A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 2084: King Patrick - Part 2

Lord Blake had knitted it for decades. Every want that the High King had that went against the will of the Gods, it was Lord Blake that had seen it carried out.

And now here he was. Another moment of reflection. Another moment in which he could feel a turning point. Where one could hear the dripping of a single drop of water, the ringing of a gong. An absolute presence that told him where he stood currently was the most important moment in the world.

Where everything dripped with significance. Where the very pink little flower petal floating in front of him offered all the threats of meaning needed to untangle what the next decade of rule might have been like.

He’d done it once more. He’d seized upon Oliver Patrick’s weakness, and the news had reached him. Oliver Patrick had taken the bait entirely. He’d shattered the Emerson armies that were once his allies, and he had cut off King Emerson’s head. He’d reduced his own fighting force, by his own hand – but more importantly, he had allowed the High King his illusion of justice. He’d given him the reason that he needed to call upon every neutral, and everyone that still claimed to be a citizen in service to the Stormfront. Oliver Patrick had allowed himself the perfect position to be painted as a villain.

And now the Stormfront would rise. To summon up an army of over a hundred thousand using the neutral parties that had not committed themselves yet – that would not be a difficult feat. Practically, it was done already.

So it was, Lord Blake waited. He stole away from the world, for his own privateness. He looked not towards what the future might hold, but reflected upon that which he had done, and continued to do, in the name of service to the High King. He wondered why the Gods allowed him such power – to dismiss the fates and destiny that he had felt laid out so strongly by them. What gave him the right to send blessed men like Arthur to their graves? And now to do the same of Oliver Patrick?

History would likely know it not. For history knew not the extent of Lord Blake’s machinations. But most certainly was he the most prolific slayer of heroism in the Stormfront’s rich history. Everything that was magic, everything that was godly, somehow did his fingers find their weakness. Somehow, was he given the gift of squeezing the life out of them.

Dominus and Penelope’s relationship, that shone such a light on the realm. He had seen it strangled. King Arthur’s leadership, and the hope he inspired in the people, when they saw that he would soon be High King – he robbed the realm of that. Asabel, that was his hand too. Now Oliver Patrick, who had begun as a symbol of hope, he now saw painted in the darkest of colours.

He sighed, long and deep through his nose, playing with his fingers in the waters of the pond. Regret was not an emotion he would allow himself to feel. If these were the decisions he had made, if this was the path he was committed to – then he would go all the way. An echo of a sentiment from a distance away.

...

...

Hardness of heart, a purposeful stride. A pair of eyes that brooked not weakness, and just like Lord Blake, would not allow themselves to feel the slightest twinge of regret.

A young man in front of a counsel of men far his older, and far wiser than he. A democratic vote that he had ignored, owing to the crown that sat upon his head. Weeks of puzzling, weeks of deciding what it meant to rule, what it meant to be corrupt – and then in a single heartbeat, all that logical thought was overruled by a single impulsive action.

Recklessly, did he push them towards the future. The same beating Patrick heart that one could see in him in his days at the Academy. When he would walk the halls with the same swagger, even in knowing that a good majority of the student body would have happily have turned against him.

One might have seen it in him back then, what he might have done, if he was allowed to grow stronger. Perhaps it might have lent to his enemies, in warning the world against him. Perhaps it would have cautioned his allies against giving him such a degree of support.

The world had changed a great degree since then, and so too, it seemed, had Oliver Patrick. The battles of recent times, and the suffering that came with them. The sense of loss that only grew with time, as the Gods greedily stripped more important people from his life. A changed man, more cut up even than he had been so many years ago – and yet, at the heart of him, he was still the same.

There was still that impossible will that had allowed a slave boy to survive alone for as long as he had. The same will that had allowed him to adapt as a noble. The will that had turned the storms that the High King had created for him during his time at the Academy into something that favoured him. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The same will was far from dead. He had yet to say even a word to them. He’d ordered the tower cleaned of King Emerson’s corpse and blood – his burial was something that they would deal with later. Then, he’d had every man of rank throughout his army, whether Treeant, Patrick, or Blackthorn, brought up to the tower.

In front of him, on the table, as they walked in, they could see the dead King Emerson’s silver crown lying there, without a wearer. They could see the seated Lord Hendrick, with his arms folded, and from his expression, they could make an assumption as to what had happened there.

More than a hundred people filled that room now, and still it was far from being crowded. It took up the entirety of a floor of the keep. A space that had been made for the very purpose that King Patrick now used it for – to function as a meeting room. Though, the designers most certainly had not anticipated that it would be used by any other party, save from their King. Certainly not a conqueror.

"King Emerson is dead," Oliver Patrick said bluntly, stern in his pronouncement, showing not the slightest hint of regret. "And now, we are at war with the Stormfront."