Orzammar Calls

Duran stood at the edge of the camp, gazing out over the rolling hills bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. The Landsmeet—a pivotal moment in their campaign against the Blight—was set to convene, but it loomed months away. Until then, their path was clear: forge alliances, gather strength, and prepare for the battle ahead. All the while they hear gossip about the Battle At Winters Breath, where Loghains Men fought the United Rebels of the Bannorn. Many Men died that day, but Loghain was victorious.

Their next destination stirred a storm of emotions within him. Orzammar. The city of stone, where tradition and duty were etched into every surface. It was home—a part of him that exile could never erase. But Orzammar was also the place where his name had been dragged through the dust, where betrayal had robbed him of everything he had once held dear.

His mission was clear: to demand that the Assembly honor their treaties and support the Grey Wardens in the fight against the Blight. Yet, as much as he told himself the treaties came first, the thought of facing Behlen again lingered. If the chance arose to settle old debts, Duran wouldn't hesitate.

The crunch of boots on gravel drew him from his thoughts. Gorim approached, his expression one of careful curiosity.

"Next stop Orzammar, did I hear that correctly, my lord?" His tone was light, but his words carried the weight of everything unsaid.

Duran turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "You heard right," he replied. "It's time. The Wardens need Orzammar's support, and I'll make sure the Assembly remembers their oaths."

Gorim studied him for a moment before speaking. "I never thought you'd have reason to go back. Not after… well, everything."

"You mean Behlen," Duran said flatly. "His lies cost me everything—my honor, my title, my place in our family. But this isn't about him. Not entirely. The treaties come first."

"Not entirely," Gorim echoed with a faint smile. "I know that look, my lord. If an opportunity arises to deal with Behlen, you won't let it slip away."

Duran's lips curled into a hard smile. "The treaties come first," he repeated. "But if I can settle the score with Behlen along the way, all the better. He'll learn there are consequences for betrayal."

Gorim nodded. "Just be careful. Behlen isn't the same scheming prince you knew. He's got the Assembly wrapped around his finger, and Harrowmont… Harrowmont is a good man, but good men don't always win in Orzammar."

"I know," Duran replied. "Harrowmont stood by my father and believed in me when no one else did. But the Assembly doesn't value loyalty—they value power. I'll use whatever leverage I have to make sure they honor their word to the Wardens."

Gorim hesitated, his voice growing quieter. "And if they won't even let you through the gates? You're still an exile in their eyes."

Duran's gaze hardened. "Then I'll force them to listen. Orzammar isn't just my home—it's part of who I am. The Assembly can't erase that. I won't let them shirk their duty, no matter what they think of me."

Gorim exhaled, his expression unreadable for a moment before he gave a short nod. "I've always said you were the strongest of us, my lord. Orzammar may not deserve you, but it needs you now more than ever."

Duran looked away, back toward the horizon. His thoughts drifted to the halls of stone and the trials that awaited him there. "We'll see what it needs soon enough," he muttered.

Gorim took a step back, his posture firm. "I'll be ready."

Duran gave a brief nod, his jaw set. "Good. Let's focus on what's ahead."

As Gorim turned to leave, Duran lingered a moment longer, watching the setting sun cast long shadows across the camp. His path was set: treaties first, vengeance second. But in Orzammar, where politics and power danced together like shadows on stone, one could often lead to the other.

With that thought, Duran headed back to the camp, his steps steady.

Later that evening

Duran sat by the campfire, his axe resting on his lap as he methodically sharpened its edge. The rhythmic scrape of the whetstone provided a steady backdrop to the quiet hum of the camp settling for the night. Lost in thought, his mind drifted to Orzammar.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke his focus, and he glanced up to see Adela standing nearby. Her arms were crossed, her expression calm, yet something about the way she held herself gave her away.

"Adela," he greeted, pausing his work. "Something on your mind?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the fire before meeting his. "You're going to Orzammar."

Duran nodded. "That's the plan. And here I thought you'd be glad to stay far away from it."

Her jaw tightened briefly. "I want to come with you."

That caught him off guard. He tilted his head, studying her. "You do? Why?"

She shrugged, her tone light but carefully guarded. "Why not? I've followed you everywhere else."

"Adela," he said, his voice softening. "You've never been one for nostalgia. What's this really about?"

She held his gaze for a long moment, as if weighing her next words. Finally, she looked away, her voice quieter. "My father."

Duran didn't interrupt, letting her speak at her own pace.

"I don't remember much about him," she admitted. "I was too young when we left. All I have are fragments—things my mother said when she was angry, or when she'd had too much to drink. He stayed behind. He let us leave." Her voice hardened slightly, her hands clenching at her sides. "I've spent my whole life not caring. Telling myself it didn't matter. But if he's still there… I need to know why."

Duran nodded slowly, setting the whetstone aside. "And if the answers aren't what you're hoping for?"

Adela's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then I'll deal with it. I'm not looking for some happy reunion, Duran. I just… need to see him. To understand."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. The campfire crackled softly, casting shifting shadows over their faces. Finally, Duran spoke.

"You've changed since we first met," he said, his tone thoughtful but warm. "Back then, you kept everyone at arm's length. Now... you're letting people in. You're letting me in. That takes strength."

Adela glanced at him, her usual sharpness faltering for just a moment. "Maybe I've just gotten used to you."

Duran chuckled softly. "Is that what it is?"

She gave him a faint smile but quickly looked away, her guard slipping back into place. "Are you going to argue with me about this, or can I come?"

Duran leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the hilt of his axe. "Argue? No. But Orzammar isn't like anything you've seen, Adela. The people there won't care about who you've become or what you're looking for."

Her expression hardened. "I don't care what they think of me. Let them judge me if they want."

He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Fair enough. Just know this—you won't be facing it alone."

She frowned slightly, tilting her head. "I didn't ask for backup."

Duran smirked. "And yet here I am."

She rolled her eyes but said nothing, turning to walk back to the fire. He watched her go, a small smile lingering on his face. Adela had her reasons for returning to Orzammar, just as he did. Whatever the Stone had in store for them, they would face it—together, whether she admitted it or not.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, he picked up the whetstone once more. His axe needed to be sharp—for what awaited them beneath the Stone would demand nothing less