"The gate of Valsaris, your grace." The attendant bowed and stood beside the priest as Tas-Faris and his guard marched to see it. It was the remnant of a small tunnel, likely part of something much larger many years ago. The forest had grown around it, tall trees and rocks covered most of the ruin, but the tunnel still stood. Tas-Faris did not know how long it had stood there. He knew that Valsaris II, the son of Nokkaran, had dwelt in the tunnel with his soldiers, waiting out a storm of chaos, and on the seventh day spotted the forces of the Aegis marching before them in the valley, and struck them in ambush. Valsaris III, his grandson, had marched through that very same gate when he captured Karathal, fifty years to the day. Faris did not know which of the two kings it gave it its name. He knew that Nevakas named it so when he began the tradition that kings should visit this place every half-century. As it stood, the duty came to him. He had not expected to visit it so soon. It was not a place for a prince to visit, indeed, his sons lay safe in Vorak, with his wife and his daughter. But here he was, and his father dwelt now among the stars, taken gently in his sleep only three days before. Visiting was a reminder of a wound too sore. He set his jaw and walked forward. He wordlessly knelt, and drove his blade into the ground and leaned on it. He spoke the prayers, the prayers befitting to a king, first, but when his duties as a king were done he had others, and he had lost a father and friend. And he spoke the prayers befitting a grieving son. And he wept silently. He swallowed as he stood up. His guards and his attendant looked upon him as he sheathed his sword. The priest's eyes seemed to focus on the tunnel itself, behind him. "It is said and done." "It is said and done," the priest repeated, he marched ahead and took a torch from the wagon, and lit it. Slowly they stepped deeper into the tunnel. Stone and dirt and moss revealed themselves to the flame. Faris remembered when his father had left for the journey. He remembered riding out to meet him the day before he let out. Hundreds of times he had imagined his father in the tunnel, and the tunnel would be holy and peaceful, and it would be the source of much wisdom. But his father had been wise before that. And the tunnel was truly mundane. But he could imagine it better, now. He could imagine the path, trodden by many of his forefathers. He could imagine his father, making the same journey, missing his own father, who had had the fortune to make the journey twice, during his reign. It was beautiful and ethereal. Its mundanity made it no less sacred. Tas-Faris had felt no closer to his father in the last three days than in this moment.