A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

By the time he was fully open, he realized his mistake. This room was only really large enough for a single person, and a single large desk. A magnificent piece. Oliver had never been one to admire furniture – he'd never had enough money to care for such things – but this desk was so grand that even he could see the beauty in it.

The wood was solid, dark and varnished, as smooth as polished marble on its top. It was the carvings that really sold it, though, labours of love, carvings of coiling dragons winding their way around the legs, and then a nesting eagle, carved on the tabletop. It looked like a table ornament, but no, it was part of the table itself.

The man behind the desk seemed impressive enough to warrant it.

He was one of the few people that Oliver had seen in his time here who insisted on being completely armoured. The vast majority of Oliver's professors – and the other professors he had seen – chose to wear something more comfortable, yet still formal enough for the prestige of their post.

The man's sword was laid out across the desk, in its sheath, just waiting. There was no paperwork or the like. No pens. The man was merely sitting, with his sword in front of him, and his hands clasped, waiting for something.

He seemed as old as Tavar, but he wore the age better. He kept his chiselled jaw free of a beard, and even the hair atop his head as short and neatly trimmed, the blackness just seeing the first pepperings of grey.

Oliver managed to remain graceful despite his mistake, and despite the clear irritation manifest on the man's face.

"Who are you?" The man got the question out before he could apologise.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Pardon. I was looking for the Command class. I was told it had a rather distinctive door… and this seemed to be the most appropriate place, given that description," Oliver said.

The man grunted. "Distinctive door..? I suppose that's one way to put it. People can't stop knocking."

It was only then that Oliver saw the pile of paperwork strewn all over the other side of the room. It made a sharp contrast to the man's well-kept appearance. With the broken chair that lay among it, it seemed to have been done in a fit of rage.

The man tracked his gaze, and his own eyes sharpened, as if trying to read Oliver's judgement on his face.

"Not going to comment?" The man asked. "From your reputation, I would have expected at least some sort of remark. Your father wouldn't have held back."

"I do recall you asking me who I was," Oliver noted.

"Is a question's only purpose to find an answer?" The man replied. Before motioning to the mess on the floor. "Give me your best. See if your tongue stings like Dominus' could."

"Well, I would say, given that you have a fire raging in the half, if you wanted to be done with the papers so badly you might have used that instead," Oliver said. "Also, a bit of a waste of a chair… General?"

He guessed the last part, but the man didn't refute him. Who else would be tucked away in such a grand room in the Central Castle, fully armoured with his sword? The man clearly had a military air about him. The scar on his cheek spoke to that, as did his particular sternness – the sort of seriousness that only a man that had seen the horrors of war could truly muster.

The man tutted. "Disappointing. Those are your words, not your father's."

Oliver couldn't say much in response to that, for they were indeed his words.

"Burning them… Yes, that would have been nice, if I did not need to tend them," the man complained. "Far easier to slice through an army with a sword than to scribe it all afterwards."

Oliver glanced at the man again. From his appearance, he didn't seem the sort that would be so disinclined towards paperwork. Indeed, his cleanliness made it seem as though administrative duties were as much his forte as the sword… but then, appearances could be deceiving.

The man drifted off into thought, before coming back to himself, and waving Oliver away with a hand. "Go on then, out. You've already realized this isn't the Command room. Go."

"Would you point me in the direction of it?"

"Do I look like I have the time to be pointing anyone in the direction of anything?"

"Quite frankly, General… Yes, yes you do," Oliver said.

The faintest crack of a smile broke the General's lips. "That's more like it. I suppose that sort of bite is not something you can command. You have to wait for the moment to be ripe… You're one corridor away from the Command classroom. Go left. A distinctive door – smaller than mine."

Oliver dipped his head in thanks, then left, closing the door behind him, leaving the General still brooding behind his desk, whilst he made no moves to tend to the mess that he'd made.

The latch closed more loudly than he would have liked. He half expected the General to storm out and complain to him – the man did seem to be in a rather bad mood, after all. But Oliver heard no further movements from inside, and sighed with relief.

That could have gone poorly. The General had encouraged him to be direct with his words, but he couldn't help thinking that was a mistake…

He found the Command classroom using the General's directions. Indeed, it was a distinctive door. Large – not quite as large as the General's, but larger than the others – but the most distinctive part of it was its colour. All the other doors were either the colour of dark varnished wood, or completely painted black. This one, in opposition to all of those, was a startling clean white.

He almost didn't want to touch it, for fear of dirtying its colour.