There is a sense for greatness.

Some people carry it around like a bad smell. They make us stop on the street, and look their way, whether we wish to or not. Their appearance might be ordinary, but there’s something about them, something beyond the norm. Something that makes you almost wish to bend the knee to them.
Our kings have likely had that something, those that came from nothing but ashes and ruin, in times of trouble and famine, where the hearts of the masses are restless, and they need a cause to bind to. What makes them choose one man over another?

It is my contention that there is a true gravity to such individuals. That progress, or competence, or greatness itself carries a weight. That a man might grow greater in the dark, and whether he wishes it or not, by the sheer gravity of his existence, tigers will make their way towards his door, catching his scent in the wind.

The tigers hide themselves in the forests, in villages unknown, amongst the peasantry, but sooner or later, it does seem, that they are always cast into the light. It requires an immense effort of will to keep them hidden. A man of such a gravity will see themselves risen, without will, to ranks beyond that of the norm – in times of peace, they might rise high indeed. But in times of chaos? When the world is in upheaval, when every piece in up in the air? Then a tiger from the most lowly of starts, with a competency – a density – beyond belief, as if they were a different creature entirely – they might go all the way. They might be the creature that – though a peasant themselves – the peasantry themselves kneel to. They might go further, and make the soldiery kneel, and then even the nobles after them. And a special class, beyond all others, might go even further still, and snatch a crown the head of a king, on a flurry of brilliant victories, on a story so overwhelming it almost might have seemed preordained.

It is those men that we ought to fear, and it those men that we will eternally be at the mercy of. It is those men that we do the honour of addressing as our kings, and our emperors.

"She caught a man from an impossible distance today. I saw it myself," Blackthorn said. "And she's killed all those men on the fort ramparts in the days before."


"She did indeed," Oliver said. "And yet, Nila hates combat. She ought not to be here."


"She does?" Blackthorn could not hide her surprise, even behind her usual mask. "Why is she… ah. That is why."


Oliver made no attempt to reply. It seemed that Blackthorn already understood.


"Who is she?" Blackthorn asked. "If she were at the Academy, she would be Professor Yoreholder's favourite. Her talent is the strangest thing."


"She is many things, but in the eyes of the nobility, I suppose she could be reduced to a mere peasant," Oliver said, letting the words hang in the air. "Then, Judas as well carries the same label, yet he has proved himself most useful. All those men of mine, they're either peasants, or ex-slaves. So you see, Lady Blackthorn, you need not fear Nila. She has been condemned already by her station."


Chapter 841 - A Cutting Blow - Part 8