A Meeting in the Royal Palace

The streets of Orzammar were never silent, even in the hours approaching the artificial night created by the great stone ceiling overhead. Voices echoed against the granite walls, hushed tones mixed with the occasional drunken shout. Yet within the confines of their hideout, the tension was thick as molten steel.

Adela stood by the door, arms crossed, her sharp green eyes fixed on Duran. "You're really going through with this?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Gorim, ever the stalwart, sat sharpening his blade, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone punctuating his words. "It's a trap. You know it. Behlen doesn't summon you out of brotherly love."

Duran sat at the table, his hands clasped together as he regarded his companions. His shoulders were tense, but his voice was calm. "If he has something to say, I'll hear him out. We're walking into the Deep Roads tomorrow. If there's a chance to resolve anything here before that… I have to try."

Adela scoffed. "Resolve? With him? The man who had you exiled, branded a kinslayer? I say we ignore the summons and focus on the real enemy."

Gorim set his whetstone down with a clink and stood. "She's right, my lord. Behlen doesn't play fair. If you go, Adela and I are coming with you. No arguments."

Duran hesitated, his gaze flickering between them. Adela's fiery determination and Gorim's steady loyalty were his bedrock, the bonds that had kept him steady since his exile. He knew they were right to worry, but he couldn't shake the pull of his duty—not just as a Grey Warden but as a dwarf of Orzammar.

"Very well," Duran conceded, standing. "But keep your weapons sheathed unless I give the word. Behlen will expect a show of force. Let's not give him an excuse for bloodshed."

The Royal Palace

The opulence of the palace had not changed. Its gilded arches and carved pillars stood as a testament to dwarven artistry, but to Duran, it felt hollow. The throne room, where his father had once presided with dignity and justice, now echoed with a different energy.

Behlen sat on a grand seat near the end of the chamber, his dark eyes calculating as they landed on his brother. The faint smirk tugging at his lips was both welcoming and mocking.

"Brother," Behlen said, his voice smooth as polished stone. "How long has it been? Too long, I think."

Duran approached, flanked by Adela and Gorim. His footsteps echoed in the vast chamber, each one deliberate. "You know why I'm here," he said, his tone clipped. "Speak your piece, Behlen. I don't have time for games."

Behlen chuckled, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock innocence. "Games? I have no need for games. I called you here as family, Duran. You may deny it, but we share the same blood, the same destiny."

"Spare me the poetry," Duran snapped. "Get to the point."

Behlen's smile faltered, replaced by a more somber expression. He gestured to the guards flanking the room, who bowed and retreated, leaving only the two brothers and Duran's companions.

"You've always been direct," Behlen remarked, his tone slipping into something softer. "Very well, I'll speak plainly. You're here because you need Branka, and I need her too."

Duran stiffened, his hand twitching at his side. "How do you know about that?"

"Do you think anything happens in Orzammar without my knowledge?" Behlen leaned forward, his voice dropping. "We both know Branka is the key to resolving the Assembly's deadlock. The voice of a Paragon carries absolute authority. If you can find her and bring her back, I want you to persuade her to support me."

The words hung in the air, thick with implication. Duran stared at his brother, searching for any trace of sincerity in his expression. Behind him, Gorim tensed, his hand drifting instinctively toward his weapon. Adela narrowed her eyes, her posture stiffening.

"And why," Duran asked, his voice cutting through the silence, "would I ever do that?"

Behlen's gaze hardened. "Because you know I'm the only one who can lead Orzammar into the future. Harrowmont clings to the past, to traditions that are strangling this city. Look around you, Duran. The Assembly is in chaos, the caste system is crumbling, and the Darkspawn grow stronger every day. Orzammar needs a king who can act decisively. That king is me."

"Decisively?" Duran snapped. "Is that what you call what you did to me? To Trian? To our father?"

Behlen's expression darkened, but he didn't flinch. "I did what I had to do. You may hate me for it, but Orzammar is stronger now than it's been in years. Trade with the surface has never been better, the casteless have more opportunities, and the Assembly—" He paused, letting out a bitter chuckle. "Well, they'll fall in line once Branka supports me."

Duran stepped forward, his voice a low growl. "You think I'll betray my honor, just like you did, for the sake of your ambitions?"

"Don't think of it as betrayal," Behlen countered smoothly. "Think of it as survival. The Blight threatens us all, brother—surface and Stone alike. If we're divided, we'll fall. With Branka's support, I can unite Orzammar and lend you the full strength of our armies. Harrowmont won't offer you that. He's too busy keeping the casteless in their place and appeasing the old houses."

Adela scoffed from behind Duran, her voice sharp. "And your way is better? A throne built on blood and treachery?"

Behlen's eyes flicked to her, his lips curling into a sneer. "I don't recall inviting surface filth into this discussion."

Duran's hand shot up, halting Adela's retort before it could leave her lips. His voice was cold as stone. "She's worth more than your entire council, Behlen. And she speaks the truth. Your throne is built on lies. You expect me to convince Branka to support that?"

Behlen took a step back, his expression cooling as he spread his hands in mock surrender. "I expect you to do what's best for Orzammar. For all your righteous talk, you know I'm right. This city can't afford to waste time with Harrowmont's dithering. And if you care about Orzammar's survival—about the legacy of House Aeducan—you'll make the right choice."

Duran stared at his brother, his chest tight with rage and something more—a gnawing, unwelcome sense of doubt. Could Behlen be right? Was the future of Orzammar truly worth more than his hatred for the man who had destroyed his life?

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but laced with bitterness. "I'll find Branka. And when I do, I'll let her decide what's best for Orzammar. But I'll make one thing clear, Behlen: I don't answer to you. Not anymore."

Behlen's smile returned, colder than before. "Do what you must, brother. But remember, the Deep Roads are treacherous. If you don't return, Orzammar will need someone strong to guide it."

Adela and Gorim fell in step behind him as they exited the throne room, leaving Behlen alone in the shadows of the palace.

Aftermath
Back at the hideout, the tension lingered like a storm waiting to break. Gorim put a pint of dwarfen ale on the table. "He's worse than I remembered, but he's desperate. That much is clear" he said, his voice heavy.

"Desperate or not," Adela added, her voice still sharp, "he's dangerous. The nerve of him, asking you to do his dirty work after everything he's done."

Duran didn't respond immediately. He stared at the maps spread across the table, his mind already on the Deep Roads and the task ahead. Finally, he spoke. "He's right about one thing," he said quietly. "Orzammar can't afford to stay divided. Tomorrow, we leave for the Deep Roads. Whatever happens after that...We shall see."

Adela exchanged a glance with Gorim but said nothing more. The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of Orzammar beyond the stone walls.