A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

It was hidden with the bowls of one of the grey buildings on Academy grounds, a building fashioned after a castle, with battlements, and soldiers marching the walls as though it was truly a spot worth defending.

They'd even had to pass through a portcullis and over a drawbridge to get here, in the horse and cart that Lombard had sent him in.

In all ways but memory, people were treating him like a noble.

Since Blackwell had left him last week, after their conversation, the Lord had done all he could to ensure Oliver a timely spot at The Academy. He'd kept them up to date with several quickly penned letters – letters that Marianne had been burdened with reading out to Oliver, as he spent his days quietly recovering.

Oliver had been sure at the time that the meeting with the Lord had gone poorly. Both he had Lombard had walked back into the house quieter than when they came out. They didn't glance at him. Despite Blackwell's enthusiastic explanation, Oliver still could not help thinking that the man was put off.

Three letters had arrived on the first day. They cancelled such doubts. Explore stories on empire

"You will be needing a sword for practice," the first letter had read. "Have Lombard recommend one to you – we'll emblazon it with the Blackwell sigil, so that all might know you are under my exclusive protection."

With that letter, Oliver had shown it to Lombard wordlessly. The Captain had glanced at it with a frown and then a sigh, before relenting, and seeing to it that Oliver had a sword worthy of nobility.

That very sword now rested atp Oliver's bed. A single bed, unlike the one at Lombard's mansion. It suited him better.

Even the polished leather of the sheath was finer than anything that Oliver had ever owned. It was decorated with strings of silver, curling around it like grasping fingers. Then, on the hilt of the blade itself, just like the badge that fastened to the blue shirt at his chest, there was the watchful owl of the Blackwell house.

On the same day, a second letter had come for him.

"What of armour? Have Lombard get you some armour that fits. You will need it for your drilling lessons," Blackwell had said. Again, Lombard had read it, and again, he had frowned.

"…He keeps the mask of the Lord in all things but matters that interest him. And then he truly does become something of a problem," he sighed. "Your armour will be seen to, fear not, though I can not promise you it will be as fine as the blade that Blackwell has given you. The man seems intent on rewarding you for your feats, even if he cannot do so openly."

They'd both rushed around during that week. The maid had been amongst them, measuring him for clothes. Oliver had stood silently, stone-faced, not exactly sure what it was that he was getting himself into. He didn't feel any particular excitement about the prospect of going to the Academy.

From the way the others had spoken of it, it did not seem like the place itself would be particularly interesting. He had viewed it more as a stepping stone between himself and the battlefield.

But now that he was here, in a room of his own, his opinions had changed somewhat. Or rather, his opinions had begun to change that very morning, when Marianne helped him into the dark blue uniform of the Academy.

Something about the clothing had just felt right. These weren't the thrill bits of cloth that he'd been flung into the moment he'd awoken in a noble's home. This was something more suited to his tastes. Something of the like that would go well with armour.

It was a blue shirt that he wore still, very much like the shirts that the maid had been thrusting him into as of late. Only, this shirt lacked the thrills. A simple lace ran instead down the next, holding it closed.

The trousers too, black wool, as they were, were less outlandish than the spotless fabrics that the nobility seemed fond of for their garden parties, with the thin cloth that seemed so likely to tear whenever one put even the slightest bit of strength into the movements.

They were wide, and manoeuvrable. Tucked into his shining knee-high leather boots, he felt himself a king. This was the type of clothing that Oliver would have fashioned for himself, had he been given a choice in the matter. Simple, purposeful, and well suited to fighting.

He shifted his foot inside the boot, feeling how easily the soft leather gave way to him. They fit like a pair of socks, perfectly manoeuvrable for any sudden movements that he might want to try. But despite that, the treads were still firm, and reliable.

Then, the final bit of flair atop an otherwise perfect outfit was the jacket. Padded bits of wool, sewed all over with golden threads and innumerable hexagons that danced across his back and shoulders.

The sleeves were circled by gold as well, and the colour was done more like a blazer than a coat, with two long flags that ran down and folded across each other, with buttons about his stomach to hold it all in place.

That too, was an article that he would have felt comfortable fighting in. Well, perhaps it was the slightest bit heavy – but then he would merely toss it aside should the occasion come where he would need to duel.

In short, Oliver was content with the clothing, and he was content with the accommodation. Both were things that had scarcely been considered as of late. He'd only thought of weaponry, of strength, and of battle. He'd forgotten the pleasures that money could bring.

Speaking of which, inside his jacket, there was still a coin pouch, filled with a handsome sum. Lombard had handed it to him that morning.

"Thirty golds, boy," he'd said, as he placed the pouch firmly within Oliver's hand. "My own reward, for your assistance in battle. Were I a richer man, I would have given you more, but alas, it seems that Blackwell sees you are well taken care of. Take this opportunity for what it's worth. The Academy may seem like a bore, but you may yet discover a use for it.

If it proves to be intolerable, there will be a place here for you, for as long as you need it."