A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1522 - 1522: A Tiger - Part 1

The referee stepped back, pushed away by the force behind Oliver's gaze. Oliver gave him a nod of approval, only once he'd stepped a good distance out of his way. "Verdant, see to it that his wounds are dealt with," Oliver said. "He is a Patrick man now. A Sword of his strength will be a terror on the battlefield."

When it was expected that he announce his intentions to all that waited so expectantly, Oliver spoke instead to his comrade, ignoring all that were present. A more normal man might have hesitated, given the magnificent sharpness of the expectant tension that had been created, but Verdant Idris was far from being a normal person. His eyes began to see Oliver's intentions, even if the others did not. He did not hesitate for a second when that order came, and he brought five men with him, saluting as he went. "At once, my Lord."

With Verdant's quick obedience, it was as if the scales had shifted even further into Oliver's favour. The iciness of his presence that had been built up multiplied ever further. Oliver could feel it, as firmly as he could feel the reins of his horse when he grasped them in front of him. The magnificent empty reins of power. That which could bind others to his will, should he be daring enough to do it.

He remembered when he had first decided to lead, what a moral question he'd had to solve, in daring to take charge of another man. Since then, he'd kept Ingolsol more deeply in the dark, hearing the Dark Gods' whisperings in his ears, tempting him to take more power, and Oliver knew that if he gave him an inch, Ingolsol would grasp for even more as he did now. There stood a young man there, that suddenly found himself with far too much authority, and he could feel that authority all the way down into his fingers. Like an artist with a blank canvas, and a tin full of the finest paints, he enjoyed the moment, before he decided on his picture.

He never could have allowed Ingolsol to be quite so much as he was then before. But the very Stormfront itself was changing, and Oliver was not above such change. Mighty though he had become, he had found himself swept up in its tides, forced to do that which he would rather not have. Then, he opened his mouth to speak.

Minister Hod was not meant to be at the tournament. He'd received an invitation, but he hadn't accepted it in the most straightforward terms. He'd sent Oliver a vague enough reply that he could twist the meaning of his words into whatever direction he wished, but, read by a normal man, those words would most likely seem a refusal.

He didn't come with guards, or a retinue, despite his rank as the Minister that he was. His travelling situation was a rather precarious one should one recognize him. And so Minister Hod had taken the greatest of considerations in making sure that they would not. His dress was that of a peasant – so easy to overlook when there was such a mass of them. And on his face, there hung a long dropping false mustache, and deep cut wrinkles through his forehead, making him look far older than he was.

Only a man that knew him incredibly well like General Tavar could have possibly seen through such a disguise. Or Oliver Patrick, if he'd looked at the Minister head on, and Hod had taken the greatest of care to ensure that he had not.

A man like Hod could not have failed to come to an event of such a magnitude in strangeness. He'd received Oliver's letter with start, and he had to smile, for he could feel the pull of it, the first beginnings of something dramatic in its change.

And now, since his coming, that gravity of change had been confirmed almost as a reality. Being the single man that he was, his information network in the tournament grounds wasn't as perfect as he would have liked it to be, but it was enough such that he knew of the murders that had been committed, and of the arson, and he knew that Oliver Patrick had paid Queen Asabel a visit in the dead of night, after the murder of Lord Blackwell's son Ferdinand.

All the pieces of change had been gathered together, and they'd been thrown into the grand alchemical pot of the Gods, and now Minister Hod stood eagerly, awaiting their manifestation into reality.

He'd watched Oliver's earlier two duels with the Generals, wondering whether he might find the momentous ingredients that he needed in them to predict the course of the future, but he had failed to. He'd come to Oliver's duel with Gar with somewhat heavy limbs, feeling a lack of expectancy. And there the Gods had seen fit to surprise him, as they always did. It was the highest of delights for a man as intelligent as Hod. The Gods, and the whispers of the fates they spun, were the only thing that he could not predict perfectly, and he spent his entire life in pursuit of it.

The only thing he was certain of was the era of change that they entered into. The Time of Tigers. He felt like a boat, on an especially angry sea, being cast around according to its whims. He felt like a character in someone else's story, with a role to play, and Hod found himself content to play that role.

Now he watched, as he was sure a Tiger of the highest degree was born. He felt a chill run up his arms, as he saw Oliver's defeating of Gar, and he saw the mighty way that he stood over the fallen youth.

In Oliver's bearing there, he thought he might have caught the slightest glimpse of the future. There, whether Oliver had willed it or not, he'd moved with all the arrogance and regalness of a King. The sort of King that had won his crown by force, and knew his own strength – a true Stormfront King.