Those mighty foes, they were what seemed to pull it out of him, that fear. It allowed him a blanket to hide himself with. A place in his heart to curl up away from the world. He'd been afraid of the Emerson army, and of the prospect of defeat. But that fear had turned a spool, and woven a thread that should not have existed. He had to trust in that too.
He had to believe that there was something left for him. For he was not equal to Blackwell and the Generals under him, but they had left a mark on Tiberius' face. They had managed to scar him. He was not immortal, or beyond defeat. Even if their bodies now littered the battlefield, there was much to be learned from their deaths, if Oliver had the bravery to confront him.
The strength of that thought brought strength to his voice, when he raised it in a whip of command, raw and unrefined.
