"Dulin. It's been a long time."

"You?" Dulin's eyes widened slightly, then with a cough he feigned a casual expression. "What are you doing here?"

"I was rescued from the Deep Roads by the Grey Wardens," Faeron said. "They now count me among their ranks."

Dulin raked a hand across his gingered beard. "But why have you come here?"

Faeron glanced behind him. No one appeared to have noticed him, yet, but that didn't mean he hadn't already been enveloped by the vicious political machinations of Orzammar. Nobles continued to stroll through the Diamond Quarter with their noses in the air, obstinately oblivious to the fact that his father was dead. "I was hoping that Lord Harrowmont could answer some questions for me," he said. "He was always a dear friend of Father's."

Dulin nodded towards the doors and practically dragged Faeron into the estate. When the doors shut behind them with a loud click, Dulin shook his head. "You could have taken the side entrance, away from prying eyes."

"I thought about it." Faeron unsheathed his longsword and set it on the ground before Dulin's feet. "But I wanted to be straightforward, so that you trusted my intentions."

With a single hand gesture from Dulin, a guard had apprehended the longsword and they were walking down the finely polished walkway. "Forgive the surveillance, Bhelen's spies are everywhere."

"Sounds like my little brother," Faeron murmured.

There wasn't a splinter of wood in the estate and all the cloth was woven from moss fibers. It was a welcome change from the surface. It was disturbing to him how quickly it had all been wrenched away from him, how blind he had been. He dragged a finger across the decorative runes carved in the wall before he brought his hand under his nose. The surface sun degraded everything under its harsh rays, bleached it, burned away its quality.

Lord Pyral Harrowmont sat in his bedchamber surrounded by soldiers. He smiled a waved a hand toward an empty seat. "I apologize for the heavy guard, but if I remember correctly, you can fight like a tainted wyvern when cornered."

"I was trained by the best." Faeron sat down. The cool stone of the chair was unforgiving. "It sounds like my brother is making things difficult for you."

Harrowmont sighed. "Very."

Faeron leaned forward. "Tell me everything."

That made Harrowmont laugh. "You're very frank. I always liked that about you, but I can see now why your journey into Orzammar politics was so short lived."

"My father is dead," Faeron said. "And all anyone will say is that he died of heartbreak."

"Possibly," Harrowmont allowed. "Although, I would not be surprised if poison helped him along."

Faeron was quiet as he massaged his fingers into his forehead. How far had his brother fallen to sabotage their own father? Bhelen was turning into the perfect dwarven noble.

"Endrin spoke of you constantly from his deathbed."

"Pyral, I will ally myself with you regardless, but please, don't lie to me," Faeron said.

"He did mention you," Harrowmont amended. He spoke, softer then, "No one believes you killed Trian, Faeron."

"But it doesn't matter, now."

The past year had not been kind to Pyral Harrowmont. Deep grooves were etched into his forehead and stress fractures were carved into the corners of his mouth. The gray hair of his beard washed him out. "It was a mistake to banish you to the Deep Roads, son."

"It doesn't matter, now," Faeron repeated.

"Then why have you returned?" Harrowmont asked. "I have fond memories of you child, but given the unrest in Orzammar currently, perhaps it's better that they stay memories."

"There's a surface Blight." There was no strength behind Faeron's words. To hell with that sodding, stone-forsaken surfacer problem. He was so sick of arguing his right to belong in his own home. "The Grey Wardens are using their treaties to seek out dwarven aid."

"And you know as well as I do that the Wardens will not receive any aid until there's a king on the throne," Harrowmont concluded. He leaned back in his seat and stroked his beard. "So it would seem that you have to either assist your brother or myself to the throne for the sake of Ferelden."

"So it would seem," was all Faeron would say for a long time.

"Whatever your group decides, you should dissolve the carta in the name of your would-be king," Harrowmont said. "Those blasted criminals have noticed the power vacuum and are taking full advantage of it and terrorizing merchants."

"Thank you, old friend." Faeron stood and dusted himself off. "I'll use the side exit when I leave."

Harrowmont stood and placed a hand on Faeron's shoulder. "No. You used the front entrance, you can exit from there as well. Let them talk."

And there it was. The subtle underbelly of the game that Faeron had so hoped to avoid. He nodded. He collected his longsword from the guard and strapped it to his back.

"Here's something else you may find of interest," Harrowmont said as he led the other man to the door. "A woman named Mardy has been looking for you."

"Mardy?" Faeron had to think a long moment before the name registered.

"If memory serves me, she's smith caste." Harrowmont gripped his hand and shook it.

"I..." Faeron embraced the other man. "I believe I know a Mardy."

That was troubling. Mardy had been a flicker of a memory before the tragedy. It was embarrassing to think that he barely remembered her given everything that happened. She would be rightly insulted. The implications of her seeking him out twisted his insides. What color were her eyes? He couldn't remember what she looked like when she smiled.

He said his goodbyes to Harrowmont and began the difficult journey to the Merchant Quarter to find Mardy.