A Lord Among Stars

“Do you mind telling me what that was all about last night?” Leonard asked, standing beside Matt as the early sun glinted off the silver hulls descending into the pasture below.

“Not quite yet,” Matt said, eyes fixed on the shuttles as they broke through the cloud line. “But very soon.”

Leonard gave him a sidelong glance. “Thanks for loaning me your kids this morning without too many questions.”

“I’m not sure you gave me much of a choice,” Matt replied dryly. “You invited them to be part of the ceremony right in front of me.”

Matt smiled faintly. “I know how to drive a hard bargain. But let’s be honest—you’d have said yes anyway. They’re part of history now.”

“That they are,” Leonard agreed, then added, “Can you at least tell me what they’re doing? Because they clearly already know.”

“You’ll find out in a minute,” Matt said. “Didn’t the military teach you ‘hurry up and wait’?”

“As a general,” Leonard replied with a grin, “I’m usually the one causing it—not the one standing around waiting.”

K’rem T’all and the other assembled V’ren officers who had learned their English well chuckled. Some military truths were universal.

Matt smirked. “Fair enough.”

The sun cast long shadows across the dew-covered grass as seven sleek shuttles descended in perfect formation. Their polished hulls caught the morning light like blades in a forge, slicing through the haze. A breath of wind swept across the field as dust curled in soft rings around the landing pads.

Leonard shaded his eyes. “We’ve got to get counter-grav tech. This is so much better than helicopters.”

“I’ll arrange a ride later,” Matt said. “It’s better than any roller coaster I’ve ever ridden.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The shuttles touched down in unison. Ramps extended with a pneumatic hiss. From each emerged a captain—uniformed, upright, their movements precise and martial.

From the lead shuttle stepped a figure older than the others, but with a bearing absolute.

“I am Captain W’ren Th’ron of the House of Th’ron,” he said in clear, deliberate English. “I give you my honor, my house, my captains, and my ship, Matthew Jonathan Boone Marmaduke.”

He drew his house dagger and reversed the grip, offering the hilt with both hands.

“We, the assembled nobles, recognize you as Matthew of House Marmaduke, High Lord of the V’ren.”

Silence followed, heavy with meaning.

Matt spoke clearly, evenly. “MJ, Eliot, Kevin. Alexandra. Polly, Kinsey, Bella, Claudia, and Beulah. Come stand with me. It’s time.”

The children stepped forward with solemn, practiced grace. MJ stood at his side, carrying a black walnut display box that already held K’rem’s dagger. The others took their places in front of each captain.

Matt accepted W’ren’s dagger—not as surrender, but as a mark of trust. He lifted it toward the light, watching as it caught the etched sigils. This was an old blade, forged with care. He knew it instantly—the way men who forge such things always do. He laid it reverently into the box.

Polly handed him the buckskin sheath. Matt raised it high above their heads, then brought it down to eye level with W’ren, slowly drawing the blade and locking eyes across the cutting edge.

At fourteen inches, this knife had one purpose: to put the fear of death into others. Killing, in Matt’s experience, was better done with something smaller. More maneuverable.

“This is of my own forging,” Matt said.

W’ren understood the meaning of the blade. He would wear it with pride—not as a tool of violence, but as a warning. He hoped his days of killing were behind him. But there was something about carrying a weapon that made it less likely you’d ever need to use one.

“Wear it well and proudly, in the name of House Marmaduke,” Matt said, stepping back.

He left Bella Roxas standing in front of W’ren with another case—the one that would be revealed last.

Then he moved down the line, presenting each captain with a knife of his own crafting. He was genuinely glad he’d kept that box of blades. They were the product of several lonely winters—meant for friends, though he’d only ever managed to give out a few: Angelina, Floyd, Dave, MJ, Larry, Kelly, and a handful of others.

Now, they had found their moment.

When Matt returned to W’ren, the man was doing his best not to smile.

“Your sister tells me you favor Y’Tam Y’Tan,” Matt said. “The martial art of short axes.”

He opened the ceremonial case Bella had been holding. Inside lay two tomahawks. One was new, polished to a mirror finish. The other was worn, its blade darkened by time, the Osage handle cracked and stained—its patina unmistakably colored by blood. Between them lay a Ka-Bar: the blade clean, the leather grip worn by use.

“This,” Matt said in fluent V’ren, his voice steady, “is the blade I carried into my last battle.”

He reached for the broken tomahawk.

“With it, I avenged my sister’s murder. I drove it into a man’s skull and snapped the handle clean. My war was done. My heart was never let it go though.”

He paused, lifting the weapon, its weight heavier than its size should allow.

“But today,” he continued, “I lay down that burden. I pass this into the flames of history—to a man worthy of holding my past.”

He extended the broken tomahawk to W’ren.

The V’ren captain took it reverently, bowing his head—not in submission, but in respect. Then, without ceremony but with unmistakable meaning, he lifted both blades—the new and the scarred—high above his head.

One for the man he had become. One for the man who made it possible.

“By the stars,” W’ren proclaimed, his voice like a blade cutting through still air, “I name you Matthew of House Marmaduke, High Lord of the V’ren—and I challenge to the death any who say otherwise!”

For a breath, the field held still.

Then it came—not a murmur, not a cheer, but a roar of oath and fury, rising from every throat:

“Matthew of House Marmaduke, High Lord of the V’ren—death to any who say otherwise!”

The words rolled like thunder across the land, a vow shouted again and again until the earth itself seemed to tremble beneath their promise.

Leonard stood frozen—a seasoned general, visibly shaken.

“I take it back,” he muttered. “You weren’t negotiating. You were staging a coronation.”

Matt gave a faint smile. “Sometimes history doesn’t wait for permission.”

He nodded toward the children standing among the V’ren.

“They’re part of interstellar history now.”