• “Blasphemy! Blasphemy I say!!” Screamed the Prince of Wales to his father, the King. The prince stood beside his father’s golden throne. The young handsome man was adorned in red and gold silken garments. He had a crown atop his head, light brown hair peeking out from the sides. He told everyone he had to keep it short for honorable battles and tournaments; really it was debatable if the young man of twenty-three had ever picked up a sword in his life. He had a snobbish, better than you, aura around him, that revolted most all except the women that adored him. All that looked upon him could tell he envied the King, and was likely to smite him at any time. Either that or the old king would just drop dead himself. “Now son, we’re not ones to judge,” the old and senile king told his young and naive son. No one was more beautifully dressed than the old and wise king himself. His silken robes stretched far down his chair, presumably made of solid gold, his long white hair stretching over his shoulders. The one thing most noticeable about the king was his large crown, jeweled of course. Many death threats had the king received over the love of the crown. Most everyone who laid eyes upon it, felt they needed it. The young prince let out a huff and rolled his eyes, “But Father,” he began, crossing his arms, “We are the ones to judge. That is why they have brought the heathen before us.” A form kneeled before the king and prince on his knees. Guards covered in heavy metal armor held the mans shackled arms. The figure’s head was knelt as well, black hair covering his head. He was barely clothed, appearing to only have his torn and ripped vest and jeans to his name. “Wrong, my son. I am the one to judge, not you. For I am king,” The old, wise king explained with slight taunt in his voice. Sweat drenched and breathing deeply, slowly the man lifted his head to meet eyes with the prince. The prince gasped and jumped back as he looked into the eyes of the young man and saw red irises. “Relax, Elias,” The king told his son. The king looked at the young man, slightly bemused, “Speak your name,” the king told the man. The young man looked at the old king, sweat dripped from the locks of his ear length hair, some sticking his face. The man- Or boy should we say, for the young man only looked about seventeen and seventeen he was. The young man had bleeding fore head, blood slowly trickling down his face and only the red carpet that lay on the ground of the kings chambers. No doubt a struggle was had between the young man and the guards. Finally he took a deep breath, “Daemon,” he breathed in a heavenly voice.