A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1348 - 1348: Tainted Chalices - Part 5

The man had simply determined that it would do no one any good. He had supposed that no matter what self satisfaction he might gain from the action, his sword had no purpose there. And instead, he had found a purpose, in his death.

Oliver ought to have been pleased for him. He died incredibly well. Crossing through to the Sixth Boundary, and giving his life as a hero, following along in the footsteps of Arthur. It was a true ending to a warrior's life. He could not have been more content with it than that. So why was Oliver not content with it?

'Surely, another day would have sufficed… He could have offered me counsel on my first battle… He could have told me how I ought to deal with the deaths of all that I had lost… And more importantly, I could have offered him my congratulations for his entry through to the Sixth Boundary.'

One might argue – as Oliver's closest men had argued to him – that Lombard too had died well. His death had paved the way for an overwhelming victory, allowing Oliver, a mere Captain, to slay Zilan. If Lombard and Tolsey had not given their lives in seeing him held in place, that never would have happened, and it was conceivable that they might have lost that battle on the right wing instead.

That made him too a hero in his death, and for a warrior getting on in age like Lombard, that was likely a thing that he longed for. Especially after losing his arm, he had known that his years on the battlefield were numbered, and yet, he was offered such a perfect finish for it all.

For Tolsey… Perhaps something to the same effect could be said. But Tolsey was too young to have gone like that. Blackwell had said that he was an unpolished gemstone, and Oliver was inclined to offer his agreement.

And now he had to stand and look a man in the eye that he so hated, with all these emotions swirling around him. The King had his two best bodyguards to either side of him, separating him from the Generals. They were both men of the Fourth Boundary, with swords on their hips, warning away any that would try anything.

Oliver wondered if he had imagined the High King shrinking behind them. He supposed that was exactly what he wanted to see. If he could not harm the man physically, for all the repercussions, could he not at least cause him to feel the fear that he ought to.

But his eyes could not even stay on him for as long as they ought to. Ten strides away from the man, and Oliver's hatred and desires lost interest. They drifted from the man, to what towered behind him, in the symbol of his office, and gold gilded throne of the Stormfront.

"Oliver Patrick," the High King said, his voice loud, when Oliver arrived in front of him. "Your rewards for your services."

Oliver looked blankly to the bodyguard nearest him, as the High King gestured at the man. There were four tomes piled high in his arms. They were bigger books than Oliver had expected. Enough that, when placed on top of each other, they went well above the bodyguard's head. And the width of them was nothing to scoff at either.

When placed on one of the usual tea tables that sat in front of Oliver's sofa, they would have likely dwarfed the entire thing.

He had to stretch his arms out nearly all the way just to get a hold of both sides, as the bodyguard offered the books to him. When he was given the full weight of them, he staggered, just by the slightest amount. Had he been anything less than a man of the Fourth Boundary, then their weight would have shattered him.

He saw the High King wrinkle his nose, as if disappointed that he would be deprived of that sight. Oliver glared back, for likely far too long. A stretch of three seconds, from behind his books, with just a single golden eye, offering up all the emotion that he dared to feel.

The High King held his gaze for the first second, his chin in the air, higher than it ought to have been. But then he blinked – some sort of instinctive reaction, and he looked away for the rest of it, at his bodyguards instead, reassuring himself of their presence.

'You bastard,' Oliver said. 'Will killing you mean anything for me? Will it solve Dominus' sadness? I doubt it. You're a fly. Only your malicious deeds make you a larger problem than that… But I will squash you anyway, even knowing it will bring me no satisfaction.

In a year when you might least expect it, when you think your power to be secure, I will arrive in front of this throne of yours, and drag you off it.'

He doubted that his glare would convey the length of such a sentiment, but he tried anyway. Then, he turned, and he greeted the Generals.

"My, you do look studious, with all those books, Ser Patrick," Karstly said, with his usual broad and playful smile.

"Congratulations on the expansion of your lands, Karstly," Oliver said. "I hope that you see those cities that you have acquired well defended."

"I am sure you do," Karstly said. "Do not fret. I am a being of competence, after all. I intend to do right by my people, and right by my legacy. Do watch, good Ser Patrick, for I will be acting with the aim of seeing you well taught in the back of my mind."

"Remember where you are, Karstly," Blackwell warned, his voice quieter than Karstly had been. In a way, Karstly's blatant disregard for where they stood was the sort of pettiness that Oliver wished he could have carried out himself.

The Great General stepped in front of Karstly, to bar him from any further words, and he looked down on Oliver, with what Oliver had thought might have been condemnation. But it was far from being that. The man simply looked tired.