Reunion

"Nerav Helmi! Of House Helmi? Is that truly you?"
Duran's voice echoed through the crowded Commons, drawing a few curious glances from passersby. His tone carried an unusual mix of astonishment and warmth, emotions he hadn't felt since setting foot back in Orzammar. Friendly faces were a rarity these days, and seeing Nerav was like a glimpse of sunlight breaking through the stone ceilings.

"By the Ancestors, it is you!" Nerav exclaimed, her face lighting up as she turned to face him. Her voice was both incredulous and delighted. "Duran, I never thought I'd see you again—not here, not after… everything." She paused, her gaze shifting to another figure beside him. "And Gorim, too! The Stone surely has a twisted sense of humor, sending you both back to this pit of vipers."

Gorim offered her a formal bow, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed his amusement. "Lady Helmi," he said. "It seems even exile couldn't keep us from Orzammar's intrigues for long."

"Exile rarely does," she replied, though her expression softened as she studied them. "But truly—how are you still alive, Duran? The Deep Roads are no place for anyone, let alone someone walking alone."

Duran gestured to his companions, who stood a few paces behind him. "Not alone, as you can see. It's a long story, Nerav, but suffice it to say that the Stone wasn't ready to claim me just yet. And now I'm back—for reasons more urgent than my pride."

Nerav nodded, her expression growing serious. "Then you must know: Orzammar is a powder keg. The Assembly has been in deadlock for weeks. Harrowmont and Behlen are at each other's throats, and without a King, nothing moves. If you've come seeking aid, you'll find none without a ruler to grant it."

Duran's face darkened at the mention of his brother. "And who leads the Assembly to deadlock? Let me guess—Behlen and his ilk, scheming to secure the throne."

"You're not wrong," Nerav replied, lowering her voice. She leaned in slightly, her eyes darting to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "But Harrowmont… he has a plan. Desperate, perhaps, but a plan nonetheless. You should speak with him."

Duran inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Nerav. It seems some alliances endure, even through exile."

Her lips twitched into a faint smile, though her tone remained practical. "Speaking of alliances, you'll need somewhere safe to stay. The Commons aren't kind to anyone these days—least of all you."

A Frosty Welcome

The group followed Nerav through the winding streets of Orzammar. Around them, the usual hum of dwarven activity continued unabated, but the atmosphere felt different—tenser, angrier. Duran noticed the whispers and stares as they passed.

"Is that…?"
"It can't be."
"The traitor prince dares to show his face again!"

A few were brave enough to hiss insults.

"Coward!"
"Blood-stained whelp!"

Gorim leaned closer to Duran, his voice low. "Well, they're not rolling out the red carpet, but at least no one's throwing rocks."

Adela, however, was less forgiving of the hostility. The whispers turned sharper when the crowd noticed her, an outsider in their midst.

"Surface-dweller… what filth has he brought with him?"
"Look at her—doesn't belong here, doesn't belong anywhere."

Adela's shoulders tensed, and Duran caught her hand just as she began to step toward a sneering merchant in the Commons. Her eyes burned with barely restrained fury.

"I'll make him regret those words—" she started, but Duran's grip tightened.

"Let it go," he said firmly. "This isn't a fight we need."

Her jaw clenched as she glared at him. "They think they can say whatever they want. I won't just—"

"Adela," Duran interrupted, his tone softer but insistent. "This place isn't kind. But it's not worth it. Not here. Not now."

She exhaled sharply, her anger simmering as she stepped back. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."

A Safe Haven

After weaving through shadowed alleys, they stopped before a small, unassuming house tucked away in a quiet corner of the Commons. The building's worn facade seemed at odds with the grand halls Duran once called home. Nerav glanced around warily before producing a small key from her robes.

"Here," she said, unlocking the door. "It's not much—certainly not what you were used to in the Diamond Quarter—but it's safe. For now."

The interior was starkly different from its exterior. The house was no mere hovel; the main room was large and well-furnished, with a long table at its center covered in maps, documents, and markers. The air carried the faint scent of ink and lamp oil.

"This is where Harrowmont's supporters gather," Nerav explained. "We've been planning our next moves against Behlen."

Gorim snorted, his grin returning. "I see the traditions of dwarven politics haven't changed—scheming and plotting in secret rooms. It's almost comforting."

Nerav gave him a sidelong glance, though her smile betrayed amusement. She stepped closer to Duran, taking his hands in hers. "Many of us believed in your innocence, my lord. Behlen's lies cut deep, but not everyone fell for his schemes. We've worked tirelessly to stop him from taking your father's throne. And now that you're here… Harrowmont will be overjoyed."

Duran felt a pang of emotion as he looked at her. Nerav had been a constant presence in his early life—his betrothed in a match meant to unite their houses. He'd always admired her strength, and now, seeing her unwavering loyalty, he felt that respect deepen.

"Nerav," he said earnestly. "Your belief in me means more than I can say. If stopping Behlen is the task before us, I will see it done."

Her expression softened, and for a moment, they simply looked at one another. Then Gorim's voice broke the moment.

"Just like old times, eh? Us against the world."

Duran chuckled, but before he could reply, a faint sound reached his ears—a key turning in the lock.

"Quick, into the shadows!" Nerav whispered urgently.

A Long-Awaited Meeting

The group scattered into the darker corners of the room, weapons at the ready. Duran's grip tightened around his axe as the door creaked open. Two figures entered, their faces obscured by deep hoods.

They murmured quietly as they stepped inside, removing their hoods to reveal familiar faces.

"Lord Harrowmont!" Duran stepped forward from the shadows, lowering his weapon. "By the Stone, it is good to see you again."

Harrowmont's eyes widened, his expression shifting from surprise to joy. "Duran? Ancestors protect us—it really is you. Let me look at you!"

The older dwarf stepped forward, his hands briefly gripping Duran's shoulders in a rare display of affection. The bodyguard beside him nodded respectfully, though his expression remained stern.

After the brief reunion, Nerav spoke up. "I thought you'd be pleased to see him, my lord. He's ready to help."

Harrowmont's gaze softened. "Your father would be so proud to see you now, Duran. He believed in you, even at the end. And to see you alive…" He sighed, his voice thick with emotion. "There is much to discuss."

The Shocking Truth

As they gathered around the long table, Harrowmont's tone grew more serious.

"Before we speak of plans, there is something you must know," he began. He paused, locking eyes with Duran. "Shortly before your father's passing, a woman came to the palace. She claimed… to have borne your son."

Duran stared, his mind spinning. Memories of a fleeting encounter—a night with a noble hunter named Mardy—flashed before him. He had thought little of it at the time. Now, the weight of Harrowmont's words struck him like a hammer blow.

Gorim broke the silence, his tone half-amused, half-disbelieving. "A son? Well, that's news! And this woman—can we trust her?"

Harrowmont nodded. "Your father believed her. And when he saw the child… he smiled, Duran. For the first time in weeks, he smiled."

Duran rose abruptly, pacing as the revelation sank in. Harrowmont's next words stopped him in his tracks.

"Your father left me a final wish: I should do anything to stop Behlen from claiming the throne. I should become king instead and prepare the child to one day take the throne. But now that you've returned, everything has changed."

Harrowmont stood, placing a hand on Duran's shoulder. "The Stone has returned you to us, Duran. Let us reclaim what was stolen—your name, your honor, and Orzammar itself. With you as aour prime candidate for the next king in Orzammar!"

Duran was paralysed. He had no words to counter back.

Harrowmont paused, his eyes glassy with emotion. "I can see this is much to take in. Rest for the night, my prince. Tomorrow, we will speak again."

As the group prepared to leave, Harrowmont turned back one last time. "I am truly glad you've come back to us, my son."

A Night of Reckoning

The dim glow of a single lamp illuminated the sparse room as the group settled in for the night. The heavy wooden table, strewn with Harrowmont's maps and documents, cast long shadows against the walls. Outside, the muffled murmurs of Orzammar's restless streets faded into silence.

Duran sat at the head of the table, his hands clasped tightly as he stared at a map of the Deep Roads. His thoughts churned, each one more restless than the last. Across from him, Gorim leaned back in his chair, his armor loosened but still on. He nursed a mug of dwarven ale, his eyes distant.

Adela sat near the corner of the room, sharpening her blade. The rhythmic scrape of steel on stone was the only sound for a while, punctuating the heavy tension that hung between them.

Finally, Gorim broke the silence, setting his mug down with a dull thud. "So," he began, his voice gruff but laced with concern, "a son. That's… quite the revelation, eh?"

Duran didn't look up. "It's more than that," he said quietly. "It's a legacy. A child I didn't know existed, bearing the name of House Aeducan. My father wanted him to be king, to carry on what I lost."

"And Harrowmont wants you to take up the crown instead," Gorim said, leaning forward. "It's a lot, my lord. Too much, if you ask me. You've already been given a burden heavier than any stone."

Adela snorted softly from her corner, though she didn't look up. "What do you expect? Orzammar is built on burdens. Each one heavier than the last."

Gorim frowned. "That doesn't mean Duran has to carry them all."

Duran finally raised his head, his expression thoughtful but weary. "I've been thinking about that," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "And you're right, Gorim. I can't carry them all."

Gorim's brow furrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying my duty lies elsewhere," Duran replied, his tone resolute. "The Blight threatens everyone—the surface, the Stone, all of it. That's where my focus has to be. If we don't stop the Archdemon, it won't matter who sits on Orzammar's throne. There won't be a throne left to claim."

Adela stopped sharpening her blade and looked up, her expression unreadable. Gorim, however, leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily.

"So you're giving up the throne," Gorim said slowly, his words careful. "You're saying we let Harrowmont take it?"

Duran nodded. "He was right. My father's wish was for him to rule and prepare the child to one day lead. If I take the throne, I tie myself to Orzammar and leave the Blight to ravage the world unchecked. I can't let that happen."

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the lamp and the distant murmur of Orzammar's forges.

Gorim broke the silence with a small chuckle. "You always were the stubborn one, weren't you? Always thinking of the bigger picture." He stood, draining the last of his ale. "Well, if that's your choice, my lord, you'll have my axe. Always."

Duran smiled faintly. "Thank you, Gorim."

The older dwarf clapped him on the shoulder before stepping toward the small cot set up near the corner. "I'll get some rest. Ancestors know we'll need it."

As Gorim's soft snores filled the room, Adela set her blade aside and stood, hesitating before stepping closer to Duran. She lingered at the edge of the table, her hands fiddling with the hilt of a dagger.

"You're really sure about this?" she asked quietly, her voice lacking its usual sharpness.

Duran looked up at her, surprised by the gentleness in her tone. "I am," he said. "It's the only way forward."

Adela's lips pressed into a thin line as she crossed her arms, her gaze dropping to the table. "You know, I'm not good at this sort of thing," she muttered. "But… I wanted to say something."

Duran tilted his head, waiting.

"I've seen a lot of people in my life," she began, her voice low but steady. "Liars, cowards, backstabbers—all of them pretending to be something they're not. But you…" She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "You're different. You actually care. About Orzammar. About the people. About all of us."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, though the dim light of the lamp made it hard to tell. She took a deep breath, her voice faltering. "I just… I want you to know that whatever happens, I'm with you. All the way. Even if it's a path no one else would take."

Duran stared at her, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in her words. For a moment, he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Thank you, Adela," he said finally, his voice soft. "That means more to me than you know."

She nodded, her gaze briefly meeting his before darting away. Then, almost as an afterthought, she stepped closer and leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. The warmth of her touch lingered for a moment before she pulled back, her face carefully neutral.

"Goodnight, Duran," she said, her voice quiet.

Before he could reply, she turned and walked toward her cot, leaving him alone at the table. Duran touched his cheek absently, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched her retreating form.

The room fell silent once more, save for the sound of Gorim's snores and the distant hum of Orzammar beyond the walls. Duran leaned back in his chair, his thoughts calmer now. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time that night, he felt a flicker of hope.

Tomorrow, they would begin the fight for Orzammar's future. But tonight, for just a moment, he allowed himself to rest.