‘Prince Manthra’
The princely robes of the Sayers were scattered everywhere within the center of the court as swords lay still next to them. In the center of it all, kneeling upon his sword victoriously, was Darben. His long, jet black hair was disheveled upon his head, covering the jade color Volta Baroque mask he had become accustomed to wearing. He was shirtless; panting feverishly, attempting to catch his breath from the seven full days of nonstop combat. He was tired and hungry but also, he was smiling at the thought of what he had just accomplished.
In over four thousand years, the house of Sayers hadn’t changed hands. Now the Sayers were no more. The Elders who had observed the entire matter, walked over to where Darben was kneeling.
“Forgive me, my lords, if I do not stand to greet you; I am just a little weary,” he managed between breaths.
“No need for apologies, Prince Darben. However, an explanation to your deception is required,” the Elder said.
Slowly, Darben struggled to his feet. “Deception?” he asked.
“We were not informed that you were in possession of the sword of Prince Billum. Why did you hide this fact from us?”
Slowly, he rose to his feet, standing tall and erect. “My lords, I hid nothing from you. It is not customary that one should be asked about his sword; therefore, since I was never asked, I felt no compulsion to divulge that bit of information.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Or was I to assume that there are special rules in place, when it comes down to vampires?”
The eyes of one of the Elders were crinkled slits as he looked around the empty court where the Sayers were once housed. “They begged for mercy, Prince Darben. Why didn’t you grant them mercy?”
Darben struggled slowly to place his sword into its sheath. The mask concealed the tightened muscles in his face. But he could not hide the tone of his voice.
“There were seventy-five Sayers, were there not? Yet not ‘one,’ took the liberty to call for a correction in the matter of my people.” He pointed his finger over at the empty seats of the court. “I would prefer that these seats remain silent; since they had been silent on the matter of the Lucians for so long.”
The face of two Elders were expressionless. However, the cold words appeared to register in the eyes of the Elder name Kabul. Secretly, he had longed to behold the magnificent splendor of such an absurd event. The manifestation of a private conviction.
“Very well, Prince Darben. The house solely belongs to you,” he smiled coyly.
“You may now choose who shall judge alongside of you. From this day forward, you shall be a Warrior Priest over this house. What shall your house be called?” Kabul inquired.
“The House of Frales,” Darben announced proudly.
“And under what name shall you rule as Warrior Priest?”
For Darben, the choice was obvious.
Underneath his mask, a small smile dangled on the corners of his mouth. “Manthra!”
The Elders stood around him; the chief among them raising his hand high into the air. “Prince Darben, will you please bow.”
“By the decree of the Throne and of its Elders, we hereby sanction this house, as the House of Frales which shall govern over all Stellars. From this moment forward, you shall be Warrior Priest under the name, Prince Manthra.”
