A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver awoke, in his own bed, in his own room, as he often did – or indeed, as he always did, as of late. It hadn't taken long for him to grow accustomed to the small stone room that the Academy heads had granted him. It was just the right size with familiarity, and full of all the kinds of comforts that he needed.

He shifted his blanket with his usual vigour, expecting to feel the usual bite of cold that he felt when reexposing himself to the harsh morning air after a whole night without a fire… But today, he felt none of that.

Dressed in his nightshirt, at this point, he'd usually feel a bite. He yawned, curious about that fact, wondering briefly if it was that spring was arriving. But then, that shouldn't have been possible, since the Academy had only just entered their heart of winter, with the coming of snows a week or two before.

He poked at the fire, and saw the remnants of strong embers. Indeed, he'd usually find embers there – embers had an easy time surviving the night. If you covered them in ash well enough, they could comfortably survive several days as well. But these were larger than the embers that he'd usually expect.

He saw big chunks of recently burned wood, and he was quite sure that he hadn't put any on before going to sleep.

With something of a headache, he reached a hand up to his head. He felt like he'd spent the night drinking, even though he wasn't particularly familiar with alcohol. There was an ache there, and a forgetfulness. He reached for a sip of water to combat that – and indeed, his water jug was once more filled to the brim.

He paused at that, another oddity. His eyebrows furrowed, he wandered over to the door, and gave it a light pull, without turning the key – indeed, the door came straight open. He hadn't locked it before going to sleep. Someone had been in his room as he slept.

He saw a damp cloth next to the jug. Someone had been tended to, as though feverish. He crouched a little lower, and saw the faint impressions of a reasonably muddy boot. There were few places that managed to stay muddy at this time of year, despite the snow, and the ground being frozen solid… but the lakes were one of them.

He felt a brief flash of memory, in the same way that a person recalls a dream. A fleeting idea. An idea that when he woke up, he was quite sure was a dream, in the way that he comfortably set it aside in his mind, with the notion that it could wait for further review – and it could wait a while.

Yesterday… Yesterday, he drummed his finger, as he surveyed the room. He'd gone on an expedition. A big one. He'd gone looking for a Boulder Crab… And he'd come back. What, was he tired? Maybe that was what had happened.

He hadn't been refreshed enough to close the door after letting Verdant in with his food. Right. He recalled not wishing to go to the dining hall because he was tired, so it must have been Verdant, after all.

He caught a brief flash of yellowy-white as he turned his head. He went back a step, and focused on it. That bit of yellowy parchment, in a place that it shouldn't have been – on the chest at the end of his bed.

"Now what the hell is this…" he murmured to himself as he ambled over. A letter, apparently. Or at least an envelope. He hadn't opened many of these in his time, and he'd especially not opened any written on such fine parchment.

A sudden knock at the door distracted him from his task.

"Verdant," Oliver guessed, as he went to do the door in his nightshirt. The front of it was open, and bared his chest, such was the nature of the loose garment. But there was no trouble if Verdant were to see him like this, he supposed.

He opened the door, preparing to greet the priest, only to meet the gaze of a sleep-eyed girl, who went increasingly more red, as she stared at Oliver's open chest, and his unadorned feet, quite clearly just having got out of bed with his nightshirt.

"Uhm… Uhm! Uhmmmmmmm… I was under instructions to try to hand this to you… and if not, to slide it under your door," she said. She had to turn away just to finish the end of her sentence.

Oliver held his hand out for the letter. "And now you've done that," he said.

"I have," she agreed. Oliver noted her yellow shirt. From her height, he guessed that she was likely a year or two younger than him. She gave a brief both, and with a "well then," she left, still blushing as bright red as some of the rogue Oliver had seen the girls apply to their lips.

He glanced at the letter. Another one. The same high-quality bit of parchment as the last. His name was penned in a beautiful hand on the back. 'Oliver Patrick' it read, written in a flowing cursive. He spent far longer looking at that handwriting than he ought to have.

It seemed something like artwork to him, especially when his own writing was in such a poor way.

He flipped it over, about to open it, just to see the firmly plastered seal. In a golden wax, there was stamped the sigil of a regal-looking dragon.

Oliver stood, hanging in his doorway, looking at that seal. He didn't even note Verdant's approach.

"Good morning, my Lord," Verdant said. "I brought you breakfast, just in case you were not yet up. But it seems you are. Did you rest well last night? How are you feeling?"

Oliver nodded slowly, still looking at the letter. "I feel fine…" And that was the truth of it. His body felt as it usually might. His pounding headache had receded with the water that he drank. His stomach felt a little queasy, but that wasn't anything new. In fact, he felt better than he had in a long time.

Almost better than he had before the battle with Francis, but with the letter in front of him, he didn't really notice that fact. He turned it around so that Verdant could see it.