The Crypt of the Vultures went deep into the Red Mountains. Its first tombs were constructed when the Blackmonts were kings, before the coming of the Rhoynar. Now, the tomb of Anders Blackmont was before him, in the style of the rest. A stone sarcophagus, on its lid, a vulture lay sleeping. Ellion Blackmont placed his hand upon it. It was cold to the touch, like death itself drawing the warmth of life from his hand.

His father had been a great man, who had long served both his house and Dorne. A lesser man might have felt overshadowed by a great father. A greater man might seek even greater accomplishment. Ellion was a man of faith, and he believed The Seven had a purpose for him as they had a purpose for his father. His father had kept the peace in Dorne, and lived long enough to die in his own bed surrounded by his family. He had not suffered, and Ellion knew he had gone to the Stranger without regret.

In the peace of the crypt, his purpose was clear. For too long the Blackmonts had brooded. Perhaps that was their way, but his father had changed that for a time. He sighed, it was time for him to emerge from the mountains in service of Dorne again. His son had to be prepared as well, a task made easier by a realm at peace.

Darkness reclaimed the corridor as he left, the light of his lamp yielding to the gloom. The dead may rest, but the living must carry on.