A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1635 - 1635: The Hidden Mighty - Part 4

He was barely past the threshold of the door when he heard it slam behind him. It was loud enough and sudden enough that the sound made him jump.

The room beyond was filled with steam, and half-a-dozen well lit baths. The floor was slippy to walk on, from all the water that had been cast upon its stones.

Despite all the baths, and the flower petals, and all the scented perfumes and incense that clung to the air, it was quite evident, for the throne, and all the steps that led to it, that this was indeed that – a throne room of the most extravagant sort.

Atop that throne, there sat a slender man lounging, with the chest of his robe well open, and his long white hair spilling down over it.

"Oh, do come in, Wyndon," the man called from atop his throne, his voice soft and lilting. The steam from the bath shifted in giant clouds, obscuring him at times, and leaving him oddly revealed at others. He wore that steam as freely as others might wear clothes. He seemed a wielder of it, like some sort of perfect mage.

King Wyndon ignored the slight, in the ignoring of his title. General Tiberius was a man that breathed slights as easily as he breathed the air itself. There was an impossible smugness to him, as King Wyndon came closer. He was so comfortable, so confident, so entirely opposite that which King Wyndon himself felt.

Before such a man, King Wyndon felt a mouse, locked within the eyes of a snake. He was made distinctly aware that no matter what he did, no matter what threats he made or even physical violence he threatened, it would have no effect on the man before him.

A jewelled sword leaned against the side of the throne. There were more jewels just in its hilt, with diamonds and a giant ruby, then there were in the crown atop King Wyndon's head.

'Father,' King Wyndon thought angrily, seeing the lavishness. 'Just what have you created? Just what were you so afraid of, that you would see all this done, merely in keeping him contained?'

A palace of such grandness, gifts of such richness, and then more women than any normal man could even remember the names of. It was decadence to the highest degree, and it had been allowed to exist as a poison in the Wyndon lands for far too long.

In a flash of anger, King Wyndon might have wanted to see Tiberius discarded, and toppled from the little throne that he'd seen built for himself. But as soon as he made eye contact with the man again, and saw those narrowed slits that saw beyond him, and poisoned him merely on sight, his question to his father was quickly answered. He dared to give his father the blame, knowing full well that put in the same position, he likely would have done no different.

Before him there was a man of a different quality to the other Generals that he had faced. They were men that were overwhelmed, that suffocated the very air out of his lungs, and made it clear to him with the slightest little twist of a muscle, they could snap his arm from his shoulder socket. Tiberius was beyond that – the threat of overwhelming physical violence was there, but it was the poison that he oozed that made him seem all the more dangerous. He was a serpent of such gigantism, and such potence, that there seemed no way of even imagining how one might deal with him.

The closer he came to the steps of Tiberius' throne, the more certain Wyndon was in that feeling. The steam provoked a sweat out of him that was impossible to resist. His fine robes were drenched, having already been sullied after trailing over the wet tiles that covered the floor. Mosaics were aplenty here, little pieces cut so finely that they seemed more sketched than cemented. Pictures of grand battles, of impossibly proportioned women, and of giant suns, and darkened moons. It was grandness filled up on madness, and it was overwhelming to the highest degree.

Such a man, King Wyndon was certain, could not be defeated. There was talk of mages and the like – barely a handful of them – residing in their caves, kept only at bay by their own disorientating madness, who could cleave the country in two, should they ever get the urge to. But even those stories seemed to pale in comparison to the reality of the General that the Wyndon Silver Kings had kept so hidden.

At the bottom of the steps, Tiberius gave his supposed King a command.

"Kneel," he said, without authority, and with only a smile to compliment it. He said it with all the gentleness of a man pushing a child into a pond. It was a careless little gesture, just for his amusement, but there was certainty there. Both of them knew that he would obey.

King Wyndon hesitated. He knew that to put his knees to the floor would be to completely give in to the authority that Tiberius had carved for himself. But what choice did he have? If he wished to make use of a power beyond himself, he had to speak in a language that such a power would understand. Tiberius thought himself to be an Emperor, and he thought all before him to be nothing so lowly as his own subjects.

The Wyndon King came to his knees, finding a brief amount of surprise in just how uncomfortable the hard floor was. Messengers, attendants, and nobility of the highest sort, at all hours of the day, kneeled before the Wyndon throne, not showing the slightest bit of discomfort in their kneeling. Some of them kneeled in such a position for as long as an hour, without complaint. King Wyndon fancied that he could barely stand to sit there for longer than a handful of minutes.