Brady tossed around in his sheets.

The darkness of the bedroom was broken only by the light of the moon piercing through the windows. A breeze crawled through the open windows and smelled of fresh, fallen rain and chimney smoke. It chilled his skin, still hot with liquor.

He sat up against the headboard, closed his eyes and craned his neck up toward the ceiling with a huff. He threw off his sheets and stood up, raising his arms over his head with a long stretch and groan.

He dressed into a loose grey tunic with short sleeves and dark brown leather trousers. He fastened a pair of black boots to his feet and left his room.

The castle was quiet. Candles in the hall burned and flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows over the decorative furnishings in the hall.

Brady eyed the artwork that lined the walls as he walked through the castle. He descended the stairs and ventured through the lower level of the palace. The guards in the main hall eyed him as he passed, remaining still with their hands rested on their pommels.

He passed by the vacated kitchen and saw a heavy wooden door that led outside.

He exited through the door and found himself in the training yard. The faint sound of a hammer striking metal echoed from a stone structure that bled an orange glow onto the surrounding area. He followed the sound and stepped into the forge through a wide, open arch.

The forge was brightly lit by firelight. It appeared much larger from inside, with high ceilings and enough space for a dozen blacksmiths to work simultaneously without disturbing one another. A collection of weapons hung on the tall, stone walls and various sets of armor sat on display, aligned underneath the weapons. The flames reflected against their metal.

A blacksmith struck against a shard of iron set atop an anvil. He was an elf, tall and slender with cropped brown hair and a smooth face. He stopped and rose his eyes to Brady. He leaned his head forward and squinted his eyes, then nodded.

"Inquisitor," his voice was soft. He placed his hammer down and walked to Brady with his hand extended. "Heard you were attending the palace, didn't think I'd actually get to meet you."

They shook hands. The blacksmith took a step back and rubbed the nape of his neck.

"Pretty late to be working the forge."

"Wanted to finish fixing a piece of armor, guess I lost the time," he shrunk and slouched his shoulders. "I apologize if the noise woke you."

"Unneeded," Brady said. "What's your name?"

"Garahel, your worship."

"After the warden?"

"After my father… who was named after the warden, your worship."

"You don't have to address me by that," he chuckled. "'Brady' is fine."

"I apologize, your wor- ah, Brady," Garahel smiled awkwardly and clicked his tongue. "Doesn't sound right."

"Trust me, I prefer it."

"Of course," he nodded. "As you wish."

Brady fought a smirk and glanced at the swords displayed on the wall.

"Beautiful collection."

"Aye, you like them?" Garahel gestured for Brady to follow him to the wall. "Our passion projects."

Brady examined the blades on the wall, the masterworks all distinct in a noticeable matter. Garahel held a grin and crossed his arms. He explained the craftsmanship of a few blades, marveling at them with the same admiration Brady had.

"Have they ever seen battle?"

"No. Those weapons are in the armory."

Brady followed the swords and continued to listen to Garahel's adoring descriptions of various weapons, ranging from daggers to two-handed axes, until they reached the end of the collection at the corner of the forge.

Brady set his eyes on a silverite sword. The blade was long and narrow with a deep groove that ran down the center of the blade. The cross guard was colored a gleaming gold with a short grip, wrapped in drake leather. The pommel was squared like a shaven down bar of gold and sat at the end of the hilt, heavy and proud.

He placed his fingers beneath the blade and tipped it forward with ease, the blade lighter than he expected.

Garahel cocked his brow and approached. He glanced at Brady with a chuckle.

"Made that one myself," he straightened his back. "Started off as a mistake, but I managed to work it into something worth the wall."

"A mistake?"

"Was supposed to be a two-handed weapon, but the narrow blade ruined the weight. Made it into a demon of a long blade. Light enough for one hand, but the length of a greatsword," he chuckled, "Call it 'Bastard's Blade,'" he cleared his throat, "Not out loud, of course."

"It's magnificent."

"Thank you, but it is quite impractical," he admitted. "Would take a master swordsman to use it in battle."

Garahel fell silent, then took the blade off the wall. He presented it to Brady, who stood wide-eyed.

"Take it, Inquisitor. I'd consider it an honor."

"Thank you, but… It's quite the weapon, I doubt I'd do it justice."

"You're being modest," Garahel ran his hand across the bottom of the blade and held it wide in his arms. "I'm no King, but I know when someone is worthy of one of these blades, more so if it's one of mine. Some people are too easy to forget what you did… for all of us," he let out a laugh and placed the blade into Brady's arms, "And if I may be so bold, sounds like you may have, too."

Brady held the blade in his hands and rose his eyes to Garahel.

"Thank you," Brady bowed his head. "Truly."

"I should be thanking you," Garahel glanced at the sword. "When you're out there saving the world or whatever the void you do, you'll be doing it with ole' bastard here, using him for the good of the people and all that."

The blacksmith grinned and turned away, walking back to his workbench. He threw his jerkin on and put out the fire.

Brady wielded the blade in front of him. The pommel was a masterful counterweight to the lightness of the blade. The grip fit into one hand, with just enough room to add another for the leverage on a heavy strike. Despite its length, the blade allowed for quick strings and strikes.

Garahel bid Brady farewell and encouraged him to test the blade in the training yard, handing him a dark leather belt and scabbard.

Brady agreed and followed him out of the forge.

The sunrise kissed the sky and lit the training yard with an orange and pink glow. Brady sunk into the mud with every step and hurried to the drier area of the yard. Straw dummies sat in a line near the sparring ring.

With one final farewell to the blacksmith, Brady found himself alone.

He eyed the blade and murmured, "Alright, ole' bastard, let's see what you got."

Brady practiced until the morning overtook the sky. The palace sprung awake, the sounds of guards and servants rushing into their morning routine failed to distract Brady from the use of his blade. People passed through the training yard, but paid him no mind, more invested in their own roles.

The sound of boots sinking into the mud approached Brady.

"Truly a work horse, Trevelyan."

Damon walked in front of Brady with a grin. Brady lowered his blade. Damon leaned against the straw dummy and crossed his arms. He squinted his eyes and whistled.

"Did the dummy fight back?"

Brady cocked his head, then nodded with a laugh.

"Tavern brawl with a few drunkards."

"You went to the tavern? What, the ale here not strong enough for you?"

"No," Brady rested his blade at his side with a sigh, "It's a long story."

Brady turned and walked to a bench in the yard, placing his blade atop of the wood. He pulled off his tunic and dabbed it against his face, careful not to place pressure on his wounds.

"I've got time," Damon smirked and pushed himself upright.

"Leliana and I had an argument. I left, went to the tavern… couple guys picked a fight and landed some lucky shots."

Damon snickered, "A lovers' spat, then?"

"Please," Brady wiped the sweat from the nape of his neck. "It's not like that."

"Until it is."

Brady paused and looked over his shoulder at Damon. He shook his head and sighed. Damon joined Brady by the bench. Brady threw his tunic over his shoulder and glanced at Damon.

"We're friends," he said. "Just friends."

Damon stared at the ring seated against Brady's chest and chuckled, "I'll start believing it when you do."

Brady glanced down at his necklace and flicked it around his neck. The ring fell between his two shoulder blades.

"A woman will always best a man… and when you love one, well, you give them the power to damn near kill you."

"Love one? What makes you think I-"

"I kept Morrigan's ring, too. Makes it easier, in a funny way, doesn't it?"

Brady threw his tunic back on. He looked at Damon, deflated his shoulders and exhaled.

"My father used to tell me, 'Pup, the ones you love should always know it.' Never thought much of it back then. When Howe's men overran our home," Damon paused and sighed. "The last thing I ever said to them was 'I love you,' and to this day I wish I said it more… showed it more."

Brady remained silent and watched the pain of a memory pull down the corners of Damon's mouth and wrinkle his brow. Damon took a deep breath and shook his head.

"Death treads behind us, its hands reaching for our necks. We aren't on this world long enough to wait for a right time, a right way. Let the ones you love know it," Damon's eyes glanced at the palace. "Let her know, or I assure you, you will regret it. One way or another."

"I can't do that," Brady pushed his brows together and shook his head. "It would be unfair. She has a mission to focus on and-"

"And?"

"It would be a distraction. Getting this dagger back is hard enough without bringing feelings into it."

"I'd say it's too late for that."

Brady knew Damon was right. The chance of dying of old age waned every time Brady raised a blade or simply stepped outside. He wagered the end would come at the edge of another's blade or a cloaked dagger in the dark just when he felt safe. Perhaps even at the hands of Solas himself, if or when his plans came to fruition.

Once, the fear of death kept Brady alive. It made him careful and hone his skills to reduce the chance of being outmatched by an enemy. His fear of death quelled after years of conflicts that had him stare down his own demise.

The part of death that scared Brady was the idea of living while death claimed the ones around him. Death, to him, was easy. Eventually, the pain would cease and he would rest by the Maker's side. Living was the hard part. Perhaps an early grave had its small benefits, for he knew the pain of loss lingered as long as lungs drew breath.

Damon raised his eyes to the sparring ring and smirked.

"You still got some fight in you?" Damon asked, placing his hand on his pommel.

Brady glanced over to the sparring ring and grabbed his blade with a grin.

"Do you, old man?"

Damon laughed, "You won't last a minute."

They walked toward the sparring ring, but were interrupted by a King's guard. The guard informed them they were requested to join Anora in her study shortly. With a disappointed sigh, they agreed.

Brady sheathed his sword. A few inches of metal stuck out from the scabbard. He sighed, and secured the leather belt across his torso and rested the scabbard and blade against his back.

They walked into the palace and found Anora's study in the King's wing.

She stared down at a large piece of parchment that rested atop of her desk. Leliana stood behind Anora and glanced over her shoulder, her brows puckered with her arms crossed over her chest.

Leliana raised her eyes from the parchment and greeted them with a small grin. They approached the desk. Damon took a seat beside Anora and folded his hands together, gazing at the parchment.

It contained a rough sketch of an estate, floor by floor. The estate seemed a moderate size as it was drawn out, making it susceptible to various chokepoints if a fight were to occur- and from Brady's experience- a fight was a certainty.

Brady addressed Damon, "What are you thinking?"

Damon unfolded his hands and rested his back against his seat. "We send you in, have you ask about the dagger. If someone knows something, great. If not, you get the fuck out of there."

Leliana narrowed her eyes at Damon. "That simple?"

"Not everything has to be an elaborate scheme," Damon said. "Sometimes, it's as easy as 'get in, get out.'"

"If the Dark Wolf sees him, he will not be able to 'get out' as easily as you claim."

"Your thoughts, Leliana?" Brady asked.

She pointed at the bottom floor of the estate.

"The wine cellar. We enter through there and join the guests on the main floor. Damon searches the estate for the slaves they which to auction while we-"

"You have forged invitations, why risk being caught before you even get into the estate?" Anora interrupted, continuing to stare down at the layout.

"Even with the invitations, this is a Ferelden party. No masks to hide behind," Brady argued. "All it would take is someone to recognize one of us."

"Which isn't a problem if we simply send you," Damon retorted. He tapped the flat of his hand against the desk. "These people believe you to be a monster? Then be a monster. Make them see you as what they believe you are. They won't bother you. They may even admire you."

"And what of the slaves?" Anora said, turning her eyes to Damon.

Brady crossed his arms, "That's where we'll use the entrance to the wine cellar."

Damon's eyes gleamed as a smirk stretched across his face. "They'll be so distracted by you-"

"They won't notice our infiltration," Brady twisted the parchment towards him and leaned over the desk. Leliana circled around the desk and stood beside Brady. She studied the layout, then glanced at him. He brought his eyes to her, "What do you think?"

"Damon guards the entrance to the cellar and I go in," Leliana tapped her finger against the parchment. "If the entrance remains clear, Anora's agents can funnel in and rummage around."

"And provide support if this goes tits up," Damon added.

Brady rubbed the nape of his neck. "Which it probably will."

Leliana huffed and shook her head.

With agreement, they exited Anora's study. Damon left Brady and Leliana for the dining hall, claiming his stomach was bound to collapse on itself without breakfast. They bid him farewell and walked side by side down the hall.

Brady stole glances of Leliana as they continued down the hall. She caught his eyes and playfully pushed her hand against his upper arm. He staggered with a laugh.

"I know that look," she said, looking up at him. "Something on your mind?"

"Just admiring the view," he cocked a brow, "you look well… considering."

She scoffed with a smile, "A lot better than some."

"How are you feeling?"

"I hoped for a few cups of tea before doing anything today," she laughed. "But I've been worse."

They reached the staircase. Brady begun to descend the stairs. Leliana laid her hand on his forearm and brought him to a stop. He turned around and caught her eyes.

"What Damon said… you don't believe that, do you?"

He shook his head, "Not all of your schemes are elaborate."

She rolled her eyes and giggled, "That's not what I meant."

He took a step up and stood in front of her.

"After last night, he may be right. I'm in more danger being seen at a tavern than in a crowd of monsters."

A deep wrinkle formed between her brows. "You're not a monster, Brady."

"They assume they know me from what they've heard. I don't blame them," his forehead rippled. "Even you couldn't tell the difference, once."

"I know who you are."

He pulled on a small smile, "I know you do."

A moment of silence fell upon them, their eyes connected and reflected the bleeding sunlight through the windows of the hall. He noticed the concern on her face. She was unveiled, her thoughts transparent through her eyes.

"Get some rest. We have a long night ahead of us," he murmured. "I'll see you soon."

He descended the stairs and left her at the top of the staircase. He glanced up and saw she had gone. With a deep exhale, he returned to his bedroom.