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.

Blackwell towered over the corpse that had been presented to him, inside his tent. Oliver had taken his party with him for the meeting, all that had been involved. The other men, he'd had gathered up, and messengers sent to. He'd yet to be informed of all that they had achieved since he had last spoken to them, so hurried had the order come from Blackwell's men that they were to see him.


There was a distinct feeling of tension in the air, along with the nervousness that something needed to be hurried. Even though they had managed to catch the killer before sundown, the sense that time was running out still had not faded.


They hadn't presented the killer glamorously. They'd wrapped him up in the scrap of canvas that Blackwell had sliced from the tent, and dragged him to their liege Lord as if he were nothing more than a scrap of meat. That was how he was treated as well, as Torin threw down the corpse with distaste, causing the head to roll out of the canvas.


Chapter 1489 - The Realm's Most Valiant - Part 7