loss of the weight of Claudia, as though a part of his own consciousness had been clawed away.

'Ah, but we have,' the voice said. It was not the dark voice that he remembered. It was filled with weakness. It was the voice of an old man in his sick bed, as he waited for a fatal disease to deal the killing blow.

He swung his sword with even more vigour, as the voice finally spoke to him. Despite the pain, he reached for it more. He understood that it was necessary. He'd been forced to understand that. It had been with him too long. It was hard to tell where Beam began and where the Curse ended.

And then with Claudia's influence, even more of himself had been monopolized into two forces.

As he'd practised, as a result of the battle, he'd felt strength and potential that he'd never felt before.

But now here, before the last untouched patch, there was more potential than everything else put together. It reeked of the dark, and of the mystical, yet something in Oliver – by intuition – could tell that it was stronger than anything else.

He reached for it… only for his arm to fall short. A handful of ashes was all that seemed to be left. The voice spoke no further, and in solemn silence, Oliver felt his smile fade, as he waited for morning to come.

Dawn came just as the dining hall had opened, and students made their way to get a warm breakfast before their lectures began.

Those that arrived early managed to catch a glance of Oliver, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, as he continued to practise with his sword, shifting from one form to the next.