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Deep below the Lothian Manor, Bors Lothian carried a small lantern down a twisting flight of spiral steps before entering a dimly lit stone chamber.

Moisture beaded on the walls in some places and mice scurried into the darkest corners of the chamber at the sight of the soft golden glow of Bors’ lantern.

The walls of the chamber had been hewn directly into the stone of the earth and while it was very long, the chamber itself was no more than twenty paces wide. Enough to accommodate two rows of crypts, holding the fallen heroes and departed loved ones of the Lothian family.

One crypt, engraved with a crest of lilies and an embroidery needle, held an oil lamp that cast a faint golden glow across the other crypts in the chamber, casting deep, inky shadows that danced like living things.

"Hello, Isla," Bors said, kneeling on the cold stone floor and placing his lantern on the ground as he folded his hands in prayer.

"It’s been seven years already since you left for the Heavenly Shores.

The boys are grown now. I should be able to join you soon but.

.. I worry about our sons," he said with a heavy sigh.

Moving slowly, he extinguished the lamp burning atop his late wife’s crypt and began to meticulously clean the accumulated residue from the glass of the lamp while he spoke.

"I’ve done the best I could with them, but I know that I would have done better if you were still here beside me," he said.

"Owain is strong and capable of defending our home from the demon hordes and Loman has held to his faith all these years.

You would be proud of them my love," he said, pausing in his work as his mind filled with memories of simpler, happier days.

There had been a time when Isla brought the boys into his stately office every day.

She’d sit in her embroidery chair near his desk, plucking away at her needlework while Loman read at her feet, breaking the silence of the office only when he needed to ask for help with one word or another in whatever book his tutors had given him most recently.

Owain had never been so well behaved, but in his father’s office, even as a teenager, he would wander from one trophy to the next, reading the histories that accompanied them and imagining himself as a hero adding to the collection one day.

Now, Owain was already accumulating a number of trophies of his own, though none were worthy of a place in the office collection yet, he was certain to add to them one day. And Loman...

"I promised you that I’d look after them," Bors said, putting away his cleaning rag and pulling out a small bottle of lamp oil to refill the freshly cleaned lamp.

In the first year after her passing, he felt like the oil had barely burned down between visits, but over the years, it had come closer and closer to running empty by the time he next visited.

"At least until I’ve seen my first grandson born.

When I know the future is secure, then I can join you on the Heavenly Shores," he promised.

"Only, I’m afraid the wait may be even longer than I imagined," he said.

Using the flame of his own lantern, he relit her lamp and placed it back atop the cold stone crypt.

"I spoke with the girl that Owain intends to take as his second wife. She’s clever but very, very young.

She thinks that the world will dance to her tune because her father is a count and she has some skill at enticing people into her schemes. "

"Perhaps if she were her sister’s age, she would have grown out of this foolishness, but I’m afraid that she will bring disasters down upon our boys before she learns the limitations of her power," he said, shaking his head as he recalled her performance at dinner this evening.

"Loman is contending for the throne," he added, his voice growing as heavy as the stones of the crypts. "He’s improving, but he needs years more seasoning. And Owain... Owain has squandered so many years that I feel only a capable woman at his side will allow him to care for the march and keep it safe from the demons. I just don’t know that this Blackwell girl is as capable as she thinks she is. "

"You could have straightened her out," he said, pulling out a small bottle of wine and two cups that were barely larger than thimbles. "You always had a way with the ladies of the march. Now, I’m afraid that this Blackwell girl will turn our court into the kind of viper’s nest that is common in the soft territories to the east. People will start squabbling among themselves and forget about the threat of the demons. "

"I’ll do what I can with her in the time I have left," he said, pouring a tiny cup for Isla and one for himself.

He drank his own cup immediately but hesitated once he picked hers up.

"Would you hate me, my love, if I stayed on longer?

Long enough to pass the throne to a grandson instead of one of our boys?

" Bors asked before pouring the second tiny cup of wine over the cold stones of Isla’s crypt.

"I know you always believed in them," he said with a heavy sigh. "Owain is already five years older than I was when my father died. Maybe you were right all along and their true capability will only be unearthed when they have to face trials without me but... I just can’t put my mind at ease."

Slowly, and with much more effort than it required of him seven years ago, Bors stood up from the cold stone floor and looked down lovingly at the crypt that held the remains of his departed Isla.

"Please wait just a bit longer," he promised, sliding his thick, calloused hand along the smooth stones of the crypt. "If this Blackwell girl reveals herself to be a threat to our boys, I’ll put an end to her myself and damn the agreements with the Blackwells if that’s what comes of it.

But if you can, my love, watch over this girl and help me forge her into a tool that will serve our family well in the years to come.

That way, when I come to join you, I can bring stories of our grandchildren with me. "

For several minutes, Bors stood there, trailing his fingers across the surface of the crypt losing himself in memories of the past. The cold stone beneath his fingers felt nothing like her warm, gentle touch, but sometimes, when he visited her here, he could almost imagine her hand reaching back to squeeze his own, offering silent comfort the way she had so many times before when the weight of his duties felt like they threatened to crush him and all that he held dear along with him.

"I miss your counsel, my love," he said softly. "Now more than ever." Finally, after spending several minutes lingering at the crypt of his late wife, he moved to another crypt, not far away.

While his wife’s crypt was simple, adorned only with her personal crest while awaiting her husband to join her in eternal rest, this crypt was covered in decorations befitting a powerful warrior and wise Marquis who ruled the Lothian March with courage and wisdom that filled Bors with a mixture of pride for the other man’s accomplishments and shame at his own inadequacies.

"Father," Bors said, bowing his head and kneeling at the foot of the crypt. "For thirty years, I have held everything you left to me and taken more besides, but I have failed to conquer even one of the demon lords that plague us," he said heavily.

"Your grandsons are strong and clever, but they lack your gift to be both warrior and ruler," he said.

"As a parent, I fear that I have overindulged them, especially since their mother passed.

But as their ruler, I fear even more that they are unprepared.

There may come a day in the future where brother turns against brother and our people are plunged into chaos because of it. "

"Father," he said solemnly. "I’ve done my best to follow in your footsteps in raising my boys, but I didn’t realize until you were gone that I needed your advice as a father far more than I needed your lessons in the sword.

Now, I would give anything to hear your voice again, just this once.

How would you choose? For the good of the march?

Or for the good of the family? And what should I do when those no longer seem to be the same thing? "

Only the cold silence of the underground chamber answered his questions.

Once the dead left for the Heavenly Shores, they were never heard from again without the use of dark, forbidden magic and Bors would slit his own throat before he used such heretical sorcery to disturb the slumber of his lost loved ones.

Even if he would give nearly anything to hear Isla gentle encouragement or his father’s sage advice, some lines should never be crossed.

Hours passed while Bors knelt at the foot of his father’s crypt, searching for an answer to the dilemma that haunted him.

In the end, he felt no closer to an answer than he had when he entered the crypt.

For now, that was fine. He still had time.

But when time ran out and he made his decision.

.. he couldn’t help but hope that the people buried here would approve.