Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Waking up in my eight-year-old body is... bizarre.

My heart pounds in my chest like a jackhammer. I feel like a kid stuffed into a suit three sizes too small. The bed swallows me whole, the sheets drape like a tent, and the pillows loom like mountains. I'm not just smaller; I’m weaker, drowning in this helplessness.

It takes a moment, but the memories come flooding back. The ritual. Raven. Constantine. The plan—trap our minds in our younger bodies and hurl ourselves back in time to fix everything we screwed up.

Guess it worked. 

I tumble out of bed, my feet thudded against the floor. I pause, soaking it all in. This room? Too familiar. The League's hideout, my old training ground. I know this layout by heart: cold stone walls, the stench of incense mingling with... blood? Typical. Welcome to the League of Assassins, where blood is part of the ambiance.

I scan the room, fingers brushing over the small desk and the old weapons arranged like relics. Everything is exactly as I remember—like walking into a haunting from my past, now my present.

Great. Just great. Perfect timing for the emotional rollercoaster ahead. Time to zero in.

I inhale deeply, pushing aside the strangeness. I’ve faced my fair share of bizarre—time travel? Just another day at the office.

I’m in the past, but it all feels... raw. Darkseid’s invasion is a time bomb ready to explode. Gotham? Still drowning in chaos. My family? Still shattered. At least they’re not dead yet. The realization slams into me, gut-wrenching. They’re all still alive—Father, Grayson, even Alfred.

Alfred. 

I clench my jaw and push forward, burying the emotions clawing to surface. No time for tears—past or future. I’m here to make it right, to ensure things don’t spiral into chaos again. Failure isn’t an option.

For a moment, the reality hits me hard: they don’t know me yet. I’m just a kid to them. A future heir to the League. A child prodigy of death.

God, I was such a brat.

I scramble out of bed and almost trip over my own feet. Of course everything’s smaller—I’m smaller. It hits me with a déjà vu punch as I cross to the mirror, my bare feet slapping against the icy stone floor. How did I forget how freezing it is in this place? No heating in a multimillion-dollar assassin fortress? Just my luck.

I stop dead in front of the mirror and blink at my reflection. 

Well, this is just... fantastic. 

I freeze in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. Just fantastic. I’m tiny—ridiculously tiny. Eight-year-old me was a shrimp. My face is rounder and softer, the sharp edges of adulthood nowhere in sight. I look like I’m auditioning for 'Angry Child #3' in some low-budget action flick. I rake my hand through my hair, which flops into my eyes awkwardly. I was used to the older, more put-together version of me—the warrior who could take on Darkseid and almost win. But this? This is the kid who still needed a reminder to scrub under his nails after a fight. 

But the real kicker? My eyes. One green, one blue. Both glowing, flickering with a familiar supernatural fire.

“Great,” I mutter, leaning in for a closer look.

Constantine was right—again. The magic, the chaos swirling inside me, time-traveled along with my consciousness. Hell Fire, Holy Fire—my internal inferno wrapped in an eight-year-old package. Because what screams ‘child prodigy’ more than having actual fire in your eyes?

I sigh, rubbing my temples as a headache builds. What now? I thought time travel would have some weird side effects, but this? The last thing I need is my powers flaring up now.

“Nothing ever goes as planned,” I grumble, squinting at my reflection.

Guilt hits me as I think about Constantine and Raven—where did they end up? I don’t have time for a walk down memory lane, but that knot of worry twists in my gut. They’re out there, and who knows what mess they’re in. Knowing Constantine, he’s probably cursing and regretting his life choices for the hundredth time.

I pull away from the mirror, flexing my hands. They feel... tiny. Weak. Like I could shatter them with a tight fist. But inside, the fire simmers, restless. This body isn’t used to it—hell, I’m not used to it. I’m a kid again, and I have to play the part. Keep my head down and be the eight-year-old Damian Wayne my mother expects. 

A loud knock jolts me from my thoughts. I freeze, heart pounding. Who’s knocking at this hour? I scan the room, snatch the tiny sword from the wall, and slip it behind my back. Old habits die hard, even if I’m smaller.

"Master Damian, it’s time for training." 

Of course. A guard, likely assigned to drag me from bed for another round of lethal lessons. I’d forgotten how rigid the schedule was back then. I consider telling him to shove off but know it would raise too many questions.

“Coming,” I reply, my voice sharper than I meant.

I take a moment to steady myself. Calm. Focused. I’m Damian Wayne. I can handle this. No big deal. Just act like a normal eight-year-old assassin-in-training with flaming eyes. Easy.

I open the door, murmuring a glamour spell under my breath. The guard stands there, stoic and serious. He doesn’t notice my glowing eyes—thank God, I wasn’t sure the spell would hold—but he gives me a curious look. Probably because I’m not leaping out of bed like I used to. Fine. Whatever.

Let’s hope Constantine’s glamour spell sticks, I thought as I follow him down the stone hallway. I wouldn’t want Mother or the League to wonder why their heir resembles a magical anomaly.

I won’t lie—returning to my role as the spoiled heir of the Al Ghul lineage feels like squeezing into an old, tight costume. One you’ve outgrown but still have to wear because of everyone’s expectations. It’s not that I can’t pull it off—being a spoiled jerk is second nature, and I’ve had years to practice. Hell, I spent half my childhood mastering the art of looking down on others like they were unworthy of air.

But acting like that again? After everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve lost? It feels... wrong. 

I pull at the collar of my training robes, the rough fabric scraping my skin. Ra’s always pushed tradition—heavy, constricting gear designed to remind us of our legacy, to burden us with the League’s history. 'Always remember your duty, my grandson,' he’d say.

Duty. Right. 

Walking the halls of Nanda Parbat feels like stepping into a time capsule. Everything’s unchanged—the cold stone walls, the faint scent of incense wafting in the air, the low murmurs of assassins training in the courtyard. It’s all too familiar. The past is everywhere, crawling up the walls, lurking in the shadows. And I’m expected to just… act like I belong. Like I’m not burdened by the memories of another life.

Sentimentality has no place here. I must blend in and play the part—even if it means swallowing my pride as the younger Shadows, barely older than me, mask their jealousy with forced respect. I could teach them a lesson, but that would only spark more questions. Better to keep my head down and play the arrogant prince they remember.

This time, though, I’m the one in control. I’m rewriting my story.

I step into the training grounds, scanning the familiar chaos. Young recruits spar, and nostalgia tugs at me, but it quickly drowns in a tide of memories—battles fought, assassins fallen at my command, futures etched in blood. I shove those thoughts down, forcing myself to focus on the here and now.

A familiar itch sparks in my muscles, a restless energy urging me to move, to fight, to prove I still have my edge despite this smaller, younger body. The training yard buzzes with chaos, Shadows moving in perfect harmony as swords and staffs flash in the dim light. Instructors bark commands, and the air is thick with sweat and steel. I scan the area—no sign of Mother yet. Good. I’m not ready for that confrontation. 

I spot familiar faces—trainees I once sparred with. They’re older now, but that’ll change soon enough. It’s strange seeing them so young, so naive. They have no idea what’s coming, no clue about the hell we’re about to endure.

"Master Damian." One of the instructors snaps me out of my thoughts. "You’re late."

I bite back a smart remark. Right now, it’s all about playing the role. I nod, stepping into the circle, feeling the eyes of the other trainees on me. My reputation as Ra’s al Ghul’s grandson—Talia’s heir—precedes me, even now. They’re expecting me to be perfect.

Little do they know I’m trying not to blast fire out of my eyeballs.

The instructor tosses a wooden sword my way, and I catch it mid-stride. The weight feels off—lighter than I remember. At eighteen, it took everything I had to be this fast and precise. Now, with the skills of someone who’s lived two lives, it’s like child’s play. Fitting, I suppose. I spin the sword in my hand, smirking as I step onto the mat.

I inhale deeply, slipping into a fighting stance. The sword feels awkward in my grip. After years honing my form with a larger, deadlier weapon, this feels like child’s play. The instructor raises his sword, and I nod. Alright. Time to play my part.

The swordplay kicks off, and a rush of familiarity floods in. Muscle memory kicks in, even in this smaller, weaker frame. My movements are swift, calculated, precise—but the power? Gone. I parry, then counter with a move that would’ve sent the sword flying from his grip if I still had my old strength. He blocks effortlessly, and frustration flares within me.

But I can’t lose control—not now.

Focus, Damian.

I inhale deeply, recalling Raven’s trick to mask my emotions when things get... weird. It helps, just a bit.

Standing there, adjusting to this tiny body, my mind wanders. Did Constantine and Raven make it back safely? The thought gnaws at me. We’re scattered across time like broken puzzle pieces, lost in the unknown. And then it hits me—a punch to the gut: I won’t see them for years, maybe even a decade. The weight settles in, heavier than the sword in my grip. I’m alone. Again.

I let that sink in for a moment—mourn it. Then I shake it off. No time for self-pity. I have work to do. A mission awaits.

The instructor narrows his eyes, annoyed at my lack of focus. He swings his sword sharply, and I sidestep instinctively. I have to play my part—be the Damian they expect. But my mind races with the bigger picture. I can’t just go through the motions; too much is at stake. I need to stay one step ahead.

Even as I block his next strike, a sharp clang echoes through the training yard. I feel the fire flicker within me—Hell Fire, Holy Fire—swirling like oil and water, threatening to boil over. I grit my teeth and shove it down. Not now.

As I go through the motions—blocking, parrying, striking—it strikes me: this isn’t the same. Memories slow it all down. My body anticipates every move, but my mind’s racing ten steps ahead. Each attack from the instructor? A replay of a thousand times. No challenge, no risk—just routine.

And I hate it.  

Another swipe, and I parry, twisting the blade in his grip. Too easy. I’d forgotten how predictable these sparring sessions are at this age. Back then, they felt like life or death. Now? Just a game. A deadly game, sure, but still... just a game.

The instructor throws a complex combo—two strikes, then a low sweep. I leap over it effortlessly, bringing my sword down on his exposed side. He grunts, more surprised than hurt, stepping back and glaring at me as if I’ve done something wrong.

I guess I have. But I’m eight—this good feels wrong.

The instructor’s gaze sharpens. "Too flashy, Master Damian. Efficiency over show."

I smirk, swiping sweat from my brow. "If winning isn’t stylish, what’s the point?" The snark spills out—old habits die hard.

He locks eyes with me, and I brace for a lecture. But instead, he nods—reluctantly. "Focus. Efficiency saves lives, not flair."

I shrug, shifting my stance. Efficiency—what the League hammered into me. Cold, calculated moves. But I’m Damian Wayne—more than Ra’s heir. Batman had a different approach: efficiency with purpose, control, and just enough drama.

After all, all of Father’s children’s are drama club kids.

After all, Father’s kids are all drama queens. As we spar, I plot my next move. I won’t let the League veer down Ra’s path. I’ve seen the future, and it won’t unfold the same way again.

No second chances this time. This is it. The fire ignites—searing and threatening—but I reign it in. Just barely. I need to master it without being consumed, to balance these two opposing forces.

The instructor steps back, lowering his sword—session over. He gives me a look of reluctant approval, but suspicion lingers in his eyes. Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought.

"You’re improving," he grunts. "But don’t get cocky."

I hold back a retort and nod, my expression flat. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

As he walks away, I pause, my mind racing. I have years, but no time to waste. I need to lay the groundwork, set things in motion. I look up at the sky—barely morning, yet I feel ancient.

I wipe the sword clean, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me. But it’s not just the mission or the fire. It’s the responsibility of knowing what comes next. Of being the only one who remembers the end of the world while standing in a timeline where it hasn’t happened yet. 

I glance up at the sky. The day’s barely started, and already it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime. I wonder where Constantine and Raven are. They’re probably fighting their own battles, just like me. We’re all playing our parts in this insane, time-bending game.

I smirk, spinning the practice sword before sheathing it. "Let the games begin." Getting back in my groove—stop channeling Grayson—was tougher than I expected.

I tell myself this mission will be my last, but the burden of leading the League of Assassins won’t just vanish. It doesn’t disappear when I sheath my sword; it burrows in deeper, gnawing at my insides. Each step through these halls, every boot thud against the cold stone of Nanda Parbat, the pressure mounts. It’s as if the walls are watching, waiting for me to slip. And I can’t afford that—not now. Not after all the effort I’ve put into proving I’m still the heir. Their heir. Not just a broken boy who fled and returned.

But it’s a struggle. A brutal one. Because beneath it all, I know how much has changed—how much I’ve changed. The world has twisted in ways they can’t fathom, and I’m caught in the middle, trying to keep up the act. Trying to be the perfect son, the perfect leader. Yet I wonder if I even believe the facade anymore.

I traverse the corridors, the air heavy with the weight of memories—every mistake, every choice I’ve made. The ancient stone walls seem to constrict around me, recalling every step, every whisper of my past, every shadow cast in this place. It feels so familiar, yet completely wrong. I’ve returned to my starting point, but it doesn’t feel like home.

I’m back in the role I was born for, the one I was groomed to fill. Not the boy who escaped Gotham to seek himself in shadows, but the heir again—the heir they still expect me to be. For now, I can play the part. I can maintain the charade and lead this League, guiding them through the impending storm. I can illuminate the path without them realizing I already know how this tale concludes.

Yet it doesn’t feel real. It feels hollow, like I’m trapped in someone else’s dream, grasping at something that’s slipping away. What does it matter that I’m the one in charge right now? When everything we’ve built will inevitably crumble again, just like before. When the world fractures, and we’re left to pick up the remnants, as we always do.

One week. Just one week before *that* call shattered the calm. One perfect week where I thought maybe—just maybe—I could hold it all together. The League was mine, I was in control, and for the first time in forever, I dared to hope I could play the part without the crushing weight of *everything* pressing down. I could pretend this time everything might actually fall into place. But pretending is a fragile thing, and it never lasts.

So, it was no shock when Mother called the moment I slipped back into this absurd performance.

I trail her through Nanda Parbat’s twisting corridors, my footsteps barely whispering against the stone. Talia moves ahead, a predator in her element, fluid and lethal like a panther stalking its prey. She’s always been a force—intimidating, poised, and laser-focused on her mission. And me? I’m meant to be the dutiful son, the heir she crafted from the womb. But now, I know exactly what she has planned for me. 

Ironically, she believed she was in control.

“Damian,” she says, her voice silky, laced with authority. “I’ve been watching you.”

Shocking, I thought sarcastically, but instead I give her a polite nod. “Of course, Mother. Have I displeased you?” 

She hesitates. The meditation room looms ahead, its grand, ornate doors too extravagant for a space meant for discipline. We step in, the door slamming shut with a heavy thud, trapping us in a space that feels more like a cage than a sanctuary.

Talia strides to the center, back straight, hands clasped. I linger at the edge, observing her with the bored curiosity of someone who’s witnessed this dance too many times—except now, I know how it ends.

She fixes her piercing gaze on me, sizing up my smaller frame. Today, something’s off in her eyes, but I can’t quite place it. “You’ve improved,” she finally says, her voice icy, as if it’s just a formality. “But you’re holding back.”

I blink, caught off guard. Clever woman. Talia Al Ghul never misses a beat. She’s not just talking about swordplay.

“I’m not holding back,” I shoot back, my voice steady. “I’m just learning.”

She steps closer, scrutinizing me like I’m a specimen. “No, Damian. You’re different.” Her voice barely softens, hinting at concern. “You’re hiding something.”

There it is—the familiar seed of suspicion, the paranoia in every Al Ghul’s blood. Her eyes bore into me, hunting for cracks in my facade. If I were still a child, I might have crumbled. But now?

I flash her a smile—just enough to look like the cocky boy she expects. “You’ve trained me too well, Mother.”

She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing across her face. She circles me, and I feel like a wolf cub under the alpha’s gaze. “You’ve… improved,” she says, suspicion lacing her words. “But remember, Damian—improvement doesn’t equal arrogance. Arrogance gets you killed.”

I stifle a snarky comeback about how many times I’ve already died. Instead, I nod, masking my defiance. “I understand.”

She examines me for a moment before turning, striding to the training mats in the center. “Come,” she commands, her voice icy once more. “Meditate with me.”

Meditation. Right. 

I sit across from her, slipping into the lotus position she’s drilled into me for years. The silence thickens between us, heavy and loaded...

I sense her, a sharp presence looming across from me. She’s dissecting me, and that’s perilous. With Talia, ignorance is her only safety. She can’t know what I know—about Ra’s, Gotham, or the version of me she lost control over.

Breathe, Damian. Focus. 

I dive into meditation, but my thoughts slip to Omar and Suri. They hit harder than I expected. Omar, with his vigilant gaze and steady hands, always poised to advise. And Suri, fiercely loyal. They’re my trusted lieutenants, comrades in our apocalyptic fight. Yet here, in this timeline, they’re mere shadows, oblivious to the roles they’ll eventually embrace.

It’s unsettling—being among those oblivious to the looming storm. The devastation, the war. How many will fall? How many lives will shatter before they even grasp what’s unfolding?

I shove those thoughts down, burying them in my gut. Focus, I tell myself. No room for doubt, no space for sentimentality. Not now.

Just as I start to regain control, Talia’s voice slices through the silence. “Damian.” Softer now, yet edged with warning. “Do you ever wonder what the future holds?”

I open my eyes, staring ahead. She’s avoiding my gaze, but the weight of her question hangs between us. There’s a trap lurking in her words. The trick? Don’t let her see me search for it.

“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone steady. “The future is ours to shape, isn’t it?”

She hums, eyes still shut, weighing my words. “Yes,” she concedes, but I sense hidden layers. “Yet sometimes, no matter our control… fate has its own agenda.”

I stifle a laugh. Fate? If only she knew.

“Perhaps,” I say, a smirk creeping onto my lips. “But we Al Ghul don’t bow to fate, do we?”

Talia’s eyes flicker open, and for a brief moment, there’s something almost like pride in her gaze. It’s fleeting, though, quickly replaced by that familiar calculating look. “No,” she says, her voice low. “We’re not.” 

I force myself to maintain my calm, the act slipping effortlessly into place. But inside? Inside, I can’t stop thinking about how right she is. 

Fate may have plans, but I’m going to burn them all down.

Talia’s eyes snap open, and for a heartbeat, I catch a glimmer of pride. But it vanishes, replaced by her familiar calculating gaze. “No,” she replies, her voice low. “We don’t.”

"You know, Damian," she begins, her voice smooth and deliberate, "today is a special day."

I furrow my brow, confusion briefly flashing across my face. “Is it?” I ask, my voice flat. "I hadn’t noticed."

Her lips curl into a faint smile, and she leans back, eyes never leaving mine. "Of course, you haven’t. You never do. But the calendar doesn’t lie. It’s your birthday, Damian."

A pause. The words hang there, and for a moment, it feels as if the world slows down, the pulse of time itself stuttering in that brief moment of revelation.

"Well, I’ve just never been one to make a fuss about it." I say evenly, forcing a nonchalant air into my voice.

My birthday? I’d completely lost track of time. Of course, I’d forgotten. Being flung back into an eight-year-old’s body tends to do that to you. The last time I was this young… well, let’s just say that birthdays weren’t exactly high on my list of concerns. Talia stood there, waiting, her expression as unreadable as ever. But underneath that cool exterior, I could see the gears turning. A test, I was sure of it. Everything with her was a test.  

She watches me for a long time, as if seeing me for the first time, but I don't let the vulnerability seep through. Talia knows me better than anyone—knows what drives me, what I fear. Still, there’s no room for sentimentality here. Not for me. Not for her.

"Perhaps," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly, "but even you cannot avoid the fact that today is a day that marks... something. A turning point, maybe. A reminder of what has come before and what is yet to come."

The weight of her words sinks in, deeper than I want to admit. A turning point. That’s what she’s implying. But I’m not the boy who waits for fate to decide what happens next.

“Time is a tool,” I reply, my voice steady despite the thoughts swirling beneath the surface. “It is what we make of it. And I intend to make this year mine.”

Talia doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilts her head, her eyes lingering on me, measuring, calculating. There’s something almost wistful in the way she regards me now, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that steely resolve.

“I have a gift for you,” she said, her voice deceptively light. Warning bells rang in my head. My mother was not one for affection. “Today, you can choose any skill beyond the usual curriculum. It’s your call.”

Ah, so that’s the angle. A strategic birthday present, cloaked in the guise of generosity. 

So, that was her game—a strategic birthday present disguised as generosity. I nearly laughed. Eight years old, but in my mind, I was the boy who had died and clawed back to life. I was the boy who had fought beside legends as Gotham went up in flames. Yet, to her, I remained merely a child—her son, ripe for transformation into whatever weapon she desired. 

I opened my mouth to respond, my brain going back to what my eight-year-old self had said last time: Art. I’d asked to study art. I could practically hear the echo of Talia’s disappointed sigh, the way Ra’s had been unable to even mask his irritation. Back then, I craved something human—a piece of me, distinct from the League’s brutal training. I wanted an escape.

But that was before. Before I knew what was coming. Before I understood that art would never save But that was before I knew what was coming, before I realized art couldn’t shield me from the encroaching darkness.

This time, I wouldn’t let this chance slip away. I had a strategy.

“Poisons,” I said, meeting her gaze.

Her brows lifted slightly—she was skilled at hiding her reactions—but I caught the spark of approval in her eyes. “Poisons?”

“Yes,” I replied, my mind racing. “I want to master crafting and detecting poisons—every single detail.”

She scrutinized me, trying to gauge whether I had hidden motives. I did, but I wouldn’t reveal my intentions yet.

“Great choice,” she replied with a measured nod. “We begin tomorrow.”

Talia’s smile—which was once something I yearned for, fueled by my desire for her approval—now felt like a distant echo. I could sense the shift inside me as her pride swelled at my choice. It was a bitter feeling. Love was a weapon in her hands—her love, a double-edged blade meant to keep me obedient, a reminder of the legacy she wanted me to fulfill.

But I had already carved my own path, one she didn’t even know existed yet. 

“Cheshire will train you,” Talia declared, her tone authoritative. “She’s one of the world’s deadliest poison experts.”

Cheshire. Naturally. The notorious assassin who made the League’s best seem like rookies. I’d crossed paths with her several times—each encounter a lesson in survival. The Cheshire I knew was a lethal force—ruthless and cunning. Once, the thought of training with her thrilled me. But now? Now, I plan to make her my ally.

I nodded, my face a mask of obedience, the dutiful son in full play. “I’ll be ready.”

Talia's eyes drilled into me, searching for any trace of defiance. My thoughts were locked away, buried deep where her sharp gaze couldn’t penetrate. After what felt like an eternity, she finally nodded and turned to go.

When the door clicked shut, I exhaled a breath I'd unknowingly held. My mind raced. Infinity Island. This was it—this time, I would save him. I packed light—only the essentials. With each item, I thought of the timeline; every interaction was a ripple, and ripples could swell into waves if I wasn’t careful.

The thought made my head spin, but I pushed it aside. I was trained for this. Adapt. Adjust. Survive. I had been doing it for years.

A knock jolted me from my thoughts. Omar stood in the doorway, his face as stoic as ever. “The transport for Infinity Island departs at dawn.”

I nodded curtly. “Understood.”

Omar lingered, curiosity flickering in his dark eyes. He was still trying to decode the changes he’d seen in me. But he wouldn’t ask—not yet. I offered nothing but a nod before he vanished down the hallway. Once alone, I caught my reflection in the small mirror by the window.

Once he was gone, I looked at myself in the small mirror by the window. My face looked younger, smaller, but my eyes remained sharp and calculating—always one step ahead. The glamour Constantine taught me flickered, revealing the unnatural green-and-blue glow beneath—a reminder of the magic I had brought back.

I smiled, glamouring them back to their usual green. No room for slip-ups here. This was my second chance to rewrite history, to correct the mistakes that led to Gotham’s ruin, to stop Darkseid before he shattered the world.

But many steps lay ahead before that final battle, and this—my trip to Infinity Island—was just the first.

A smirk tugged at my lips. Cheshire wouldn’t know what hit her. The lab would burn once more. I wasn’t the wide-eyed heir they expected; I was something far more dangerous.

And the best part? No one would see me coming.

Chapter Text

I leaned against the weathered workbench, one hand on my hip, the other spinning a slender vial of venom. Sunlight streamed through the Infinity Island laboratory windows, casting fractured rays over rows of glass beakers filled with every toxic substance imaginable. This was my domain—a mix of precision, danger, and a sprinkle of chaos. And then there was Damian al Ghul, the pint-sized prince of arrogance, looking more out of place than a penguin in the desert.

He insisted on making this batch himself—no help needed. I couldn't resist watching him fumble through my craft; it was too entertaining.

Damian hovered over the worktable, meticulously mixing ingredients that could wipe out a city block if mishandled. His choice of snake venom as the base, paired with crushed belladonna leaves, monkshood extract, and—oddly—powdered cinnamon, made me smirk. Cinnamon? Really? I leaned in, curiosity piqued, waiting for the inevitable disaster.

“You should stir that clockwise,” I called out, my voice light but edged with mischief. “Unless you’re aiming to whip up a... latte?”

He froze, glaring with those sharp green eyes. “I know what I’m doing, Cheshire,” he snapped, emphasizing my name with that princely tone.

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Sure you do, Your Highness.”

Muttering something that wasn’t complimentary, he turned back to the bubbling mixture, shoulders squared, confidence on display. Then, just as expected, a thin stream of smoke curled up from the concoction.

“Al Ghul—” I began, but he interrupted.

“It’s fine,” he insisted, focus unwavering. He reached for powdered foxglove to salvage his brew, but his hand slipped, tipping half the jar into the mix.

A loud pop erupted, followed by a puff of green smoke and a smell that hit like burnt toast mixed with sour milk. Damian coughed, waving the fumes away, his confidence crumbling as he stared at the ominous gray sludge bubbling in the beaker.

I leaned against the weathered workbench, one hand on my hip, the other spinning a slender vial of venom. Sunlight poured through the Infinity Island lab windows, casting fragmented rays over rows of glass beakers filled with every toxic substance imaginable. This was my kingdom—a blend of precision, danger, and artistic chaos. And here was Damian al Ghul—heir to the al Ghul legacy, a pint-sized prince of arrogance—looking more out of place than a penguin in the desert.

He was determined to make this batch himself, no help needed, he’d declared with that infuriating smugness. I didn’t stop him; watching him fumble through my craft was far too entertaining.

Damian hovered over the worktable, meticulously mixing ingredients that, if miscombined, could obliterate a city block. He’d chosen snake venom as the base, adding crushed belladonna leaves, a splash of monkshood extract, and—bizarrely—powdered cinnamon. Cinnamon! I couldn't help but smirk as I leaned in, the vial still spinning in my fingers, waiting for the inevitable chaos.

“Stir that clockwise,” I quipped, my tone light but edged. “Unless you’re aiming for a... latte?”

He froze mid-stir, shooting me a glare with those sharp green eyes. “I know what I’m doing, Cheshire,” he snapped, emphasizing my name with that clipped, princely tone.

I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Sure you do, Your Highness.”

The boy king turned back to his bubbling brew, muttering something under his breath that definitely wasn’t complimentary. His posture was so determined it almost made me believe he’d succeed—almost.

Then, as if on cue, a thin stream of smoke curled up from the concoction.

“Al Ghul—” I started, but he cut me off.

“It’s fine,” he replied briskly, focused. Reaching for a jar of powdered foxglove to salvage his creation, his hand slipped, tipping half the jar into the mixture.

A loud pop erupted, followed by a puff of green smoke and a smell that can only be described as burnt toast mixed with sour milk. Damian coughed, waving the fumes away, his confidence crumbling as he stared at the ominous gray sludge bubbling in the beaker.

I couldn’t hold it in—I erupted with laughter. Not a polite chuckle, but a full-on, doubled-over belly laugh that left tears streaming down my face. “What in the hell is that?” I gasped between giggles. “Were you trying to make poison, or did I miss the memo about your new line of artisanal soups?”

Damian shot me a glare that could melt steel. “It’s a minor setback,” he retorted, his voice icy, though his crossed arms revealed his embarrassment.

“Minor?” I straightened, wiping a tear from my eye. “Kid, if you handed that to an enemy, they wouldn’t drop dead—they’d probably send you a thank-you note for the seasoning.”

His face flushed—anger? Shame? Maybe both. For a moment, he glared at the ruined mixture, as if willing it to fix itself. Then, surprisingly, his lips twitched, and a reluctant smile broke through.

“It’s... not my best work,” he admitted, almost sheepish.

“Understatement of the century,” I shot back, smirking as I moved closer to inspect his disaster. “Alright, let’s break this down. Where’d you go wrong?”

He hesitated, then pointed at the mess. “I thought the cinnamon might—”

I raised a hand. “Stop. Right there. Cinnamon?” I shook my head, incredulous. “What were you hoping to do, poison someone with a holiday-themed drink?”

He groaned, raking a hand through his dark hair. “It was supposed to stabilize the mixture,” he muttered.

“Al Ghul, cinnamon stabilizes one thing: baked goods.” I lifted the ruined beaker like a trophy of failure. “This is what happens when arrogance meets inexperience. You think just because you’re the Demon’s Grandson, you can master poisons in a single afternoon?”

He bristled. “I’m not—”

“Relax, kid,” I interrupted, setting the beaker down with a clink. “You’ve got potential. But you’ve got a long way to go before you’re even close to my level.”

For a moment, his gaze softened, revealing the boy behind the hardened warrior. “I’ll do better next time,” he said, steadier now, but a hint of vulnerability slipped through.

I tilted my head, studying him. “You will,” I said simply. “Not because you’re Ra’s heir or Talia’s golden boy, but because you’ve got grit. And grit? That’s worth more.”

“For a moment, we stood in silence, the ruined mixture bubbling quietly behind us. I clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Now, clean this up. I’m not your maid.”

He rolled his eyes but grabbed a rag to wipe up the mess. As he worked, I leaned against the workbench, amusement mixed with something unexpected—admiration, maybe? Damian al Ghul had a fire in him, a determination that mirrored my own beginnings.

Watching him mutter under his breath as he cleaned up the chaos—a mix of vials and half-dissolved powders, plus one unfortunate scalpel in a neon green puddle—we eventually dove back into the poisons lesson. It was amusing how seriously he took it, his brow furrowed as he adjusted his technique. Steady hands crushed ingredients in the mortar.

“That’s better,” I said, leaning in. “At least this time, you won’t accidentally gas us both.”

He shot me a glare, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I wasn’t going to gas us.”

“Right, you were aiming for a slow, excruciating death. My mistake.”

His silence confirmed it. Typical Damian—always striving for excellence, even in accidental murder.

When dinner rolled around, we packed everything up and headed to my room. It felt oddly domestic—setting out plates while he muttered about “efficient nutritional balance.” That is, until I noticed the distinct lack of meat on his plate.

“You’re vegetarian?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Huh. Never would’ve guessed. You do have that whole Disney-princess vibe with the animals on the island.”

He froze, fork hovering mid-bite. “Disney princess?”

Oh, this was going to be entertaining. I set my fork down and leaned back, a grin spreading. “You know, Snow White, Cinderella—the whole ‘frolic with wildlife while looking pretty’ thing?”

His blank stare was tragic. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, jabbing my fork at him. “You don’t know what Disney is?” 

He frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Should I?” 

I stared at him, completely taken aback. But then again, considering his upbringing, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Talia’s little assassin probably had no time for movies amidst his rigorous training and dark plots. Still, it struck me hard—this sharp, deadpan kid had missed out on the simple joys of childhood. 

“Alright, we’re fixing this,” I declared, springing up and heading for my laptop. “Your lack of culture is unacceptable.” 

“What are we fixing?” he asked, eyeing me as if I just declared war on his existence. 

“Tangled,” I announced, setting it up on the screen. The glow illuminated the room as Damian sat cross-legged on the floor, suspicious of my intentions. I lounged on the bed, half-watching his reactions. At first, he looked like he was enduring some sort of punishment, arms crossed, mouth a thin line. But as the movie progressed, I noticed his shoulders relaxing, his eyes glued to the screen with an almost comical intensity. 

When Rapunzel and Flynn were in the boat surrounded by lanterns, Damian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, utterly captivated. I suppressed a smile; there was something poetic about him watching a story of a kid trapped in a tower, yearning for freedom. 

As the credits rolled, he sat in silence for a moment. “That was... entertaining,” he said, his tone softer than usual. 

“Yeah,” I replied, trying not to sound too smug. “I thought you might enjoy it.” 

I held back my theory—that he saw himself in Rapunzel, the prince confined by his mother, longing for a life beyond his walls. No need to psychoanalyze him to his face. 

Exhaustion caught up with him suddenly. One moment he was sharp and stoic, and the next, he had slumped against the bed, breathing evenly, his features softer than I’d ever seen. 

I watched for a long moment, warmth spreading unexpectedly in my chest. Quietly, I draped a blanket over him, tucking him in with careful hands. He didn’t stir. 

With a soft sigh, I moved to my desk, the dim light of a candle casting flickering shadows around the room. Inside, silence enveloped us.

The room was silent, save for Damian’s steady breathing. Outside, the ocean breeze whispered through the palm trees, creating a calming backdrop. A well-worn diary lay open in front of me, its spine creased from years of reflection.

Tonight, the pen felt burdensome in my grip. Too heavy. Yet if I didn’t spill my thoughts onto the page, they would fester like poison.

Dear Diary, 

(Yes, I know. Originality isn’t my strong suit. Sue me.)

Today was one of those days—knee-deep in venom and self-loathing. Damian, the spoiled heir with a chip the size of a boulder on his shoulder, flubbed a simple poison-making task. Cinnamon! Can you believe it? But it wasn’t just his blunder that threw me off; it was how he looked at me when I called him out—like I mattered, like I had something worth teaching him.

The kid has potential, I’ll admit. Watching him swell with pride only to deflate like a popped balloon reminded me why I’m stuck on this cursed island, pretending to care about Ra’s and his endless scheming.

Because I have to. 

Because my life isn’t the only one at stake anymore.

I paused, pen hovering, and glanced down at my stomach. My fingers brushed the soft fabric of my tunic, lingering over the subtle swell beneath it. Barely noticeable now, but soon... soon it would be impossible to hide.

How long before someone figures it out? How long before he does?

A bitter laugh escaped me. “Not that Ra’s would care,” I muttered, setting the pen down and resting my chin on my hand. “Unless he thought he could weaponize it.”

The thought twisted my stomach—not with nausea, but with a sharper fear, gnawing at me like a vulture on a carcass.

So, here’s a riddle: How do you raise a child surrounded by assassins who’d kill over a petty insult? Answer: You don’t. You either run or die trying.

But running means leaving. Leaving means giving up the little control I have left. And control? That’s what keeps me alive right now.

My grip on the pen tightened as thoughts of her swirled in my mind—my gut whispered it was a girl. Maybe it was intuition or just wishful thinking. A girl would be different. She would understand.

But what kind of life could I give her? Born into shadows, raised in fear, always glancing over her shoulder for the knife that might one day find its mark. Or worse—indoctrinated by Ra’s, just another pawn in his endless game.

Not on my watch.

And speaking of Ra’s, what a bitter old man. If he devoted even half the time he spent monologuing about destiny to reflecting on his failures, we’d all be better off. The man’s greatest talent? Making me want to stab my own eye with a poisoned dart just to escape the lecture.

But I digress.

I set the pen down, exhaling a shaky breath as the candlelight flickered. I watched the flame dance, its fragile glow defiantly pushing back the darkness. For a brief moment, I let myself envision a different life—a life where I wasn’t Cheshire, where I wasn’t Jade Nguyen, where I wasn’t a killer or a pawn pretending to be a queen. Just... a mother.

Anyway, enough of that.

At least I have Damian to keep me occupied. He’s arrogant, stubborn, and far too clever for his own good, reminding me too much of myself. But there’s something more—something I can’t quite place. He’s not just Ra’s heir. He’s something different. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind sticking around.

After scribbling a few lines in my diary—how the day was surprisingly bearable with Damian around—I snapped it shut and set it on the desk. I stretched, my back cracking in ways that weren’t as satisfying as I’d hoped, then grabbed the mat I kept rolled up beside the bed.

The bed was already occupied. Damian lay tucked in, his tiny frame curled up like a cat, utterly still. For someone so deadly, he looked oddly peaceful, almost delicate—as if life hadn’t beaten every ounce of softness out of him yet. I guess that’s what happens when you fall asleep to Disney instead of assassin training.

I laid out the mat, giving the pillow a quick fluff before lying down. The hard floor wasn’t inviting, but it was fine. I’d slept in worse places. As my head hit the pillow, I stole one last glance at Damian. His chest rose and fell steadily, a faint crease still marking his brow even in sleep. “Relax, kid,” I murmured, closing my eyes. “The world can wait.”

Exhaustion pulled me under faster than I expected.

When I woke, the duvet was draped over me—the same one I’d used to tuck Damian in the night before. I blinked, groggy, and scanned the empty bed. How had he slipped away without waking me? I prided myself on being a light sleeper, but it seemed Talia’s little assassin had outsmarted me. Great.

My stomach churned with a wave of morning sickness—nature’s reminder that I wasn’t invincible. After nibbling on some dry toast and sipping tea (and glaring at the leftover egg rolls I couldn’t stomach), I set out to find him.

The training yard was eerily quiet, a rare peace enveloping Infinity Island. Normally, the place buzzed with grunts, sparring, and the occasional scream of a recruit who didn’t dodge a blade fast enough. But now, only the rustle of leaves and the soft shuffle of feet on sand broke the stillness.

There he was. Damian practiced katas, every movement sharp and fluid—like water cutting through stone. He traded his usual assassin gear for a simple black shirt and loose pants, which somehow looked impeccably pressed. Focus etched his features as he moved through each sequence with precision.

I leaned against a post, arms crossed, and watched. The kid was a prodigy, no doubt. But there was something haunting in his training, as if he was not just refining his skills but purging whatever demons had kept him awake long enough to sneak out of my room.

“You know,” I called, breaking the silence, “normal kids sleep in after a movie night. Maybe have pancakes. Ever heard of it?”

He didn’t stop, but his eyes flicked my way, acknowledging me. “I’m not a normal kid.”

“Wow, really? I never noticed,” I shot back, stepping closer. “Here I thought every five-year-old had a secret lair and a stash of weapons that could rival the Pentagon.”

He finished his moves, ending in a low stance, breath steady and controlled. “I’m eight,” he corrected, brushing off imaginary dust from his pants.

“Same difference,” I waved it off. “You’re still too young to be this intense.”

He shot me a look of disbelief mixed with annoyance, as if I’d just claimed the sky wasn’t blue. “Intensity is key. The League demands discipline.”

“Sure,” I said, circling him. “But last I checked, the League isn’t babysitting you anymore.”

That struck a nerve; I saw a flicker in his eyes before it vanished. He grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from his face. “Discipline doesn’t vanish just because the League isn’t watching.”

I snatched the towel from him and tossed it onto the bench. “Maybe you should take a break and try being a teenager. Rebel a little. Do something reckless—like sleep past dawn.”

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Rebelling for rebellion’s sake? That’s just chaos.”

“Chaos can be fun,” I smirked. “But you wouldn’t know, would you, Little Miss Perfect?”

He glared at me, gears turning in his head. “It’s Mister Perfect, actually.”

I burst into genuine laughter, and for a moment, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Touché, kid. Touché.”

I walked over to the rack of training weapons, running my fingers along the handles. The atmosphere shifted, and when I glanced back, he was watching me with that sharp gaze of his.

“You didn’t sleep well,” I said, more statement than question.

“I slept fine,” he replied too quickly.

“Uh-huh.” I grabbed a wooden staff and tossed it to him. He caught it easily, spinning it in his hands. “If you’re going to brood, make it productive. Spar with me.”

His lips twitched again—almost a smile. “Are you sure you can keep up?”

“Oh, please,” I said, grabbing my own staff and twirling it with flair. “You’re good, but I’ve been doing this since before you were a glint in your father’s psychotic eye.”

His smirk was fleeting but genuine this time. He slid into a ready stance, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. As we circled each other, staffs poised, a flicker of pride ignited within me. I couldn’t erase all of Damian’s scars or rewrite his past, but I could give him something to focus on—something lighter than mere survival.

“Ready?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Always,” he shot back, a hint of humor lacing his voice for the first time that morning. Progress.

The training grounds transformed into a chaotic mix of sand and scattered weapons, the sunset casting streaks of orange and gray across the sky. Our sparring session began like all the others—me, aiming to knock some humility into the kid, and Damian, determined to prove he didn’t need it.

I held back, not because I doubted his ability, but because I wanted to avoid explaining to Talia why her precious heir was missing teeth. Plus, I wasn’t keen on nursing a sprained wrist when he inevitably countered. The boy was exceptionally good, too good for his age, but that arrogance of his? It needed a serious tune-up.

"Come on, heir-to-everything," I taunted, twirling my staff lazily. "Is that all you’ve got? Slower today? Did the royal breakfast not sit well?"

Damian’s lips pressed into a tight line, his green eyes narrowing with classic Wayne intensity. “I’m pacing myself,” he retorted, lunging at me with his blade. I sidestepped effortlessly, smirking as his momentum left his next move wide open.

"Sure, let’s call it that," I said, cracking my staff against his sword with a resounding clang. The impact echoed, drawing the attention of a few Shadows lingering nearby. Damian flushed—not from embarrassment but irritation. Underestimating him? A mistake.

But today was different; I could see it in his movements. Tension coiled in his shoulders, and his strikes were sharper, more calculated. Something was gnawing at him, and knowing Damian, he wouldn’t rest until he either conquered it or buried it deep.

“Why do you always deflect?” he asked suddenly, catching me off guard mid-strike.

I arched an eyebrow, leaning back just out of reach. “Deflect what?”

“You know what,” he snapped, pressing forward with a flurry of frustrated strikes. I parried each one, stepping back as he let his pent-up energy explode.

“Careful, kid. Your grip’s getting sloppy,” I said, keeping my tone light while my gaze remained sharp. “You’ll need to be more specific—I deflect a lot of things. It’s part of my charm.”

He halted, sword hanging loosely at his side, eyes boring into mine with a seriousness beyond his years. “I’m talking about your past. Your emotions. Anything that makes you seem... human.”

There it was. He’d been circling this for weeks, throwing jabs during our training sessions, just waiting for me to slip. But I wasn’t about to make it easy.

I tilted my head and shot him an unimpressed look. “Humanity’s overrated. You should know that by now.”

“Stop,” he said, voice low yet firm, stepping closer with determination radiating from his small frame. “You pretend nothing matters, but I know it does. I see it in your hesitations when you think no one’s watching. You’re holding back during training. You’re afraid of something.”

I opened my mouth for a sarcastic retort, but the words died in my throat. His gaze held mine, and I caught a glimpse of something familiar in his eyes—not the polished assassin I’d become, but the scrappy, scared kid I once was before the world told me to shut down my feelings.

“Fear’s a luxury we can’t afford, Damian,” I finally said, my voice quieter than I’d planned.

He frowned, tightening his grip on the sword. “That’s not an answer.”

I sighed, lowered my staff, and motioned for him to sit. “Fine. Want honesty? Here it is.”

He hesitated but eventually sank into the sand, exuding his usual mix of grace and reluctance. I faced him, staff resting on my knees, eyes drifting to the horizon.

“I’m afraid of losing myself,” I confessed, the weight of the words both heavy and liberating. “Of becoming so consumed by duty and survival that I’m left as nothing but a weapon. It’s easy to let it take over, to forget what it’s like to... care.”

For a moment, he was silent, his expression softening, the bravado melting away. “I get it,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual bite. “Legacy can feel like a prison. No matter what you do, it’s never really about you.”

I glanced at him, surprised by his insight. But I shouldn’t have been. He was Ra’s al Ghul’s heir and Bruce Wayne’s son—even if he didn’t know it. He understood all too well what it meant to be shaped by forces beyond your control.

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our conversation hanging heavy between us. The sparring match faded into the background, replaced by an unexpected understanding.

“Thanks,” he murmured, barely audible.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back on my hands. “For what?”

“For not pretending you have all the answers,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

I shrugged, a smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Don’t get used to it, heir-to-everything. You still have a lot to learn.”

“Good thing I have an excellent teacher,” he shot back, his arrogance creeping back in.

I rolled my eyes, standing and offering him a hand. “Let’s see if you still think that after two hours of drills.”

He groaned but took my hand, pulling himself up with a dramatic sigh. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re welcome,” I shot back, already striding toward the training grounds.

Behind me, I caught him muttering something under his breath, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. For the first time in ages, I felt like maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

The drills were brutal—just how I liked them. By the end, Damian looked like he’d been dragged through the jungle. Sweat streamed down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead, and his shirt clung like a second skin. He bent over, hands on his knees, glaring at me as if I were his worst enemy. Honestly? I think he hated me a little. Good. A healthy dose of spite builds character.

“You call that a warm-up?” he panted, frustration dripping from his voice.

I leaned against the fence casually, twirling a practice baton like I hadn’t just run him into the ground. “Warm-up?” I grinned wider. “That was just the warm-up. Next time, we’ll really push your limits.”

Damian straightened, squaring his shoulders and tilting his chin up, trying to look composed despite the flush creeping up his neck. He rolled his shoulders back, more for show than relief, and leveled a glare sharp enough to cut steel at me. “You’re sadistic,” he muttered, irritation lacing his words as he brushed past.

“Sadistic? No, no,” I called after him, grinning as he stomped toward the showers. “I’m thorough. There’s a difference, princeling.”

He waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder without looking back, muttering something I couldn’t catch but could easily imagine. I pushed off the fence, crossing my arms and watching him retreat, amused by his dramatic exit.

“Oh, and don’t hog all the hot water!” I called after him, just to rattle his cage a bit more. “And scrub behind your ears while you’re at it!”

He shot me a half-hearted glare, his green eyes narrowing in annoyance. But then, just like that, the corners of his lips twitched. If you blinked, you’d miss it, but I didn’t. Progress.

I chuckled to myself, shaking my head as I gathered the scattered training gear. Damian had been stubborn since day one, but every now and then, he let that icy facade crack. It was oddly satisfying—like we were both learning something here.

By the time Damian reappeared, freshly showered and looking like he'd just stepped out of a luxury spa instead of enduring my relentless drills, I was ready for a change. He had this annoying knack for resetting himself, as if all the sweat and curses had just rolled off him. But I wasn’t fooled. I noticed the stiffness in his walk and the way his fingers flexed, still remembering the grip of his practice weapon. He was sore, and I couldn’t have been prouder.

Leaning against the doorframe with a towel draped over his shoulder, he raised an eyebrow, clearly bracing for the next round of torture. “Well?” he asked, voice clipped but curious.

“Grab your boots,” I said, nodding toward the door and tossing him a small bundle of supplies.

He caught it easily, his frown deepening as he examined the contents. “What’s this? Another endurance test?”

“Nope,” I replied, emphasizing the “p” as I checked my own pack. “We’re going out.”

His frown turned into suspicion, but curiosity flickered in his sharp green eyes. “Out where?”

Still, he slipped on his boots, moving quickly despite his sore muscles. He couldn’t resist the pull of the unknown. I smirked, swinging my pack over one shoulder and heading for the door without waiting for him to catch up.

I heard his soft sigh, a mix of exasperation and reluctant acceptance. “You’re infuriating,” he muttered under his breath, though it wasn’t a real complaint.

I grinned, letting the door swing shut behind us as we stepped into the warm, humid air outside the compound. The jungle loomed ahead—a vibrant, living maze of vines, towering trees, and the hum of nocturnal life beginning to stir.

Damian fell in beside me, his eyes scanning the surroundings with their usual vigilance. “If this is some trust exercise, count me out,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Relax, princeling,” I shot back, adjusting my pack as I veered off the path into the thick brush. “No tree climbing or wild boar wrestling tonight. Maybe later.”

He rolled his eyes but followed, curiosity winning over skepticism. The deeper we went into the jungle, the fading light dimmed under the dense canopy, replaced by the chirps of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

“Do you ever stop being cryptic, or is it your default?” Damian asked after a moment, slicing through the jungle's symphony.

I turned, smirking as I stepped over a fallen log. “Oh, you’ll survive. Besides, you’ll thank me later.”

“Doubtful,” he replied, though amusement flickered in his tone.

Before long, we reached a small clearing I’d scouted ages ago. A fallen tree served as a makeshift bench, and a ring of stones marked old campfire remnants. I dropped my pack and motioned for Damian to sit, watching him take in every detail with those sharp eyes.

“What’s this?” he asked, setting down his own pack.

I pulled out a bag of marshmallows, holding it up like a treasure. “This,” I said, grinning, “is downtime. Welcome to a rare League secret: fun.”

His brows shot up, and for a moment, I thought he’d argue. But then he sighed, sitting on the log with reluctant acceptance. “You’re insane,” he muttered, though curiosity danced in his gaze as I started a small fire.

“Maybe,” I said, striking a match and grinning as the flames caught. “But you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

He didn’t respond, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he reached for a marshmallow. Progress, I thought, feeling warmth settle in my chest.

The jungle embraced us, alive with the hum of nature. Crickets chirped in rhythm, unseen creatures rustled in the underbrush, and a bird's piercing call faded into the humid air. The stars barely peeked through the thick canopy, but they sprinkled a soft glow over our little haven, a welcome escape from the chaos of training and the heavy compound walls.

Damian stayed a few steps behind, arms crossed, scanning the perimeter with practiced precision, daring the jungle to try something. Meanwhile, I set about preparing our impromptu feast.

As I set up the fire pit in the clearing, I noticed the faint remnants of an old one, making it easy to gather a pile of sticks and kindling, even if the damp air fought me on getting a flame started.

“You’ve done this before,” Damian remarked, watching me arrange the sticks. There was a hint of respect in his tone, surprising me enough to shoot him a smirk.

“Unlike you,” I shot back, pulling a lighter from my pocket.

He tilted his head, a frown forming as I flicked the lighter and held the flame to the kindling.

“Matches are for amateurs,” he muttered, crouching beside me, his interest pulling him closer. He watched every flicker of the fire like it was a puzzle waiting to be solved.

“Matches,” I emphasized, sitting back on my heels, “are for people who don’t want to waste time pretending to be survivalists.”

Damian raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. His gaze shifted as I reached into my pack and pulled out a bag of marshmallows.

“What are those?” he asked, genuine confusion etched across his face as he regarded the bag like it might explode.

I blinked at him, caught between disbelief and laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, tearing the bag open with a flourish. “Don’t tell me Talia didn’t teach you about the essentials. Marshmallows, Damian! Roasted marshmallows. They’re a global treasure.”

He stared at me like I was speaking another language. “No,” he replied flatly, sitting back on a log behind him. “She didn’t. I’ve never had roasted marshmallows.”

I paused, holding the bag aloft, trying to gauge if he was serious. But of course, he was. Damian al Ghul didn’t joke about his ignorance; he wore it like a badge.

“Well,” I said, shaking the bag with a grin, “tonight’s your lucky night, Boy King.”

He shot me one of his classic unimpressed looks—the kind that usually made people squirm. I ignored it and pulled out skewers from my pack. I was ready.

“Come on,” I tossed a skewer his way. He caught it effortlessly, his reflexes sharp as ever. “You’re going to roast your first marshmallow. It’s a rite of passage.”

“Is this really necessary?” he asked, though he didn’t toss the skewer aside. Instead, he leaned in, curiosity piqued as he watched me spear a marshmallow and hold it over the fire.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Roasted marshmallows by a campfire are a universal truth. Even you, heir to everything, need them.”

He paused, considering my words, then mimicked me, sliding a marshmallow onto his skewer.

“Now,” I added, adopting a mock-serious tone, “hold it just above the flames—not in them, unless you want it to catch fire.”

“And if I do want it to catch fire?” he shot back, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Then I’ll know you’re a menace to society,” I quipped.

To my surprise, he smirked, his stoic mask slipping as he carefully angled his skewer over the fire. But disaster struck. His marshmallow ignited in an instant, a sugary inferno before he even realized his mistake.

“It’s burning!” he yelped, voice slightly higher as he jerked the stick back.

“Blow it out, rookie!” I gasped, laughter bubbling over as he waved the flaming marshmallow like a weapon against a swarm of bees. Sparks flew, and the charred remains fell to the ground.

He shot me a glare, annoyance and embarrassment flashing across his face. “This is absurd,” he muttered, eyeing the scorched blob with distaste.

“You’re absurd,” I shot back, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. “But don’t sweat it—failure builds character. Try again, and this time, don’t set it on fire.”

With exaggerated calm, Damian speared another marshmallow onto the stick. He held it over the flames with the precision of a martial arts master. By his second attempt, he nailed it, toasting the marshmallow to a perfect golden brown.

“Better,” I said, nodding in approval. “Now eat it before you overthink it.”

He slid the marshmallow off the stick and took a cautious bite, chewing slowly as if it were a tactical evaluation. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he contemplated the sugary sweetness.

“It’s... sweet,” he finally said, his tone neutral yet tinged with surprise.

“Yeah, genius, that’s the point,” I replied, popping a marshmallow into my mouth for emphasis. The sugar melted on my tongue, and I grinned at him. “Welcome to the world of desserts. You’re officially less of a barbarian now.”

He didn’t respond, but I noticed the slightest twitch at the corners of his lips as he reached for another marshmallow.

We settled into a comfortable silence, the fire crackling between us. The harsh edges of Damian’s persona seemed to soften in the flickering light. As he roasted another marshmallow, his movements were slower and more relaxed than I was used to.

“You’re quiet,” I said, breaking the stillness. “That usually means you’re plotting something. Should I be worried?”

He glanced at me, his expression inscrutable for a moment before his gaze returned to the fire. “Just thinking,” he replied, his voice softer than usual.

“That’s a dangerous habit,” I teased, leaning back on my hands. But I didn’t press him. Whatever was on his mind, he’d share it when he was ready—or not. I was content to let the moment breathe.

The jungle around us pulsed with life, the symphony of chirps and rustles blending with the fire's crackle. Above us, stars blazed bright and distant, their light struggling to pierce the dense canopy. For the first time in ages, the weight of the world felt lifted. My pregnancy, the League, the chaos we carried—it all faded into the background.

It was just us, the fire, and the night.

And for once, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The villa was suffocating. I had to get out. The air on Infinity Island wasn’t exactly fresh, but it was quieter out in the wilderness. Just me, the night, and whatever absurdity Ra’s had stashed away in his little cloning facility.

Slipping past the villa’s perimeter was child’s play. There were no guards, I was left as Cheshire’s charge stashed away in a secret island in the middle of no where. I darted through the shadows, pausing only when the moonlight filtered through the thick forest, glinting off the compound in the distance. It was as unassuming as ever—just another one of Ra’s’ secret labs, buried deep in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by enough traps to make Wile E. Coyote question his life choices.

“So, I am finally here. The cloning facility, that changed everything in the other timeline,” I muttered under my breath, crouching low as I approached.

The lab was operational, humming with the low, steady thrum of power coursing through its systems. From the outside, it looked clinical and efficient, the kind of place Ra’s would obsess over: sharp angles, no wasted space, and that obnoxious sterile glow that screamed we’re evil, but we’re very organized about it.

The first trap was laughable. A pressure plate hidden under a patch of leaves. Really? I stepped over it with a shake of my head. “Amateurs,” I whispered. The second was a tripwire that would’ve released a volley of darts from the treetops. Creative, sure, but I’d seen better at Wayne Manor during one of Father’s ill-advised attempts to keep me “occupied.”

I slipped through the outer perimeter, pausing as I reached the main doors. Two guards stood in front of the entrance, their postures rigid, their eyes scanning the darkness like clockwork. Predictable. They probably thought they were the pinnacle of discipline, but I’d seen enough League foot soldiers to know they relied too much on protocol and not enough on instinct.

Pulling out a small smoke pellet from my belt, I tossed it just to the side of the facility. The hiss of gas escaping was subtle but enough to draw their attention. One guard nudged the other, and they moved in unison toward the sound.

True amateurs. Grandfather should feel ashamed.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and I was in.

The lab was exactly what I expected: clean to the point of sterility, with that faint chemical tang that clung to every surface. The walls were lined with monitors displaying vital stats, DNA sequences, and other data that would make even Father’s detective brain overheat. Shadows flitted in and out of my peripheral vision—scientists, guards, or whatever Ra’s deemed necessary to keep his little playground running smoothly.

I kept low, slipping between rows of equipment. One console flashed with a holographic display of a human body, the DNA strands twisting and shifting in real-time. Perfect form. Perfect heir, the display read. I rolled my eyes.

“Subtle, Grandfather,” I muttered, ducking behind another console as two figures passed by, their voices low.

The traps inside the facility were... excessive. One corridor had laser grids that rotated every five seconds. Another had pressure-sensitive tiles that triggered alarms. I bypassed them all, my body moving automatically through the motions. How much paranoia does one man need?

I stopped near a glass enclosure, the sight inside giving me pause. Rows of tanks lined the walls, each filled with a greenish liquid that reminded me of the Lazarus Pit. Inside, suspended in the liquid, were figures—unfinished, distorted, or frozen in some horrifying middle stage of development.

“Because nothing says ‘stable empire’ like a bunch of half-formed clones.” I crouched by the console, pulling up the data logs. Names, numbers, stats. It was a record of Ra’s’ failures—every attempt at creating his so-called perfect successor. My name wasn’t on the list. That, oddly, annoyed me.

Footsteps approached, and I ducked behind the console. Two scientists stopped near the tanks, their voices cutting through the hum of machinery.

“The subject in Tank 7 has destabilized again,” one of them said, tapping at his tablet. “We’ll need to start from scratch.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” the other replied, his tone clipped. “Ra’s won’t tolerate another delay.”

He’ll tolerate it just fine when I blow this place up, I thought, creeping along the shadows as they moved away.

I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. For all his plans, all his genius, Ra’s’ obsession with control always left cracks in the foundation. This place, for all its efficiency, was just another monument to his hubris.

As I moved toward the central chamber, I couldn’t help but shake my head at the absurdity of it all. The traps, the clones, the endless pursuit of perfection. It was all so... predictable. I felt a pang of something close to amusement. I should be horrified, after all the memory of that clone’s lifeless eyes had long since burned itself into my mind. He’d been a twisted, half-real version of me—an experiment built from my mother’s DNA, left to rot in a future that was erased but never truly forgotten. But I have long since acquired a sense of apathy for the cruelty of the Al Ghul line, otherwise I would have not made it this far alive. 

My grip tightened on the katana at my hip as I stepped into the central chamber. The light overhead was that harsh, clinical white that made everything seem colder, sharper. Scientists moved around the room with purpose, their lab coats swishing like specters as they tapped away at tablets, oblivious to the shadow stalking their every move. I stayed low, slipping between consoles, my body tense but controlled. Every step was calculated, every breath measured.

One of them—a man with glasses perched on the edge of his nose—was hunched over a workstation, muttering to himself as he adjusted the parameters on a tank’s interface. He didn’t even look up when I moved behind him, the blade slipping free of its sheath with a soft shink. The kill was clean, silent. His body slumped forward, and I caught him before he hit the ground, easing him onto the cold floor. I stared at his face for a moment, wondering if he had a family, a story.

Then I pushed the thought away. He chose this life. He worked for Ra’s. That was enough. I had long since stopped caring about Father’s rules, those rules had stopped being important the day Gotham turned into ash. There’s no “clean hands” in a world like this. You survive, or you don’t. And right now, survival meant taking this lab apart piece by piece, leaving behind nothing but chaos and blood.

The next one was easier. A woman standing by the central console, flipping through data on one of the clones in development. Her lips moved as if she were whispering to the image in the tank—a grotesque, unfinished thing that twitched occasionally, like it knew it wasn’t supposed to exist.

I didn’t let her see me. She didn’t even have time to scream.

I dragged her body to the shadows, wiping the blade clean on her lab coat before stepping back into the light. The room was still, save for the hum of machinery and the occasional beep from one of the monitors. No alarms. No panic.

Not yet.

The rage simmered just beneath the surface, controlled but ever-present. I let it fuel me, let it sharpen my focus. Every swing of the blade, every calculated step, was for the clone I couldn’t save, the brother I never asked for but mourned all the same.

By the time I reached the last scientist, my movements were almost mechanical. He turned, finally sensing the shift in the room, but it was too late.

“P-please,” he stammered, backing away. His eyes darted to the console behind him, to the emergency button that would summon guards.

I tilted my head, stepping closer. “Do you even know what you’re a part of?”

He froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Of course you do,” I answered for him, my voice low and cold. “You’re just too much of a coward to stand up against it.”

The blade flashed, and it was over.

I let out a slow breath, my hand steady as I wiped the katana clean again. The room smelled of antiseptic and death, a combination that turned my stomach but felt... right. Necessary.

Now for the fun part.

Pulling a small pouch from my belt, I scattered just enough of the custom-made residue to mimic Slade’s preferred poisons. The changes I placed around the facility were sleek, efficient, and carried his signature touch—a calling card that would lead Ra’s on a wild goose chase across continents. Imagining Ra’s’ face when he found the evidence. His arrogance would never let him believe it was me. No, he’d focus on Deathstroke, and never think to look closer.

The rage had dulled, replaced by a grim satisfaction. The clone’s memory still lingered, but it felt... lighter. Less like a weight and more like a purpose. Ra’s would be chasing shadows for months, maybe years. And me? I’d be right here, playing the obedient grandson, biding my time, helping my brother.

Because if there’s one thing Ra’s taught me, it’s this: revenge isn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon. And I’ve always been a patient runner.

Once I was done, planting the evidence, I moved, my steps quick and efficient as I searched for the most important objective of this mission. I found him deep within the laboratory. The sterile hum of the containment cell was louder than it had any right to be, vibrating just enough to irritate my nerves as I stepped into the room. The air was cold, the kind that bit at your skin and made your breath come out in faint puffs. It was clinical, impersonal, designed to remind anyone inside that they didn’t matter. That they were just things to be studied.

And there he was, curled up on the far corner of the room.

The clone looked smaller than he should’ve been. Maybe it was the way he pressed himself against the wall like it might swallow him whole. Or maybe it was the oversized clothes that hung off his thin frame, the fabric dull and lifeless, as gray as the rest of this gods-forsaken place. His hair, white as snow, stuck up in odd angles like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. Months, probably. His eyes, bright green and piercingly familiar, locked onto me the second I crossed the threshold.

“Stay back,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp, his body tense like a coiled spring.

I held up my hands, palms open, katana carefully sheathed at my side. “Relax, I’m not here to dissect you. Believe it or not, I’m your rescue team.”

He blinked, his brow furrowing. “Rescue?”

I leaned against the nearest console, giving him space but not letting him out of my sight. “Yeah, you know, break you out of the creepy science dungeon, whisk you away to slightly less traumatizing surroundings, that kind of thing. It’s a package deal. Comes with a snarky brother who doesn’t charge extra.”

His glare deepened, but I caught the flicker of confusion behind it. He didn’t trust me—smart kid—but I wasn’t giving him much of a choice.

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice quieter this time, but no less sharp. His fingers twitched against his leg, a nervous habit he probably didn’t realize he had.

I tilted my head, letting a small smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. “Not to use you as a science experiment, for starters. That puts me ahead of the people here, doesn’t it?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t respond, but the way his gaze lingered on me spoke volumes. He was weighing his options, trying to figure out if I was another version of them—the scientists, the guards, the ones who saw him as less than human.

I pushed off the console and took a slow step closer. “Look, I get it. Trust issues. Probably not your fault, considering where you’ve been stuck. But here’s the thing—if you stay here, you’re not walking out alive. And I’d rather not leave you to end up as a statistic in Ra’s’ never-ending quest for ‘perfection.’”

His head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “Ra’s?”

“Yeah, that self-righteous old fossil who thinks cloning is a viable family-building activity.” I kept my tone casual, even as my fingers curled into fists at the thought of him. “I’m Damian Alexander al Ghul. And if we don’t leave now, his goons are gonna figure out I’m here, and this whole rescue mission’s gonna get a lot messier.”

“Damian?” he echoed, his expression still guarded.

“Or akhi, if that feels less weird for you. Either way, you’re stuck with me for now.” That got a reaction. His eyes widened, just a fraction, and for a moment, I saw something break through the wall he’d built around himself. I reached out a hand, keeping my movements deliberate, slow. “Come on. You can hate me later, but we’ve gotta move.”

He stared at my hand like it might bite him, his fingers twitching again. The hesitation was almost painful to watch, but I didn’t pull back. Finally, he pushed off the wall, his steps hesitant as he closed the distance between us. His hand hovered over mine before he grabbed it, his grip firm but cautious.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I gave him a lopsided grin. “Because apparently being the functional brother runs in the family. Let’s go before I regret this.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile. But he followed as I led him out of the cell, his steps growing steadier with every stride. The hallway was as sterile and cold as the cell had been, the faint hum of machinery echoing around us. I kept my grip on his wrist light but firm, guiding him through the labyrinthine corridors with practiced ease.

“You’re awfully quiet,” I said, glancing back at him. “That usually means one of two things: someone is either plotting my demise, or they’re too scared to say anything. Which is it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Neither.”

“Good answer.” I smirked, turning a corner and pressing him into the shadows as a pair of guards passed by. “Because I’d hate to have to fight you. I’d win, obviously, but it’d be a hassle.”

He rolled his eyes, the first real sign of attitude I’d seen from him. “You talk too much.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” I shot back, peeking around the corner before motioning for him to follow. “Now hurry up, rookie.”

As we slipped through the shadows, his footsteps falling into rhythm with mine, I couldn’t help but glance back at him again. His face was still guarded, his eyes darting around like he expected the walls to close in on him.

But he was following me. And for now, that was enough.

The blaring alarm ripped through the silence, a gut-punch of sound that vibrated through my ribs. Of course. It wasn’t enough for Ra’s to stock this place with mad scientists; he just had to have a full security detail on standby. I groaned, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling as if I could glare the alarm into shutting up.

“Brilliant,” I muttered, drawing my katana in one fluid motion. “So much for subtlety.”

My brother froze behind me, his wide eyes darting between me and the hallway ahead. The kid looked like a deer caught in headlights—understandable, but not helpful.

“Move!” I barked, giving him a shove to get his feet going. “Unless you want to find out how good their shock batons are.”

That did it. He stumbled forward, picking up speed as we tore down the corridor. The lights above us shifted from sterile white to an obnoxious red, bathing everything in a pulsing glow that felt like it was screaming you’re screwed. The echo of boots pounding against the floor behind us didn’t help.

“Left!” I yelled, ducking around a corner. “No, your other left!”

He skidded, almost losing his balance as he corrected course. “I didn’t know directions came with this escape plan!”

“Basic spatial awareness isn’t optional!” I shot back, barely resisting the urge to smack the back of his head.

We rounded another corner, my blade catching the edge of a security camera and slicing it clean off the wall. A few more turns and I spotted an intersection ahead, one hallway branching off in three directions.

“Right path,” I ordered, already calculating the route in my head.

“Why not the left this time?” He huffed, his voice strained from trying to keep up.

“Because the left leads to the incinerator, and I don’t feel like testing our luck.”

That shut him up, though the look he gave me was pure skepticism.

We bolted down the middle corridor, my eyes scanning for anything resembling an exit. Behind us, the sound of guards closing in was getting louder. My brother glanced back, his breathing uneven.

“They’re catching up,” he said, his voice tight with panic.

“Yeah, I noticed,” I replied dryly, spotting a heavy metal door ahead with a glowing keypad beside it. “But don’t worry—I have a plan.”

He snorted, though it came out more like a gasp. “Does it involve getting us killed?”

“Not if you keep up.” I skidded to a stop in front of the door, typing in a code I’d memorized from one of the scientist’s files. The keypad flashed green, and the door hissed open. “Go!” I shoved him inside, slamming the door shut behind us and jamming the lock.

The room was dimly lit, lined with towering shelves filled with vials, syringes, and labeled canisters that screamed questionable science projects. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering, sharp and bitter.

“Great,” he muttered, doubling over to catch his breath. “From one creepy room to another. What’s next, a pit of snakes?”

“Not unless Ra’s has gotten really unoriginal,” I said, my tone clipped as I scanned the room. There had to be another exit—something less obvious, less guarded. My eyes landed on a vent near the ceiling, its grating slightly ajar.

“Bingo.”

He followed my gaze, his brow furrowing. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” I grabbed a nearby stool, dragging it under the vent.

“Climbing through vents? Really?” He crossed his arms, his stance stubborn despite the alarms still blaring in the distance.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, rookie, I suggest you start boosting yourself up.” I gestured for him to step onto the stool.

He hesitated, glancing back at the door. “What if they find us?”

“They’ll find us either way,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I softened it with a smirk. “But hey, if you want to stick around and give them a heartfelt monologue about your tragic backstory, be my guest.”

That got him moving. He clambered onto the stool and reached for the vent, his movements awkward but determined. I gave him a leg up, grunting as I shoved him through the opening.

“See?” I said, pulling myself up after him with practiced ease. “Not so hard.”

He glared at me, his face red from exertion. “Says the guy who’s done this before.”

“Multiple times,” I corrected, crawling through the narrow duct. The metal was cold under my palms, the air stale and suffocating. “Pro tip: don’t think about how many spiders might be in here.”

“Spiders?” He froze, his voice going up an octave.

“Kidding.” Mostly.

The vent rattled as we moved, the sound of the alarms fading into the background. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than facing a squad of heavily armed guards.

“So,” my brother said after a moment, his voice hesitant. “What happens after this?”

“We get out of here,” I replied, keeping my tone casual. “And then we figure it out.”

“That’s not much of a plan.”

“It’s more of a plan than they gave you,” I shot back, twisting around a corner.

He didn’t respond, but I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and questioning. I didn’t blame him. Trust was a hard thing to come by, especially for someone like him. But as long as he followed me, I’d make sure he got out of this alive. Even if it killed me.

The vent spit us out into a dimly lit corridor that smelled like bleach and bad decisions. I landed in a crouch, katana already in hand, while my brother followed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. He hit the ground hard, wincing as his knees buckled.

“Quiet,” I hissed, helping him up with a sharp tug.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, brushing off his knees. “Not all of us are secret ninja assassins.”

“Correction: trained ninja assassins,” I said, pressing my back to the wall and peering around the corner. “The secret part kind of flew out the window with the alarms.”

The sound of boots—heavy, methodical, and entirely too close—echoed down the hall. Three guards, maybe four. I tightened my grip on my katana, the leather wrapping snug against my palm, and glanced at my brother.

“Stay here,” I ordered.

His eyes widened. “Wait, what? You’re just gonna leave me?”

“No, I’m going to deal with the problem, then come back,” I said, keeping my voice low and sharp. “Unless you’d like to volunteer as bait.”

“Hard pass,” he whispered, retreating a step.

“Smart choice. Stay put, don’t make noise, and if anyone comes near you…” I reached into my belt and handed him a small knife, its blade gleaming even in the low light. “Use this. Aim for the neck or the knee. One stops them from talking, the other stops them from chasing. Got it?”

He took the knife with shaky hands, nodding. “Neck or knee. Got it.”

“Good.”

Without waiting for more questions—or protests—I moved. Silent and swift, my boots barely made a sound against the cold tile floor. The first guard came into view, his focus on the corner I’d just left. Rookie mistake. I struck fast, my katana slicing through his throat with surgical precision. He hit the ground before he even realized he was dead.

The next two guards rounded the corner, their weapons already raised, but I was faster. A quick feint to the left drew their fire, the bullets sparking against the wall behind me. I closed the distance in two steps, the first guard falling to a clean strike across his chest. The second managed to block my initial swing with his rifle, but the sheer force of the blade knocked him off balance.

“Too slow,” I muttered, driving the hilt of my katana into his face. He crumpled with a grunt, blood pouring from his nose.

The fourth guard hesitated, his weapon trembling in his hands. “W-wait! I can—”

“Nope.” My blade silenced him before he could finish.

The hallway fell quiet again, save for the hum of the fluorescent lights. I exhaled, wiping the blood from my blade with a rag I’d snagged off one of the guards. When I returned to my brother, he was still clutching the knife like it was a lifeline, his knuckles white. His eyes flicked to the blood on my hands and the katana, then back to my face.

“You… took care of it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Obviously.” I sheathed the blade, my movements brisk. “What, you thought I was just going to negotiate?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” He let out a shaky laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re… really good at that.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said, glancing down the hallway. “Now come on.” My brother nodded slowly, his eyes darting to the bodies I’d left behind. He swallowed hard. “It’s not pretty,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “It’s not supposed to be. But sometimes it’s the only option. And right now, keeping you alive is all that matters.”

He looked at me, really looked at me, like he was trying to piece together the kind of person who could do what I’d just done and still keep moving. He nodded again, this time with more conviction. “Okay. I trust you.”

“Good. Now let’s move.”

I led the way down the hall, my senses on high alert. The faint hum of the alarm was still in the background, but the guards seemed to have fallen back for now. Behind me, my brother’s footsteps were hesitant but steady. I glanced back at him, his face set with a determination that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re learning,” I said, a small smirk tugging at my lips.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. “Just don’t expect me to be as good as you.”

“Trust me,” I said, turning my attention back to the path ahead. “Nobody is.”

We moved fast, slipping through the last security door just before the lockdown could seal it. Outside, the night was thick with humidity, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and metal. The perimeter lights swept across the courtyard in slow, rhythmic arcs, and I motioned for my brother to keep low.

Keeping to the shadows, we sprinted toward the chain-link fence at the far end of the compound. The distant sound of barking dogs sent a fresh jolt of urgency through my veins. I scaled the fence first, landing in a crouch before turning to help him over. He hesitated only a second before clambering up, his breathing harsh in the stillness.

“Move,” I hissed, catching the flash of a guard’s silhouette near the loading bay.

We hit the ground running, boots kicking up damp leaves as we plunged into the forest. The darkness swallowed us, tree branches clawing at our arms, the undergrowth snagging at our legs. My pulse hammered, not just from exertion but from the knowledge that we weren’t safe yet.

Behind me, my brother stumbled but didn’t fall, pushing himself harder. Good. He was finally learning that hesitation would get him killed.

The sounds of the facility faded behind us—no shouts, no gunfire. That was a good sign. Or maybe a bad one.

We ran until my lungs burned, until the ache in my legs turned numb. Then, finally, the rusted outline of the maintenance shed emerged from the trees. I wrenched the door open, the hinges shrieking in protest, and we slipped inside. The place smelled like mildew and rust, with tools scattered across a workbench and cobwebs claiming most of the corners. It wasn’t ideal, but it was out of sight, which made it perfect.

My brother leaned against the far wall, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. He was clutching the knife I’d given him, his knuckles bone-white, and his gaze darted to every shadow like something might spring out of it.

“Relax,” I said, pulling a tarp from the corner and throwing it over the window to block the view. “No one’s following us.” I set my katana down on the workbench and began wiping the blade clean. Blood was hell on steel, and I wasn’t about to let sloppy maintenance ruin a perfectly good sword.

My brother slid down the wall, sitting on the cold concrete floor. He stared at the knife in his hands, turning it over like it was some alien artifact. “I don’t even know how to use this.”

“You didn’t need to,” I said, not looking up. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“But what if you hadn’t been?” He looked up at me, his expression a mix of anger and something else—fear, maybe. “What if they’d caught us? Or killed us? I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

I paused, setting the blade aside. “But they didn’t. And you didn’t run back like some scared little kid, so that’s something.”

“Barely.” He let out a shaky laugh, more bitterness than humor. “I don’t know what you see in me. How did you even know about my existence?! Why you even came to save me?  I’m just…” He trailed off, his grip on the knife tightening.

“Just what?” I crossed the room and crouched in front of him, my arms resting on my knees. “Go on. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m nothing,” he said quietly. “I’m not even a person. I’m just EXP-1998-071, a copy. Something they made to use and throw away. I don’t even know who I am.”

I stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words settling in the air between us. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor like he couldn’t bear to meet my eyes. “Wow,” I said finally, leaning back on my heels. “That’s dramatic. Even by my standards.”

His head snapped up, a spark of indignation breaking through the self-pity. “I’m serious!”

“So am I,” I said, standing and crossing my arms. “Look, self-loathing might be the family tradition, but you’re taking it to a whole new level. Congrats, you’re officially more melodramatic than: “I am Vengeance! I am the Night! I am Batman!”. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“That’s not funny,” he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“It’s a little funny,” I said, giving him a small smirk. “And for the record, you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“About being nothing.” I sat down on the floor across from him, resting my arms on my knees. “You’re not a number. You’re not some disposable thing they made. My brother. And no one’s taking that from you. Ever.”

He blinked, his breath hitching slightly. “You really think that?”

“Think it? I just broke into a heavily guarded facility, took out their staff, and dragged your untrained ass out of there. You think I’d do that for ‘nothing’?”

His lip quivered, and for a second, I thought he might cry. Instead, he let out a shaky laugh, wiping at his eyes. “You’re really bad at pep talks, you know that?”

“Maybe, but I’m great at saving your life,” I said, leaning back and resting my hands behind me. “And let’s face it, you needed it.”

His laugh came easier this time, and he finally set the knife down beside him. “I don’t know if I deserve this.”

I sat up, narrowing my eyes at him. “Okay, no. We’re not doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“The whole ‘I don’t deserve to live’ routine. It’s boring, it’s counterproductive, and frankly, it’s beneath you.” He looked taken aback, but I didn’t let him interrupt. “Listen, I get it. You’ve been through hell. People have treated you like crap, and you’ve probably convinced yourself they’re right. But guess what? They’re not.”

“How do you know?” he asked, his voice small.

“Because I said so. You are not EXP-1998-071, from now on I name you Alexander al Ghul. It is my name to give, and I give it to you. Because you are not a copy, you are a living and breathing person, worthy of respect and a name.” I reached out and poked him in the chest, just hard enough to make my point. “And if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, I’ll deal with them. Got it?”

He stared at me, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—crossing his face. “Got it.”

“Good.” I pushed myself to my feet and offered him a hand. He hesitated for a moment, then took my hand. His grip was firm, and when he stood, there was a little more strength in his posture. As we stepped out into the night, the cool air hitting my face, I glanced at him. “And for the record,” I added, “you’re worth saving. Even if you’re a pain in the ass.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks… I think.”

“Don’t mention it,” I said, leading the way. “Seriously. Don’t. Ever.”

Chapter Text

The villa was quiet, save for the faint rustling of palm leaves outside and the soft murmur of the sea in the distance. I stood by the window, arms crossed, my patience hanging by a thread. Damian was late.

Again.

I’d already paced the length of the main room twice, my footsteps echoing against the tiled floors, and now I’d settled into staring out at the moonlit garden. The villa, with its worn elegance and faded mosaics, felt almost serene tonight, which only made my irritation sharper.

When the heavy oak door creaked open, I spun around, ready to unleash every word I’d rehearsed in my head. But the sharp retort died on my tongue.

Damian walked in first, his stride purposeful but slower than usual, like he was nursing a hidden injury. His shoulders were tense, his lips pressed in that tight line he always wore when he was bracing for a fight.

But it wasn’t just him.

Behind him, a boy followed.

He was small, with a wiry frame and a shock of white hair that stood out like snow against the deep shadows of the room. He looked around with wide eyes, nervous, like someone who wasn’t sure whether he was stepping into safety or another trap.

And then I saw his face.

It wasn’t a perfect match to Damian’s, but the resemblance was there—the sharp cheekbones, the stubborn chin, the same piercing green eyes, though his carried more hesitation than defiance.

I blinked, thrown. “Damian,” I said slowly, my voice sharper than I intended. “Who. Is. This?”

Damian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as if my question physically pained him. “Before you start yelling—”

“Before?” I interrupted, stepping forward. My eyes flicked to the boy, then back to Damian. “Who is he? And where the hell have you been?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Damian like he was searching for permission to speak. The boy shifted, stepping forward tentatively. “Alexander,” he said, his voice low and uncertain. “My name is Alexander.”

I studied him for a moment longer, noticing how he hunched slightly, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Malnourished. Nervous. Not used to saying his own name.

I looked back at Damian, my gaze hard. His expression remained steady, but his eyes carried a message I would have to decipher later.

“Alright,” I said, letting out a slow breath. My voice softened as I addressed Alexander. “Why don’t we get you something to eat?”

The boy blinked, clearly surprised by the offer, but nodded quickly. “Thank you,” he murmured, his tone quiet but earnest.

I turned toward the kitchen, gesturing for them to follow, and caught Damian’s eye as I passed. My look said everything: We’ll talk later.

Damian watched, his face unreadable. But when I glanced at him, I caught the faintest hint of a smile.

Dinner wasn’t exactly what I’d call a civilized affair. The three of us sat around the weathered dining table, the one Damian had insisted on keeping in the villa despite its wobbly leg and scratched surface. It was the kind of table that had seen years of use, the wood warped in spots from water damage. Somehow, it suited the chaos we’d brought into this house.

Damian had whipped up something simple but surprisingly edible—omelets, some steamed vegetables, and bread he’d charred slightly on one side because, apparently, “toasters are for cowards.” He didn’t bother to dress it up, just dropped the plates in front of us like we were soldiers lining up for rations.

And then the questions started.

“What’s this one?” Alexander asked, his voice tentative as he poked at a piece of steamed carrot with his fork. Well, “poked” was generous—he jabbed at it like it might attack him first.

Damian, to his credit, didn’t so much as sigh. “It’s a steamed carrot,” he said evenly, cutting into his omelet with the kind of precision that made you think he was plotting its demise. “You’re supposed to eat it, not stare at it.”

Alexander blinked down at the carrot like it was a foreign artifact. “Steamed?” He tried the word out like it was new to him, and judging by his puzzled look, it probably was.

I set my fork down with more force than necessary, the metallic clang breaking the awkward silence. “You’re telling me he doesn’t even know what a carrot is?” My voice was sharp, and I didn’t bother softening it. “Really, Damian?”

Damian shot me a glare from across the table. “He’s learning,” he said, his tone calm but with that underlying edge that told me to back off. “Not everyone grew up with your luxuries, Jade.”

“Luxuries?” I repeated, leaning forward. “This is basic human knowledge, not a five-star education. The League didn’t even teach him how to eat properly?”

Alexander shrank a little in his chair, his eyes darting between us like a kid caught in the crossfire of a parental argument. “I didn’t—”

“Stop apologizing,” I snapped, not unkindly but firm enough to cut him off. I wasn’t angry at him. Not even a little. But I couldn’t help the frustration bubbling under my skin, the way it twisted in my chest every time I looked at him. He was just a kid—a kid who’d clearly been treated like he wasn’t even human. “This isn’t your fault.”

Alexander hesitated, then nodded, though he still looked unsure. Damian, meanwhile, gave me a look that could’ve frozen lava. “Are you done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he popped a piece of carrot into his mouth like this wasn’t the most absurd dinner of our lives.

“Not even close,” I shot back, leaning against the table now, my hands gripping the edge. “Do you even realize how messed up this is? How do you expect him to just—just adapt to all of this?”

Damian set his fork down with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable. “I expect him to learn, because that’s what he’s doing. What he needs,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “is patience. Not whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at me, and I wanted to throw my plate at him.

Alexander, meanwhile, tentatively picked up his fork and knife, holding them like they might electrocute him. “Like this?” he asked, glancing at Damian for approval.

Damian nodded, his tone softening. “That’s better. Now, cut the carrot, not the plate.”

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms as I watched them. Damian was oddly calm, guiding Alexander through the basics like he was teaching him how to wield a sword instead of a fork. His patience was... unnerving. Alexander managed to slice the carrot—poorly, but he did it—and when he looked up at Damian, there was something tentative in his expression. Like he was waiting for Damian to laugh at him or tell him he’d done it wrong.

“Good,” Damian said simply, taking a sip of water like this was no big deal.

Alexander blinked, then gave a small, almost shy smile before popping the carrot into his mouth.

I didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. “You’re really okay with this,” I said after a moment, looking at Damian. “With... all of this?”

“Define ‘this,’” he replied, not looking up as he speared a piece of omelet on his fork.

I gestured at the table. “You. Him. Playing house like this isn’t the most insane thing you’ve ever dragged me into.”

Damian finally looked at me, his green eyes sharp. “I’m not playing anything,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. "This is not a game."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat. There was something in his expression—something I didn’t see often. Guilt, maybe. Or something heavier.

“Right,” I muttered, looking away. “Because you’re so selfless.”

He didn’t respond, just went back to his food, his jaw tightening slightly.

Alexander glanced between us, his brow furrowed. “You two... fight a lot,” he said hesitantly.

“Constantly,” Damian replied without missing a beat.

“It’s how we bond,” I added dryly, picking up my fork again.

Alexander didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly, and for the first time, I saw something that looked almost like ease settle over him.

I caught Damian watching him out of the corner of my eye, his expression softening for just a moment before he masked it with a smirk. “See?” he said, looking at me. “He’s already adjusting.”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. Maybe this wasn’t the disaster I thought it was.

Or maybe it was. But at least we had steamed carrots.

The villa was quiet after dinner, the kind of quiet that felt wrong—like it was holding its breath. I stayed at the table long after Damian had cleared the plates, staring at the faded wood grain like it might offer answers. It didn’t, of course.

I could hear them upstairs, their voices muffled through the thin walls. Damian was giving Alexander some kind of pep talk, his words low and even, like he was talking to a skittish animal. Knowing him, he probably thought that was the same thing. I heard the occasional murmured response from Alexander, hesitant and unsure, but it sounded like he was trying. Trying to adjust, trying to trust. Trying to figure out who the hell he was supposed to be.

Eventually, the creak of the floorboards and the soft click of a door closing told me Damian had left him alone. My stomach twisted, though whether it was from dinner, or the mess Damian had dragged in, I wasn’t sure. Either way, I wasn’t letting this go. Not tonight.

I found him in the living room, sprawled on the worn-out couch like he owned the place. One booted foot rested on the coffee table, the other planted on the floor as he leaned back, flipping through a book he’d clearly grabbed at random. The lamp on the side table cast a warm glow over his face, but it didn’t soften the sharp lines of his jaw or the defiant set of his mouth. He didn’t look up when I stepped into the room.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation,” I said, crossing my arms as I stopped a few feet away.

Damian sighed dramatically, his eyes still on the book. “And here I thought the evening was winding down so nicely.”

I snatched the book out of his hands before he could stop me, holding it up to read the title. “A Guide to Mediterranean Architecture?” I raised an eyebrow, tossing it onto the coffee table. “Really?”

“It was either that or The Art of Bonsai,” he said dryly, finally looking at me. “I figured this would irritate you less.”

“Well, congratulations, you were wrong.” I planted myself on the arm of the couch, close enough to make it clear I wasn’t going anywhere. “You want to tell me what’s going on, or should I start guessing?”

Damian leaned back further, resting his head against the cushion as he stared up at the ceiling. “What do you want me to say, Jade? That I found a clone and decided to bring him home like a stray cat?”

“Something like that would be a start.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Damian, he’s not a cat. He’s—” I broke off, my words catching in my throat. “He’s a kid. A kid who doesn’t even know what a carrot is. Do you realize how messed up that is?”

“I realize it,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of its usual sharpness. “Believe me, I realize it.”

There it was again, that flicker of something heavy behind his words. Guilt. Responsibility. Damian carried a lot, but this was different. This wasn’t about his usual crusade against the world’s injustices. This was personal.

I let out a slow breath, my frustration softening just a little. “Okay,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Then explain it to me. Why him? Why now? What are you trying to do here?”

He sat up, his movements sharp and restless, like he couldn’t sit still under the weight of the question. “Because he’s me, Jade,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “Or at least, he was supposed to be. But instead of turning him into the perfect weapon, they broke him. They made him feel like he’s nothing.”

“And you think you can fix that?” I asked, my voice rising slightly. “What, by teaching him how to use a fork and telling him he’s worth something? Damian, this isn’t one of your pet projects. This is a human being.”

“I know that!” he snapped, his eyes flashing as he stood up. He started pacing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Do you think I don’t know how horrifying this is? That I don’t know how much damage they’ve done to him?”

I stood too, stepping into his path and forcing him to stop. “Then why?” I demanded. “Why take this on? Why bring him here? What are you hoping to prove?”

He stopped, his chest rising and falling as he stared at me. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stood there with that stubborn, infuriating look of his. And then, finally, he spoke. “Because someone has to,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Because no one else will.”

The words hit harder than I expected, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Damian didn’t look away, his green eyes steady and unwavering, daring me to argue. I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I stepped back. “You’re impossible,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Completely, utterly impossible.”

“That’s why you love me,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the small smile that crept onto my face. “Don’t push your luck, al Ghul.”

He let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he sank back onto the couch. I watched him for a moment, my frustration still simmering but softened by something else—something I didn’t want to name. Because as much as I hated his recklessness, I couldn’t ignore the way he looked when he talked about Alexander. The way he cared, even if he didn’t know how to show it.

“You’re going to mess this up,” I said finally, my tone gentler now. I did not wish to be the bad guy, but Damian is only nine. He should not be in charge of taking care of a traumatized clone. “You know that, right?”

“Probably,” he admitted, leaning back and closing his eyes. “But I’ll deal with that when it happens.”

I shook my head, but I didn’t argue. Because for all his flaws, Damian had a way of making you believe he could handle anything. Even this.

Damian was still slouching on the couch when I decided I’d had enough of his brooding silence. If he thought he could leave me with that half-answer and a smug smirk, he clearly underestimated my persistence. I crossed my arms and stared at him, tapping my foot against the hardwood floor loud enough to be annoying.

“Out with it,” I said.

He opened one eye and gave me a pointed look. “I thought we were done.”

“Oh, we’re far from done. You’re sitting here playing the martyr card, and I still don’t know half of what’s going on.” I took a step closer, planting myself directly in his line of sight. “Who is Alexander really? And don’t give me some vague answer, I want facts.”

Damian sat up slowly, dragging his hands down his face like he was gearing up for a fight. “You really don’t know when to let something go, do you?”

“Not when you’re being shady as hell.” I perched on the arm of the couch, leaning toward him. “Start talking, or I’ll make you regret it.”

He gave me a flat look, the kind he used when he was deciding whether it was worth the energy to argue. “Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

That was enough to make me pause. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be good. Damian wasn’t the type to offer warnings unless the story was about to take a hard left turn into disaster territory. He stood up, pacing in that restless, caged-animal way he always did when he was working through something. His boots echoed against the floor, his movements sharp and deliberate. I stayed where I was, watching as he walked back and forth, his jaw tightening every few seconds like he was trying to keep himself from biting through the words.

“Alexander is a clone,” his voice low but clear, as he repeated the fact. “Ra’s commissioned him as part of an experiment. A contingency, in case I turned out...defective.”

My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to stay composed. “A clone of you?” I asked the question that has been on my mind since the start of this conversation. Though I already knew the answer was going to be worse than that.

He shook his head, stopping mid-step to glance at me. “No. Not me. Talia and... Slade Wilson.”

The room felt like it tipped sideways for a second. I stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said. “Wait, are you telling me your grandfather decided to play mad scientist with your mom and Deathstroke? That’s—” I cut myself off, gesturing vaguely as I searched for the right word. “That’s deranged, even for him.”

“Believe me, I’m aware,” Damian said dryly, his mouth twisting in a humorless smile. “Do you think I’d willingly bring this up if it weren’t relevant?”

I stood up, pacing a short circle of my own as the full weight of what he’d said settled in. “So that’s why you came to Infinity Island,” I said slowly. “You wanted to get close enough to learn what Ra’s was doing.”

He nodded, his expression tightening. “I knew he was hiding something.”

“What then?” I asked, stopping in front of him.

Damian’s eyes darkened, the green of them almost glowing under the soft light of the lamp. “When I found out about Alexander, I made a choice,” he said simply. “I wasn’t going to let Ra’s turn him into a weapon, or worse, dispose of him when he wasn’t useful anymore.”

The words hit harder than I expected, sharp and raw in a way that Damian rarely let show. He turned away, crossing to the window and staring out into the night. His reflection in the glass looked older somehow, the weight of everything he wasn’t saying etched into the lines of his face.

“I staged a rescue,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Set a trap to make Ra’s think Slade was responsible for the breach. It’s not perfect, but it’ll buy us time.”

I blinked, taking a second to catch up. “You framed Deathstroke? Damian, are you trying to get us all killed?”

He turned back to me, and for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk. “It’s not the first time someone’s wanted him dead. He won’t even notice.”

“That is not the reassurance you think it is,” I snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Do you have any idea how reckless this is?”

“Yes,” he said bluntly, stepping closer. “And I’d do it again.”

His calm, unflinching tone caught me off guard. I dropped my hand, letting out a sharp breath as I tried to rein in the mix of anger and concern churning in my chest. “You really don’t make anything easy, do you?”

“I wasn’t trained for easy,” he said with a shrug, his voice tinged with the faintest hint of sarcasm. “You of all people should know that.”

I gave him a look, but I didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong, and we both knew it. Damian had been forged in fire long before I’d met him, and there was no changing that now. Damian’s plan was reckless, dangerous, and completely insane. But as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t argue with his reasons.

For better or worse, we were in this now.

I hadn’t even had time to fully unpack the whole clone of Talia and Slade revelation before he decided to drop another bombshell. Damian, after all, was annoyingly good at pulling the rug out from under me. The smug little brat had barely let me start piecing my thoughts together when he turned, his voice sharper than the knives he stashed in every corner of this place.

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually, you know,” he said casually, like we were discussing what to have for breakfast. His tone had that irritating mix of detached confidence and underlying steel that only Damian al Ghul could pull off without getting punched.

I froze, my stomach doing this weird flipping thing that had nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the fact that he’d hit the bullseye. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Tell who what?” I asked, aiming for clueless but probably landing closer to defensive.

He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t insult both of us by pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said, leaning back against the windowsill with his arms crossed. The faint glow from outside framed him like he’d planned this whole moment for dramatic effect. Typical.

“Damian,” I warned, pointing at him like a teacher about to scold a particularly irritating student.

He ignored me, which was par for the course. “You’ve been trying to hide it, but you’re not exactly subtle,” he continued, his voice clipped but not unkind. His eyes flicked down, and for a second, I felt exposed in a way that made my skin crawl. “The nausea. The way you’ve been holding yourself lately. And the way you do not touch well stocked bodega in the villa.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at him. “Maybe I just don’t trust alcohol from a man who uses it to poison his enemies.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Nice try, but we both know that’s not it. After all, a poison master would know which spirits were left untouched.”

I hated how calm he was, like he had all the time in the world to peel back my layers and look right through me. “Fine,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “Congratulations, Detective. What are you going to do? Lecture me? Tell Ra’s?”

His expression hardened, the amusement draining from his face in an instant. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, his voice low and edged with something that sounded suspiciously like concern. “If I wanted Ra’s to know, he’d already know. You think I’m reckless, but I’m not that reckless.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh, pacing a tight circle as I tried to keep my emotions in check. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who just told me he framed Deathstroke and is harboring a clone under Ra’s’ nose.”

“Which is exactly why you need me,” Damian shot back, pushing off the windowsill and closing the distance between us in a few quick strides. He stopped just short of stepping into my space, his voice dropping to a level that demanded attention. “You’re not going to get out of here on your own. Definitely not with a baby on the way.”

I clenched my fists, the heat rising in my chest and threatening to boil over. “You think I can’t handle myself?” I asked, my voice low but dangerous.

“I think you’re smart enough to know when you need help,” he countered, his gaze steady. “And whether you like it or not, I’m offering it.”

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong. I hated that he wasn’t wrong.

“What’s your angle?” I asked after a long moment, crossing my arms again and meeting his gaze head-on. “You don’t do anything without an agenda.”

His jaw tightened, just enough for me to notice. “My angle is keeping everyone alive,” he said flatly. “You, Alexander, the baby. And, yes, even Mara.”

The way he said it, so matter-of-fact and devoid of his usual bravado, threw me off balance. I looked at him more closely, searching for the usual arrogance or some hint of manipulation. Instead, I saw pure and honest concern. Protectiveness.

“And how do you propose we pull that off?” I asked, my voice softer now but still laced with skepticism. “It’s not like we can just walk out of the League of Assassins unnoticed. They will retaliate, hunt us down and then use Alexander and the baby as hostages for our good behavior.”

“You are right,” he admitted, tilting his head slightly as he considered the problem. “But we don’t have to do this alone.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. He stepped past me, heading toward the small table where he'd left his gloves and a stack of papers. Picking one up, he held it out to me. "The Justice League has resources. Batman, specifically."

I snorted, taking the paper but not looking at it. "And you think Batman is just going to swoop in and save the day? Do you know how many times I've heard that story?"

"This isn't a story. It's a strategy. He's predictable, yes, but that works in our favor. He won't let Ra's' operations go unchecked, especially if it puts innocents at risk." Damian smirked, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms. "Not to mention, the fact that he is my father, and he has proven over and over again that he would do anything for his children."

I blinked, stunned at the blatant intel drop. Damian knew. He knew that I knew. Let's compartmentalize that for later.

"And by 'innocents,' you mean the clone and the kid I'm carrying," I said dryly, finally glancing at the paper. It was a map, with routes and escape points marked in Damian's precise handwriting. I traced my fingers over the safe houses marked, my thumb lingered over the one in Japan.

"And you," he added, his tone softer but still firm. "You're part of this, whether you like it or not. So, will be Mara, and so am I. The three of us might have blood in our hands, but we never truly had a choice about it. Did we? That is all we were raised to do, to be. But we can change, I know we can."

I stared at the map, my mind racing. It wasn't a bad plan, which was irritating. Damian's plans were rarely bad. Reckless, yes. Arrogant, absolutely. But not bad.

“I’ll think about it,” I said finally, folding the paper and slipping it into my pocket.

“You don’t have much time,” Damian warned, his voice quiet but insistent.

“I said I’ll think about it,” I snapped, turning away before he could see the uncertainty on my face.

As I walked out of the room, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was right. If we had a chance to get out, to leave this nightmare behind and actually build something better. But trusting Damian al Ghul-Wayne was a gamble, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to roll the dice.

The door wasn’t even fully shut behind me before I stopped, my hand still on the handle. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit and empty, but my brain felt like it was hosting a circus act. Damian had never acted more like Batman. The attitude, the plans, the moral gymnastics he pulled off so effortlessly—it was like he’d been carved from the same stubborn granite Bruce Wayne must’ve been built from. But how the hell did he know?

I turned around, shoving the door open harder than necessary. Damian barely looked up, already halfway through rearranging the papers on the table, like our entire conversation had been a minor detour in his evening.

“How did you find out?” The words came out sharper than I intended, but subtlety had never been my strong suit. I took a step back inside, crossing my arms as I leaned against the doorframe, waiting for him to trip over an explanation.

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. Damian straightened, his lips curling into that infuriating half-smile—the one that usually meant he was about to say something either wildly condescending or annoyingly insightful.

“About what, exactly?” he asked, his tone light, but his eyes sharp.

I clenched my jaw. “Don’t play coy.” I stepped further into the room. “How do you know about Batman? About—” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. “About him being your father?”

Damian’s smirk faded slightly, replaced with something cooler, more guarded. He tilted his head, studying me, before leaning back against the table. His fingers drummed once against the wood—a soft, deliberate rhythm—before he finally spoke.

“I know a lot of things people think I should not know,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm.

I exhaled sharply, patience thinning. “That’s not an answer. It’s a deflection. And I don’t have time for that tonight, Damian.”

He sighed, a dramatic, exaggerated sound that would’ve been funny if I wasn’t so wound up. “And yet, that’s all you’re going to get,” he said, pushing off the table and beginning to pace the room.

There was something clipped in his tone now, something bitter. I watched him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clasped behind his back like a miniature general surveying his battlefield. He stopped mid-step and turned to face me, eyes gleaming with something almost defiant.

“It’s obvious,” he said. “The way he operates. His methods. His rules.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Everything about him screams ‘control freak in a cape.’ And the League’s obsession with him? It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the venom in his voice. For someone who acted so detached, Damian clearly had some unresolved issues when it came to Batman.

“So, what, you just pieced it together on your own?” I asked, my tone softer now, more curious than accusatory.

His gaze flickered, his jaw tightening for just a fraction of a second. “Something like that,” he muttered, turning away to fiddle with the papers on the desk. “Let’s just say I’m not as blind as some people think.”

I wanted to protest, to demand answers. But guilt gnawed at me. I had been an accomplice of Ra’s and Talia’s when it came to keeping this secret from Damian. Damian might have known his father’s identity, but I did not know that when I kept the information to myself. I owed it to the boy I had come to see as a little brother not to ask.

I watched him in silence for a moment, my earlier frustration giving way to something else. He was just a kid, really. A ridiculously smart, arrogant, and dangerous kid, sure, but a kid nonetheless. And he’d grown up in the shadow of not one but two of the most relentless people on the planet. It was no wonder he carried himself like the weight of the world was a personal insult.

“You know,” I said after a moment, “for someone who acts like he’s got it all figured out, you take a lot of risks.”

Damian glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Risks are calculated. Necessary.”

“Rescuing Alexander? Framing Deathstroke? Trusting me?” I listed, stepping closer. “Those aren’t just risks, Damian. They’re gambles. And if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not wrong,” he cut me off, his voice sharp. He turned to face me fully, his posture rigid, his eyes blazing with conviction. “I don’t make moves without knowing the outcome. You think I didn’t plan for contingencies? That I don’t know what’s at stake?”

The intensity in his voice caught me off guard, and I took a step back, crossing my arms again. “I think you’re a lot like your father,” I said quietly. “And that scares me.”

His expression faltered for just a moment, a flicker of something raw and unguarded crossing his face before he schooled it back into his usual mask. “Good,” he said simply, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Fear keeps people alive.”

“And what about you?” I asked, tilting my head. “What keeps you alive, Damian?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned back to the table, his hands resting on its edge as he stared down at the papers. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost too quiet to hear. “The same thing that keeps me moving forward. The knowledge that if I stop, if I fail—people die.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, I didn’t know what to say. His words—“people die”—stuck in my head like a splinter I couldn’t pull free. I wasn’t the sentimental type, but there was something about the way he said it, all calm and matter-of-fact, like the weight of it didn’t even faze him anymore. Or maybe it did, and he was just that good at pretending. Damian might’ve been arrogant and reckless, but he carried a burden most adults would crumble under, and he did it with a determination that was unnerving.

“I still think you’re insane,” I said finally, breaking the silence. “But maybe… just maybe, you’re not completely hopeless.”

Damian glanced over at me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “High praise coming from you, Jade.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of admiration and concern for the boy who was somehow both infuriatingly cocky and heartbreakingly determined to save everyone around him. “Okay,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Let’s say your plan works. Let’s say Batman doesn’t just toss me into Blackgate for the list of people I’ve—” I paused, my mouth twisting. “Let’s just call it my past. What makes you so sure he’ll help me? Or care?”

Damian didn’t look up immediately. He was still staring at the papers like they were the most interesting thing in the world, his fingers tracing the inked words. When he finally glanced at me, it wasn’t with annoyance or even that smug superiority he usually wore like armor. It was patience. Like he’d already played this conversation out in his head and was just waiting for me to catch up.

“Of course he’ll help,” Damian said, his tone as blunt as a hammer. “That’s what he does. Broods about it later, maybe, but he’ll help.”

I snorted, crossing my arms and leaning against the wall. “Right. Because that’s exactly what Batman is known for. Handing out second chances to people like me.”

“People like you?” Damian echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think you’re that unique? My father’s entire crusade revolves around second chances. Gotham’s rogues’ gallery is practically a support group for people who’ve been given one.”

“Funny,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Pretty sure most of those rogues are still, you know, rogues. Not exactly a shining endorsement of his methods.”

Damian waved a hand dismissively, already walking toward a side table cluttered with what looked like old League dossiers and a dagger that had seen better days. He picked it up, flipping it in his hand like he was testing its balance. “It’s not about the success rate,” he said, his tone casual, though his grip on the dagger tightened slightly. “It’s about the intent. And the fact that he’s never stopped trying.”

I watched him for a beat, the way he handled the blade with ease, his movements precise and controlled. “You’re really betting a lot on intent, Damian,” I said, my voice softer now. “Even if he’s as forgiving as you think, I’m not exactly high on the ‘people worth saving’ list.”

He looked up at that, his eyes meeting mine with that intensity he wore like a second skin. “You’re carrying a child,” he said, his voice even but firm. “That changes things.”

My stomach twisted at his words, a strange mix of anger and something I couldn’t quite name. “Don’t,” I said sharply, straightening. “Don't use my baby as a pawn. Don’t make this about—”

“It is about that,” Damian interrupted, his voice rising just enough to cut me off. “Do you think my father would look at you and see just another assassin? Another shadow from the League? No. He’d see someone trying to be better. Trying to protect their child. That’s all he needs to see. We might use the baby as a pawn, but at least, it will secure them a better life.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to snap back with something cutting and defensive, but the words caught in my throat. Because part of me—the part I hated, the part that still clung to stupid things like hope—wanted to believe him.

“What makes you think he won’t just see me as another threat?” I asked instead, my voice quieter now, tinged with something closer to bitterness than anger.

Damian’s expression softened, just slightly, like he’d been expecting the question. “Because he’s my father,” he said simply.

I didn’t know what to say to that. The weight of his certainty, his unwavering belief in a man who was more myth than mortal to most, left me off-balance. I glanced away, my head spinning. “So many contingency plans, so many bets, you've prepared for everything.” I muttered, more to myself than to him.

“Of course I have,” Damian said, his tone carrying just enough smugness to remind me who I was dealing with. “Preparation is everything.”

I looked back at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite myself. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he said, his smirk returning in full force. “But I’m also right.”

I rolled my eyes, but the fight had mostly gone out of me. “Fine,” I said after a long pause. “I’ll go along with your plan. But if this backfires—”

“It won’t,” Damian said confidently, cutting me off again. “I don’t fail.”

“God, you’re exhausting,” I muttered, shaking my head. But even as I said it, I couldn’t ignore the small, fragile thread of hope winding its way through my chest. Damian’s confidence, his certainty, was almost infectious.

Almost.

I glanced at him, he was already back to studying the papers, the dagger still in his hand, his expression a mix of focus and determination. “Thanks,” I said quietly, the word feeling strange on my tongue. “For trusting me, for... believing I can truly change.”

He didn’t look up, but his lips twitched into a faint smile. “Don’t make me regret it.”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head as I finally walked out the door.

Chapter Text

I woke up to pale dawn light slipping through the cracks in the shutters, streaking the walls in soft gold. That in-between kind of light—like the world hadn’t quite decided if it was awake yet. The air was thick with stillness, but not the lonely kind. It was layered, full of things just waiting to stir—the rustle of palm trees in the breeze, the distant crash of waves against the shore.

The villa had its own rhythm, a slow, steady calm I was still getting used to. No pounding footsteps in the hall, no locks clicking open, no alarms yanking me out of sleep. For once, nothing was hunting me. And yet, my body wasn’t convinced. Restlessness hummed under my skin, an old habit that didn’t know how to let go.

At least the soreness felt real. A deep, lingering ache from the drills Jade had put me through yesterday. It wasn’t the sharp sting of wounds or the dull throb of bruises—it was the good kind of pain. The kind that said I was getting stronger.

I rolled off the cot Damian had unceremoniously shoved into a corner for me. Barely more than a thin mattress on a flimsy frame, but compared to the cold, sterile bite of a lab table, it might as well have been luxury. No restraints. No fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. No antiseptic stench clinging to my skin. Just salt air, warm earth, and the quiet promise of something new.

Stretching, I winced as sore muscles protested, Jade’s sharp corrections echoing in my head. I wasn’t fluid yet, not graceful, but I was getting there—or so she said. For once, the ache didn’t make me feel weaker. It grounded me. Reminded me I was still moving. Still figuring out what it meant to be... human. Or at least something close to it.

I grabbed a shirt from the small pile of clothes Jade had tossed my way. It was worn and soft, hanging loose on my frame. I didn’t mind. There was something steady about it, like maybe it carried someone else’s strength in its threads. Something to borrow until I found my own.

Lacing up my boots, I moved quietly, slipping through the villa. The courtyard greeted me with crisp morning air, laced with the scent of damp stone and salt. The sky stretched wide, a slow-blooming gradient of blue and orange, the horizon glowing like it had a secret to share. Ahead, the training area sprawled, its stone tiles cool beneath my feet. It wouldn’t stay that way for long. The sun was coming, and with it, another day of pushing myself to be something more.

Jade was already there, standing dead center in the courtyard like she’d been waiting for hours. She wasn’t moving, but somehow, she still radiated energy—like a blade poised to strike. Everything about her was deliberate, from the way she breathed to the way she held herself, perfectly balanced. She didn’t look at me right away, but I knew she’d clocked me the second I stepped outside. She always did.

Her head tilted just slightly, sharp eyes catching me in the corner of her vision. “Good,” she said, voice cutting through the morning stillness like the first note of a song. Calm, steady. “You’re on time today.”

I straightened instinctively, her words settling in my chest. Was that... approval? I wasn’t sure, but it was close enough. “Didn’t wanna waste your time,” I said, keeping my voice even, though the corner of my mouth tugged upward in something that might’ve been a half-smile.

Jade smirked—barely, but it was there. “Smart answer.” She gestured for me to step closer, and I didn’t hesitate, moving toward the center of the courtyard.

She watched me as I approached, her expression unreadable. Being around Jade always felt like standing under a microscope—she caught every shift, every hesitation. But unlike the scientists, she wasn’t looking for reasons to tear me down. She was measuring me, testing my limits—not waiting for me to fail, but making sure I learned.

“Let’s start,” she said simply, and that was that. No small talk, no wasted words. She turned, fluid and precise, already slipping into the first form.

Warm-ups first. No instructions needed—Jade moved, and I followed, doing my best to mirror her. Tried being the keyword. She was all sharp precision, every motion effortless. I, on the other hand, felt like I was fighting my own limbs. Where she flowed, I stumbled. Where she had control, I had frustration curling in my chest, clawing at my focus.

“Lower your stance,” she said, voice like the crack of a whip.

I adjusted, feeling the burn creep into my thighs. My legs trembled as I dropped lower, muscles protesting.

Jade circled me like a wildcat, eyes catching every flaw. She didn’t hover—she assessed, calm and calculating. “Better,” she murmured. Just one word. But that tiny nod of approval hit harder than I expected, pushing me to hold the stance even as my legs screamed at me to stop.

We shifted into sparring drills after that, slow and deliberate movements meant to build precision. At least, that was the idea. For Jade, it probably looked easy, like she was just walking through the motions. For me? It was a fight to keep up. My footing slipped more often than it should have, my strikes landed nowhere near where I aimed, and the frustration started to bubble up in my chest, hot and sharp. 

Jade, of course, noticed.

“Stop thinking so much,” she said, stepping back like she was pressing pause on my flailing.

I huffed, dragging a hand across my forehead. “Easy for you to say,” I muttered.

Her head tilted, one eyebrow arching. “Oh?” Her voice was light, amused—but not in a way that made me feel safe.

I swallowed. “I mean—”

She cut me off with a low chuckle, the kind that carried more warning than humor. “Relax, kid. But if you’re gonna mouth off, at least back it up with better footwork.”

Heat crept up my neck. I looked down at my scuffed boots. “Noted.”

“Good.” She didn’t dwell on it—just moved right into the next drill. Only now, her strikes came quicker, sharper, forcing me to stay on my toes. I stumbled more than once, barely catching myself.

“Breathe,” she said suddenly.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until she pointed it out. She stepped closer, reaching out to adjust my stance. Her hands were steady, firm but not rough, shifting my arms into place.

“You’re stronger than you think, Alexander,” she said, voice quieter now, but sure. “Trust yourself.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Stronger than I think? It didn’t feel true. Half the time, I felt like I was barely holding myself together. But the way she said it—like it was a fact, not just something to keep me from quitting—made something shift inside me. It wasn’t hope. Not exactly.

But it was something.

I nodded, inhaling deep, letting the air fill my lungs before pushing it out, trying to shove the frustration out with it. When we started again, I latched onto Jade’s words, using them like an anchor. My movements were still rough, still far from perfect—but there was something there now. A rhythm. A thread of control where there’d been nothing but chaos before.

By the time Jade finally called it, the sun was higher, warming the stone beneath my feet. “That’s enough for today,” she said, dropping her hands and stepping back.

I let mine fall too, panting, wiping sweat from my forehead with a shaky hand. My arms felt like lead, my muscles ached, and my palms stung from hitting the training pads wrong. But beneath all of that, something flickered—small, but real. A spark of pride.

Jade tossed me a water bottle, her rare smile flashing for just a second. “You’re getting there,” she said, voice softer than usual.

I barely managed to catch the bottle, fumbling it before getting a solid grip. “Thanks,” I muttered, too drained to say more, but somehow, my chest felt lighter. Twisting the cap off, I drank deeply, letting the cold water soothe my raw throat.

We walked back to the villa in silence. Not the awkward kind, not the heavy kind—just quiet, full and steady, like the space between words when you don’t need to fill them. The early sunlight painted the courtyard in gold and orange, turning the stone warm underfoot.

I glanced at Jade out of the corner of my eye. Her expression was calm, unreadable as ever, but something about the way she carried herself made me think she was satisfied.

After training, I was more than ready to collapse into a chair and not move for the rest of the day. But apparently, brunch was non-negotiable.

Jade had disappeared—probably off sharpening a knife or staring ominously into the distance—leaving me to trail after Damian through the winding villa paths. The gazebo, tucked in a quiet corner of the estate, was surrounded by so much greenery that felt like something taking out from a fairy tale. The sound of birds chirping and water trickling from a fountain made the whole place feel too peaceful to be real—like we’d stumbled into someone else’s dream. 

Damian, naturally, didn’t just sit down like a normal person when we got there. No, he immediately started rummaging through the picnic basket he’d prepared, pulling out a container of breadcrumbs and scattering them like some brooding, homicidal Snow White.

A few birds fluttered closer, cautious at first. Then a squirrel darted out of the bushes, and suddenly, it was a full-on Disney moment—chirping, chittering, all of them vying for his attention like they were auditioning for a nature documentary.

I leaned back in my chair, grinning as I watched him toss a piece of fruit to a particularly ambitious sparrow. “You know,” I said, unable to resist, “if this assassin thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a great Disney Princess.”

Damian didn’t even look at me, but the flick of his wrist as he threw another crumb might’ve been a warning shot. “Careful, Alexander,” he said dryly, voice as flat as the blade he probably had stashed somewhere. “I can revoke your food privileges.”

I snorted, picking up a slice of bread and slathering it with an almost offensive amount of jam. “What, and deprive me of this luxurious feast? The horror.”

His lips twitched—barely, but I caught it. He finally sat down across from me, giving the animals a break, and poured himself a glass of water with the kind of precision most people reserved for defusing bombs. Classic Damian.

It was weird, seeing him like this. Relaxed. Almost normal. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was just some rich kid having a lazy morning in his family’s garden. But I knew better. I knew the weight he carried, the scars he hid—not all of them physical. And yet, here he was, feeding birds and making sarcastic threats like we didn’t live in a world where danger was always two steps behind us.

I picked at my bread, the sweetness of the jam an odd contrast to everything I’d been through. Sitting here, in this strange pocket of calm, felt like stepping into a life that wasn’t mine—but one I wanted to hold onto.

“You’ve gotten better,” Damian said suddenly. He wasn’t looking at me, his focus on a particularly bold squirrel perched on the edge of the table, staring him down for more food. “In training.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Was that a compliment? From Damian? “Thanks, I guess?”

He finally glanced at me, eyebrow arching. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” I grinned, taking a sip of juice, watching as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Damian wasn’t the nurturing type, but he had his moments. And this—his version of encouragement—meant more than I’d ever admit out loud.

“Akhi,” I said before I could stop myself. He looked up, sharp and focused.

I hesitated, words pressing against my ribs like they weren’t sure they belonged. “You know I…” I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. I’d still be… nothing.”

Damian tilted his head, watching me carefully. “Alexander,” he said, quieter now, steady. “You were never nothing. And you don’t owe me anything.”

My throat tightened. I forced a laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, well, you still gave me your name. That’s kind of a big deal.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was something softer in his expression, a crack in the usual mask. “I didn’t give you my name,” he said, exasperation laced with something else. “I shared it. Because you’re my brother. And if I had to do it again, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

The words hit harder than I expected, knocking the air from my lungs. I swallowed, nodding because I didn’t trust myself to speak. Damian didn’t do sentimental speeches, and he sure as hell didn’t lie. If he said it, he meant it. And that… that was enough.

The gazebo was still full of birds and squirrels, like Damian was their tiny, terrifying god now. Sunlight filtered through the vines, the breeze rustled the leaves, and for a second, it felt like something solid, something real.

“Fine,” I said, leaning back with a dramatic sigh. “But if you start singing, I’m out.”

Damian smirked, tossing the last crumb to the squirrel before standing. “Don’t tempt me.”

And just like that, the moment passed, leaving behind the quiet warmth of something unspoken but understood.

By the time the sun started sinking, turning the garden into a mess of gold and amber, Damian had decided it was lesson time. I dragged my feet behind him, making sure he knew just how little I wanted to be doing this. The gazebo was peaceful. Lessons? Not so much.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered, dropping into a chair that looked expensive but felt like sitting on a rock. “What’s today’s torture? More verb conjugations? Or are you feeling extra creative?”

Damian didn’t even look at me. Just set down a leather notebook and a sleek pen with his usual precise, controlled movements. “You need to practice writing,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me with the kind of authority that made arguing pointless. “Start with something simple. Write about today.”

I groaned, picking up the pen and twirling it between my fingers. “Can’t I just say it out loud and you write it down? You’ve got the better handwriting.”

He gave me a flat look. “That’s not the point. This isn’t about calligraphy—it’s about finding your voice. You can’t just borrow mine.”

The pen stilled in my hand. I glanced up, waiting for him to smirk, to make some sarcastic remark. But he didn’t. He was serious—calm, steady, like he was trying to hammer something into my brain that I wasn’t fully grasping yet. Classic Damian. Always playing the long game.

“Fine,” I muttered, pressing the pen to the paper. The words came out stiff, uneven. The birds were annoying. The squirrel almost got crumbs.

Damian leaned over, scanning the page. His lips twitched, like he wanted to be unimpressed but wasn’t quite ready to lecture me. Yet.

“‘Annoying’ is lazy,” he said, tapping a finger against the sentence. “Be specific. What made them annoying?”

I rolled my eyes but crossed it out anyway. They kept chirping too loud. A pause. Then, The squirrel stared at us like it wanted to fight.

Damian nodded, leaning back with his arms crossed. “Better.” His voice had softened just a fraction, but that sharp, assessing look in his eyes never faded. “Now—why’d you notice the squirrel in the first place? What about it caught your attention?”

I let out a sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. “Is this a writing lesson or a therapy session?”

His smirk was quick, there and gone. “Both, if necessary.”

I paused. He wasn’t joking. Not entirely. With Damian, nothing was pointless. If he wanted me to write about squirrels and noisy birds, it wasn’t just busywork.

Tapping the pen against the notebook, I thought about his question. “I guess… it reminded me of the Lab. How nothing there lets you have peace. Even the animals have this... edge. Like they’re ready to claw your eyes out if you look at them wrong.”

Damian didn’t answer right away. When I looked up, he was watching me, unreadable but not cold. Thoughtful. Calculating. “Good,” he said after a beat. “That’s a start.”

I frowned. “A start to what?”

“To telling your story.” His tone was so matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re not just learning to write, Alexander. You’re learning to tell your story. And it’s one worth telling.”

The pen slipped from my fingers, clattering against the table. He said it so casually, like it was just another lesson in the endless list of things he was determined to teach me. But to me, it was... more.

Damian doesn’t realize how much his words stick. How they wedge themselves into places I thought had long since gone numb. He’s always been like that—saying the exact thing I didn’t know I needed to hear until it was already there, too late to ignore.

I cleared my throat, picking up the pen again just to have something to do with my hands. “You make it sound like I’m writing some epic saga or something,” I said, aiming for casual, even as my chest tightened a little.

Damian didn’t miss a beat. “Every life is a story,” he said, calm, certain. “What matters is how you choose to tell it.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head as I scribbled a few more lines—half-joking, half-serious. “You’re about five seconds away from turning this into a motivational seminar. ‘The Way of the Pen by Damian al Ghul.’”

His lips twitched—his version of a nice try. “I’ll leave the public speaking to you.”

We fell into silence after that, just the soft scratch of my pen filling the space between us. Damian stayed close, occasionally glancing at the notebook to offer a quick correction or suggestion, but mostly, he let me figure it out on my own. He had a way of doing that—being there without hovering, guiding without taking over.

By the time we wrapped up, my hand ached, my brain felt fried, but the notebook in front of me was full of something that actually felt... real. Mine.

“Not bad for your first attempt,” Damian said, standing and stretching, rolling his shoulders back in a rare moment of unguarded ease. “Keep practicing. And remember—specificity is key.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, snapping the notebook shut and tucking it under my arm. “Next time, I’m writing about something less stressful. Like killer robots.”

He smirked, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes as he walked away. “I look forward to it.”

As if morning training and an afternoon of writing weren’t enough, Jade decided my evening needed some extra excitement—by which I mean, poison brewing. Not antidotes. Not identification. Brewing. As in, standing over a cauldron of bubbling, noxious sludge that could probably kill me just by existing in my general vicinity. And somehow, Jade made it sound fun, which was probably the biggest red flag of all.

“This is practical knowledge,” she said, flashing me a grin as she stirred a pot of something that looked like swamp runoff and smelled worse. The thick, bubbling mess hissed and popped like it had opinions, and the stench—God, the stench—was enough to make my eyes water. She looked way too happy about it. “You’re not just learning to make poisons—you’re learning how to undo them. Like cooking, but deadlier.”

“Oh, great,” I muttered, glaring at my own pot of sticky, greenish sludge. It had the consistency of snot and the smell of bad decisions. I gave the wooden spoon a half-hearted stir, and the goop clung to it like it never planned on letting go. Fantastic. Just what I needed—a murderous slime that might also be sentient.

Jade smirked—because of course she did—and reached for a small tin on the counter. I watched as she pinched something dry and crumbly out of it and tossed it into her pot like a chef adding a finishing touch. I squinted at the tin. Yep. Definitely beetles. Tiny legs and everything.

“Trust me, this’ll come in handy,” she said, her grin widening as her potion let out a low hiss that sounded way too alive. “You never know when you’ll need to slip a little nightshade into someone’s drink.”

“I’m nine,” I said, waving my spoon at her like a weapon. “When exactly am I gonna need to do that? I don’t even drink juice boxes around people I don’t trust.”

“Give it time,” she said, throwing me a wink that was zero percent reassuring. “One day, you’ll thank me.”

“Uh-huh.” I jabbed my spoon into the goo, watching it resist, because apparently, I wasn’t the only one unhappy about being here. “I’ll send you a thank-you card when I inevitably end up on some government watchlist.”

She didn’t answer, probably too busy trying not to laugh. But I caught her side-eyeing my pot every now and then, lips twitching like she had so many things she wanted to say but was holding back. Which, considering Jade, meant whatever was happening in my cauldron was very bad.

The next two hours were a disaster. A chaotic whirlwind of toxic fumes, questionable powders, and failed experiments that were mostly error. Every time my pot erupted in a puff of smoke or let out a gurgle of doom, Jade laughed so hard I thought she might fall into her own concoction.

At one point, I accidentally dumped in way too much of some dark purple powder that smelled like burnt rubber. The mixture reacted instantly—bubbling over the sides, dripping onto the table with a hiss, and immediately eating through the wood like acid.

I jumped back, barely keeping hold of my spoon. “Uh. That’s... probably not good.”

Jade snatched the jar out of my reach. “Whoa, easy there, mad scientist. You’re supposed to be making a poison, not a biohazard.”

“Same thing!” I grabbed a rag, fully aware that it was not going to fix whatever the hell I just created. “You didn’t say this stuff would try to kill me before I even finished it.”

She grinned, completely unbothered. “Lesson number one: poison doesn’t play fair.”

“Lesson number two,” I muttered, dumping my ruined batch into the metal disposal bin (which was already half-full of my other failed attempts). “This sucks.”

By the end of it, I smelled like death—actual, literal death—and my brain felt like it had been put through a blender. My hands were stained with something deeply concerning, my shirt had a suspicious scorch mark, and I’d burned through at least half my patience for the week.

At least she didn’t make me taste anything this time. Small mercies.

By the time the stars were high in the sky, I was done. I barely made it back to my room in one piece, my notebook clutched in one hand, my shirt clinging to my back from a mix of sweat and whatever toxic fumes I’d inhaled earlier. I tossed the notebook onto the desk without looking and collapsed onto the bed like my body had just given up. My limbs felt like lead, my head pounded like a war drum, and my brain was fried.

I was two seconds from unconsciousness when—slam.

The sound cracked through the villa like a gunshot. A door, somewhere, thrown shut with way too much force. The walls rattled, the floor shook.

And just like that, I was gone.

Not asleep—gone. The exhaustion vanished like it had never existed, yanked away by something colder, sharper. It wasn’t just a noise. It was a switch flipping, dragging me back to a place I never wanted to be.

Metal restraints, cold and unyielding, clamping around my wrists. The sharp sting of needles, one after another, turning my skin into a pincushion. The blinding white lights, so bright they felt like they were burning me from the inside out. Machines humming, wires buzzing, voices—always voices—muffled, distant, talking about me, never to me.

I wasn’t in my room anymore. I was there.

My chest locked up, ribs squeezing tight. Every breath got caught halfway up my throat. The walls blurred, shifted—glass now, thick and unbreakable. The room shrank around me, pressing in, suffocating.

I barely felt it when I hit the floor, knees slamming against the wood. My legs weren’t working right, like they didn’t belong to me. I tried to move, but everywhere felt like a dead end. My hands found the wall—solid, real—but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was enough.

My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out everything else. My fingers trembled, but I couldn’t feel them. The floor was steady beneath me, but it might as well have been quicksand.

And the walls—they just kept getting closer.

Then—

“Alexander.”

A voice. Not sharp, not loud. Calm. Steady.

Jade.

I hadn’t even realized she was there until her hand landed lightly on my shoulder. “Focus on my voice,” she said, her tone low, grounding. “You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to. But it felt impossible, like the lab was stitched into my skin, like no matter how far I ran, it would always find me.

“Can’t… breathe,” I gasped out, barely managing the words. My fingers dug into my knees, nails biting through fabric. “Can’t—”

“You can,” Jade said, firmer now, cutting through the fog. “You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again. Just follow me, okay?”

Her hand slid from my shoulder to my wrist—not gripping, just there. Grounding.

“Breathe in,” she said, exaggerating the movement so I could see it, hear it. “Slow. Come on, Alexander.”

I tried. It didn’t work. My lungs felt locked, like they’d forgotten how to function. My vision swam, my hands shook. But Jade didn’t move, didn’t flinch. She just stayed.

“Out,” she said softly, exhaling with me. “Again. In… and out.”

It took a few tries. A few shaky, uneven attempts. But eventually, my body started listening. The grip on my chest eased. The roaring in my ears faded to a dull hum.

I blinked, and the world shifted—back to where it was supposed to be. The room. The wooden floor. The faint scent of jasmine clinging to Jade’s scarf. She was still crouched beside me, one hand on my wrist, the other bracing against the floor. Her green eyes stayed on mine, sharp but patient. Watchful.

“You’re doing great,” she said, voice steady, like she was talking to a skittish animal. “Just keep breathing.”

I let my head drop back against the wall with a dull thud, trying to shake off the last of the static in my brain. My hands were still trembling, but at least I could feel them again. At least I could tell the floor wasn’t quicksand, that the walls weren’t closing in. I let out a shaky laugh—more like a cough, really. “Guess I won’t be winning Most Stable Assassin anytime soon.”

Jade raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching in what was either amusement or exasperation. “Oh, please. Stability’s overrated.” She tilted her head, smirking. “Besides, you’ve got Damian and Jase for competition. The bar isn’t exactly high.”

That actually pulled a real laugh out of me, weak as it was. “Fair point.”

She didn’t let go of my wrist until the shaking stopped completely. Even then, she didn’t move far, just sat cross-legged beside me, close enough to remind me I wasn’t alone. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward—it just was, settling around us like the air itself had finally exhaled. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Jade didn’t push.

After a while, she leaned back on her hands, glancing out the window. The warm golds and oranges from earlier had melted into soft pinks and purples—the kind of sunset that looked too perfect to be real.

“It gets easier, you know,” she said eventually, voice quieter now. “The flashbacks. The panic. It doesn’t go away overnight, but… it gets easier.”

I turned my head, watching her, skeptical. “How do you know?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, worn dagger, its hilt wrapped in faded leather. She twirled it between her fingers, absentminded but precise. “Because I’ve been there,” she said finally, eyes on the blade. “Not the same as you, maybe. But close enough.”

The way she said it left no room for questions. And I wasn’t about to ask. She wasn’t offering pity or some cliché about things happening for a reason. She was just sharing. And somehow, that was enough.

Her calmness grounded me, pulling me the rest of the way out of the storm. For the first time, I believed her—maybe I was safe here. With her. With Damian. With Jase. As absurd as it sounded, this place felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and leaned my head back against the wall again. “Thanks,” I said, the word heavier than I meant it to be. It wasn’t enough, but it was all I had.

Jade just nodded, slipping the dagger back into her pocket as she stood in one smooth motion. “Anytime,” she said, brushing nonexistent dust off her pants. Then she smirked. “Now come on. I’m not letting you sit here and brood all night. Dinner’s in an hour, and if you’re late, Damian’ll make you write an essay on punctuality.”

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet with a shaky laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Try me.” She was already heading for the door, still smirking.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. I knew they were giving me space after earlier, but I didn’t mind. I needed it. Time to breathe, to get my head back on straight. By the time I followed my akhi back to our room, I felt more like myself.

The villa had finally settled into an uneasy silence, the kind that comes after a long day of chaos. The room was dim, lit only by the pale slivers of moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains. The wind scraped against the windows, the floorboards creaked under my steps, but I was too drained to care.

Damian was already in bed, propped against the headboard, a book balanced on his knee. Typical. Of course, he’d be reading about strategy before sleeping.

I didn’t say anything, just slid in beside him, pulling the covers up to my chin. The cool fabric was a small comfort after the disaster that had been today. Damian glanced at me, eyebrow raising in silent acknowledgment, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t have to. This had become routine—me seeking out his steady presence at the end of the day, and him letting me, no questions asked.

I shifted, my voice muffled against the pillow. “What are you reading?”

“Something you’re not ready for,” he replied flatly, flipping a page like he hadn’t just insulted me. “Strategic analysis.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “Because relaxing is overrated.”

He smirked—just barely—but didn’t look up. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the faint rustle of paper and the steady ticking of the clock. It was… nice. But my thoughts refused to stay quiet.

“What’s she like?” I asked suddenly, turning on my side to face him. “Mara, I mean.”

His hand stilled on the page. Damian always had an answer ready before you even finished the question. But this time? This time, he was thinking about it. His eyes flicked up, distant, like he was looking at something I couldn’t see.

“She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “Resilient, brave, fierce.”

I watched him carefully—the way his fingers tapped absently against the book, the way his jaw tightened slightly. This wasn’t just an answer. This was a memory.

“Ra’s tried to break her,” he continued, that familiar edge creeping into his voice. “Just like he tried to break me. But Mara never let him win.”

“She sounds… intense.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I didn’t know what it took to survive someone like Ra’s al Ghul, but if Damian spoke about her like that, she wasn’t just anyone.

“She is.” There was something in his voice—pride, yes, but something else, something heavier. “She’s had to be.”

I hesitated, picking at the edge of the blanket. “Do you think she’ll be okay? After you rescue her, I mean. Do people come back from… stuff like that?”

Damian looked at me then, really looked at me, his green eyes sharp, unyielding. “People can come back,” he said, firm but not unkind. “But it’s not easy. It takes time. And sometimes, it takes having someone who believes you can.”

That hit harder than I expected. Damian Wayne, the guy who could kill a man with a toothpick and a bad mood, actually believed in second chances. It was weirdly… reassuring.

Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out. “Did anyone believe in you?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then—just the smallest shrug. “Someone did. He then died…”

I blinked. I hadn’t expected that.

“Must’ve been nice,” I said, trying to keep my tone light even though the words felt heavier coming out.

“It was.” His voice was quieter now. “It still is.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else. The silence stretched again, but this time, it felt different—full, steady, understood.

Damian turned another page, he didn’t say anything right away, but something shifted in the room. Not big, not obvious—just there, enough to keep me from fully sinking into sleep. He wasn’t the type to fidget, not like me, but his grip on the book tightened just enough to make the paper crinkle. For a guy who could throw a kunai with surgical precision, that tiny slip felt like a shout.

He closed the book with a quiet thud and set it on the nightstand, his movements careful but slower than usual, like he was stalling. Buying himself a few seconds.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its usual edge.

“Mara and I weren’t just trained together. We were… pitted against each other.”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I expected. Damian wasn’t the most open guy, and when he did decide to share, it usually came with a side of sarcasm or righteous indignation. But this? This was just… honest.

“Pitted against each other how?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

He leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms. His gaze drifted to the window, where moonlight cut through the cracks in the heavy curtains. “Ra’s had this twisted idea of strength,” he said, slow and deliberate, like every word was weighed before it left his mouth. “He believed the only way to succeed was through competition. Survival of the fittest, drilled into everything we did.”

The weight in his voice made my stomach twist. He wasn’t just explaining. He was unburdening himself, piece by piece, like saying it out loud made it real.

“He set challenges,” Damian went on, voice harder now. “Tasks, missions, sparring matches. If one of us won, the other… paid for it.”

I sat up a little straighter, the blanket bunching around my legs. “Wait, you’re saying if you won, she got punished? And if she won—”

“I took the consequences,” he finished, cutting me off with a sharp nod. His jaw clenched, his hands flexing against his arms like he was trying to keep something in check. Anger, regret—maybe both.

“That’s—” I stopped, searching for the right word and coming up empty. “That’s insane. Like, next-level, Lab-grade insane.”

Damian let out a humorless chuckle. “It’s the League. Insane is their baseline.”

I didn’t have a response for that. What could I even say? The silence stretched, thick but not suffocating. Damian’s gaze stayed locked on the window, his expression unreadable.

“She was strong,” he said after a moment, quieter now, almost careful. “Stronger than anyone gave her credit for. But it wasn’t fair. I… I thrived in that environment because I could adapt, because I could excel. But Mara? She bore the brunt of Ra’s wrath. Every time I succeeded, it was a reminder to him that she hadn’t. And he made sure she felt it.”

I swallowed hard, trying to process that. It wasn’t hard to picture—Ra’s wasn’t exactly father of the year. But hearing it from Damian, hearing the guilt threaded through his words, made it feel different. This wasn’t some abstract horror story. This was his life.

“You feel responsible,” I said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Damian finally looked at me then, sharp green eyes locking onto mine. “Of course I do. How could I not? I survived by being better, faster, stronger. But every victory came at a cost. And she paid it.”

I had nothing. No clever remark, no sarcastic quip. What do you say to someone who grew up in a nightmare and came out the other side still trying to pick up the pieces? But I couldn’t just leave it hanging, either.

“If she’s as strong as you say,” I said after a beat, keeping my voice steady, “then she’ll forgive you. Especially when you bring her here.”

Something flickered across his face—too quick to pin down. It wasn’t his usual snark, wasn’t the guarded mask he always had in place. It was something softer. Something hopeful.

He looked away again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe,” he murmured, more to himself than to me. “But I’ll have to earn it.”

I let that sit for a moment, not wanting to break whatever fragile thread we’d just woven between us. Damian didn’t do vulnerability. Not easily. Not often. And this? This was the closest thing to an open wound I’d ever seen him show.

“You will,” I said finally, my tone firm but not pushy. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

He didn’t respond right away, just sat with it. But the faint smile didn’t disappear. And for once, it felt like we’d ended the day on a win.

Maybe not a big one.

But enough.

As the night quieted down, Damian’s breathing shifted, slowing into a steady rhythm that I’d come to recognize. He was out cold—or as close to it as someone like him ever got. I lay there beside him, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drifting in a way that felt almost too big for the tiny room we were in. His shoulder brushed mine with every rise and fall of his chest, a small but grounding reminder that, for now, at least, he was here.

The faint hum of the villa at night filled the space: the creak of old wood settling, the occasional rustle of leaves against the window. Damian had left the lamp on, the warm light pooling between us and throwing faint shadows on the walls. I glanced at the battered notebook he’d abandoned earlier on the nightstand, the edges frayed, and pages bent from his relentless scribbling. Plans, strategies, notes—it was always something with him.

But now? Now he looked so… normal. For once, he wasn’t a warrior, or a tactician, or the heir to some ancient murder cult. He was just a kid. My brother.

That thought hit me like a sucker punch. My brother. A word I never thought I’d have, let alone mean.

My fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the cold, sterile touch of the world I’d come from. The lab felt so far away now, like a bad dream I couldn’t quite shake but didn’t have to live in anymore. And the reason for that? It was lying right next to me, wrapped up in a kid who had more baggage than a Japanese train station and still managed to make room for me in his life.

I tilted my head, watching the way his face softened in sleep. The perpetual scowl was gone, replaced with something quieter, something more human. It wasn’t fair that the weight of the world was always on his shoulders, but damn if he didn’t carry it anyway. And he carried me, too, in his own way, even when I fought him on it.

The reflection crept in before I could stop it. A few months ago, I was nothing. Not metaphorically, not in the self-pitying way people say when they’re feeling low. I was literally nothing. A nameless experiment, a string of numbers on a clipboard. Something created, not born.

And now? Now I was here. I had a room. A bed. A family. Damian, with his sharp tongue and sharper edges, who fought for me even when I didn’t know how to fight for myself. And Jade, who treated me like I was worth something from the moment we met, even if she never said it outright. She just acted like it, like it was a fact as obvious as the sky being blue—or my mental health being a dumpster fire.

I rolled onto my side, careful not to jostle Damian too much. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction from where he’d finally let himself collapse. I’d teased him once about looking like a feral cat, and he’d muttered something about keeping a blade under his pillow if I wanted to test that theory. He hadn’t been kidding. I’d found it later—a small, sleek dagger tucked just out of sight. Classic Damian.

The thought of him going back to the League made my chest tighten, like something was pulling too tight around my ribs. It was stupid—I knew it was. He wasn’t the type to break a promise unless he absolutely had to, and he’d sworn he wouldn’t leave me behind. But the League? The League was a different beast entirely. I’d seen the way his voice changed when he talked about them. The way his eyes hardened, like he was locking something away.

And yet, even with that fear gnawing at me, there was something else.

Something stronger.

Hope.

For the first time, I let myself believe in a future where I wasn’t just surviving. Where every day wasn’t about clawing my way through whatever fresh hell someone threw at me. I could be more than that. More than the lab, more than the scars it left behind.

I could be Alexander.

Because of them—because of Damian and Jade—I could finally start to imagine what that meant.

I shifted again, sinking deeper into the pillow, letting the weight of the day slip away. Damian mumbled something in his sleep, his brow furrowing for a second before smoothing out again. I reached over and tugged the blanket up a little higher over his shoulder.

Not because he needed it. He’d never admit if he did anyway.

But because I wanted to.

This was my life now. Messy, complicated, absolutely ridiculous.

But it was mine.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across Infinity Island. It was the kind of serene setting that should’ve been peaceful, even beautiful, but instead, it felt heavy. I adjusted the straps on my bag, keeping my movements deliberate, purposeful. If I stopped to think about what I was doing—what I was leaving behind—I might not actually do it.

Alexander stood a few feet away, fidgeting with the edge of his tunic like some nervous page boy. His movements were stiff, awkward, and exactly what I expected from someone trying to act composed while failing spectacularly. Jade leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, one brow arched as she watched him squirm. Her usual sharp expression was softened by the faintest smile, though she didn’t let him off the hook.

“You’re really going to stand there and pretend you’re not about to cry?” she asked, her tone dripping with faux exasperation.

Alexander’s head snapped up, and he scowled at her. “I’m not crying! Why would I cry? Damian’s leaving, not dying.”

“Well, your face says otherwise,” I muttered, earning a glare from him and a chuckle from Jade.

I walked over to where they stood, the sound of my boots crunching against the gravel filling the silence. “Relax, Alexander,” I said, dropping my bag at my feet. “It’s not like I’m abandoning you with a madwoman or anything.” I paused, smirking. “Oh wait.”

“Hey!” Jade protested, while Alexander groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a big brother, you’re incredibly bad at reassuring people.”

“Reassurance isn’t part of the training,” I shot back. “Survival is.”

Jade snorted, pushing off the pillar and walking over to us. Her hands rested on her hips, her dark eyes flicking between us like she was sizing up the situation for maximum comedic potential. “Alexander, why don’t you just admit it? You’re going to miss him. Spare us the denial.”

“I—” Alexander stammered, his face turning an impressive shade of red. “I just... I don’t see why he has to leave! We’re fine here. We’re... a team.”

I felt a pang in my chest at his words, but I quickly buried it under a layer of sarcasm. “As touching as that is, I’m not exactly the ‘settle down and hang out’ type. You’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve got Jade to babysit you now.”

Alexander straightened, his expression shifting from sheepish to determined in an instant. “I’ll protect her,” he declared, puffing out his chest like he was gearing up for some grand battle. “And her... um...” His gaze darted to Jade’s stomach, and he faltered. “Her... situation.”

Jade rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “Wow. Way to be subtle, Alexander.”

It was not as if Jade could hide for any longer, they both knew that at six months she was already showing and soon it will be impossible to hide.

“I’m serious!” he insisted, his tone cracking slightly. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to either of you.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me, sharp and quick. “You hear that, Jade? He’s a knight now. Sir Alexander, defender of pregnant assassins everywhere.”

Jade snickered, but there was warmth in her voice when she spoke. “At least he’s trying, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Hey,” I said, holding up my hands defensively. “I’m trying. I’m trying to leave without being emotionally blackmailed, but you two aren’t making it easy.”

Alexander’s face softened, and he looked down at the ground. “We’re just... going to miss you, that’s all.”

The humor in the air dimmed, replaced by something heavier. I hated it. I hated how much it hurt to hear him say that, hated how much I knew I’d miss them too.

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice light, “this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll be back—eventually. Probably to save you from some mess you’ve made.”

Alexander snorted, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re going to regret saying that when I actually need rescuing.”

“I already regret it,” I said, grinning despite myself.

Jade stepped closer, her usual smirk replaced by something softer. “Take care of yourself, Damian,” she said quietly.

I nodded, meeting her gaze. “You too. Both of you.”

With that, I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I didn’t let myself look back as I walked toward the boat waiting at the dock. The wind carried the sound of Alexander’s voice behind me.

“Don’t forget to write!” he called, his tone half-teasing, half-hopeful.

I lifted a hand in response, not trusting my voice. As the boat drifted away from the shore, I let myself glance back. They were still there—Jade, composed as ever, and Alexander, waving like an overenthusiastic kid.

Something tightened in my chest. I hadn’t expected that. But as the island shrank behind me, swallowed by mist and distance, I clenched my jaw and turned forward.

There was work to do.

The boat cut through the water with a steady rhythm, almost hypnotic, but my thoughts wouldn’t settle. The island blurred into the horizon, a smudge of green and gray. I gripped the edge of the boat, fingertips pressing into the rough, worn wood.

Alexander had made a promise—one of his grand, dramatic declarations, like we were characters in one of those overwrought novels Jason used to force me to study for "strategic cultural understanding." I almost laughed at the thought. But there was weight behind Alexander’s words, something I couldn’t dismiss, no matter how much I wanted to chalk it up to his usual theatrics.

“Damian!”

The shout yanked me from my thoughts. I turned, squinting against the glare off the water. Alexander was still on the dock, silhouetted against the bright horizon, arms flailing. His voice carried, thin but determined over the waves.

“I won’t let you down!” he yelled, voice cracking. He hesitated, then added, “I’ll protect them! You’ll see!”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “Of course, he has to make a scene.”

Still, a smirk tugged at my lips. I stood, bracing against the gentle sway of the boat, and cupped my hands around my mouth.

“Don’t make me regret leaving you in charge!”

Alexander’s response was immediate—an exaggerated salute, crisp like he was auditioning for some military drama. Jade, beside him, rolled her eyes so hard I half-expected them to fall out. Even from this distance, I could see her muttering under her breath, probably tearing into Alexander’s ridiculous display.

“Go already!” she called, sharp but not unkind. “Before you change your mind and we have to endure another dramatic speech!”

I raised my hands in surrender, turning back to open water. The boat rocked gently beneath me as the island faded from view. Alexander’s words lingered, that mix of sincerity and absurd bravado that was so uniquely him.

Three months ago, he wouldn’t have even looked me in the eye, let alone taken on the role of protector. Now, he stood on that dock like he owned the place—or at least his small, chaotic corner of it.

I didn’t miss the irony. Here I was, the so-called heir to the League of Assassins, leaving behind what little family I’d managed to piece together. And there he was, a clone with no name until I gave him one, stepping into a role he’d probably never imagined for himself. I thought about Jade and the baby—her quiet strength, Alexander’s clumsy attempts at reassurance, the way they balanced each other out despite their differences. They’d be okay. Alexander might trip over his own feet getting there, but he’d protect them. I was sure of it.

And if he didn’t?

Well, I’d be back to handle it myself. And he knew that.

For now, though, I had a job to do. The open sea stretched before me, endless and uncertain, much like the road ahead. But as the island disappeared completely from view, I felt a rare sense of calm.

The boat rocked gently as I stepped onto the dock, my boots scuffing against the worn wood. The smell of salt and seaweed clung to the air, and the faint cry of seagulls echoed somewhere in the distance. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag, the weight feeling lighter than it should, given everything crammed inside. Or maybe I’d just gotten used to carrying too much.

The past year had been nothing but that—carrying more than I thought I could handle. But, somehow, I was still standing. Or walking, at least, as I made my way toward the small prop plane waiting a few yards away. Its white paint was chipped, and one of the wings had a suspicious dent, but it would do. It had to.

As I climbed the narrow stairs into the plane, the pilot gave me a brief, uninterested glance before turning back to the controls. Perfect. No small talk. I dropped into the seat by the window, tossing my bag onto the one next to me, and stared out at the ocean as the engines roared to life.

Half a year. That’s all it had been. Six months since I’d been thrown back into a time and body that didn’t belong to me. I was Damian Wayne, son of the Bat, heir to the Demon, but none of that had prepared me for the insanity of time travel. Or for what came after.

Alexander’s face flickered in my mind—wide-eyed and terrified when I’d first found him in that lab. A nameless experiment, more number than person. I’d dragged him out of that hellhole kicking and screaming, and somewhere along the way, he’d become family. Then there was Jade, sharp-tongued and quietly dangerous, with her unshakable calm that balanced out Alexander’s chaos. And now there was the baby—a new life in a world teetering on the brink of destruction.

They were safe now, though. At least as safe as anyone could be in this mess of a world. That was something. I clenched my fists, my gloves creaking faintly. Saving them had been the easy part. What came next… not so much.

Mara was next. My cousin. The one who’d borne the brunt of Ra’s wrath every time I’d managed to escape it. I’d survived by excelling, by being everything Ra’s wanted. Mara? She’d survived by enduring. And that wasn’t the same thing.

I owed her. I owed her more than an apology, though I wasn’t naive enough to think words would fix anything. But I could save her. I could pull her out of whatever pit Ra’s had thrown her into and give her a chance to live. To really live.

And after Mara? Gotham. My family. The people who’d been haunting the edges of my mind since the day I came back. I’d see them again, work with them again. Assuming they didn’t try to kill me on sight. That would be fun.

And then, looming over it all, was Darkseid. The endgame. The reason I’d been sent back in the first place. No pressure.

The plane jolted as it touched down on a cracked runway, jerking me back to the present. I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the open air. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the tarmac. The sound of gravel crunching under tires broke the relative silence of the private airport. I turned to see a sleek black SUV roll to a stop a few feet away, the tinted windows reflecting the gray clouds overhead. The driver's side door opened, and out stepped Omar.

This version of Omar. Younger, sharper around the edges, and without the weight of years of shared battles and hard-won trust. He moved with the precision of someone who didn’t waste energy—efficient, detached. His sharp, calculating eyes gave me a once-over before nodding, curt and professional.

“Master Damian,” he said, his tone as stiff as the starch in his perfectly pressed uniform.

“Omar,” I replied, the Lieutenant almost slipping from my lips. I waved a hand dismissively as I grabbed my bag.

The familiarity of his face was jarring. This was Omar, but not the Omar I knew. Not the man who had stood beside me when the League became more than just assassins. Not the friend who had once saved my life with a well-timed arrow.

This Omar was, for lack of a better word, a stranger.

He gestured toward the passenger seat without a word, his movements clipped. I could feel the tension radiating off him—professional but distant. I climbed into the SUV, throwing my bag into the backseat with a little more force than necessary, letting the thud punctuate the silence.

“So, are you this stiff with everyone, or is this a special welcome-home package?” I asked, glancing sideways at him as he settled into the driver’s seat.

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he started the car, the engine purring to life.

“I’ve been instructed to escort you back to Nanda Parbat safely,” he said, his voice devoid of any inflection. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

I snorted. “Wow, did you memorize that from the League’s handbook, or did Mother give you a script?”

No response. Just the sound of the SUV rolling over the uneven terrain as we left the docks behind.

I leaned back in the seat, crossing my arms. The interior smelled like leather and faintly of incense—of course, it did. The League probably considered air fresheners sacrilegious.

“Okay,” I said after a few minutes of silence, my tone mock-casual. “Let’s play a game. I’ll start: ‘Hi, Omar. How’ve you been? Long time no see.’ Now, your turn.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles briefly whitening. “With all due respect, Master Damian, I am not here for idle conversation.”

“Clearly,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

The truth was, I wasn’t even mad at him. Not really. How could I be? This Omar hadn’t lived through the things I had. He hadn’t fought beside me, hadn’t saved lives alongside me, hadn’t laughed at stupid jokes or mourned the same losses. He didn’t know me, not really.

But it still stung.

I glanced out the window, watching the landscape blur past. The mountains loomed in the distance, shrouded in mist, as familiar and imposing as ever. This place was unchanging, frozen in time, even as everything else around it—around me—shifted.

It was hard not to compare this moment to the memories of another timeline. Back then, Omar would’ve greeted me with a smirk and some dry remark about how I always managed to come back in worse shape than I left. He would’ve made a point of subtly checking for injuries, his concern hidden beneath a layer of sarcasm.

Now? Now he wouldn’t even make eye contact for longer than a second.

The silence in the car stretched long enough to become its own sort of conversation. Omar, sitting stiff-backed in the driver’s seat, kept his eyes fixed on the road like his life depended on it. Maybe it did—knowing the League, the wrong turn probably came with consequences.

I stared out the window, watching the mountains rise closer, their jagged peaks biting into the pale sky. The hum of the engine was the only sound between us. Great. Another mission that started with awkward silence.

“Do you ever relax?” I asked, breaking the tension like a blade slicing through taut rope.

Omar’s eyes flicked toward me briefly in the rearview mirror. “No.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Not even once? Never kicked back with a book? A drink? Tried meditating?”

“Distractions lead to mistakes,” he replied, his tone clipped, like reciting a mantra he didn’t quite believe.

I snorted, shaking my head. “You sound like Ra’s.”

That got a reaction. Not much—just the slightest tightening of his jaw—but it was there.

“I’m nothing like him,” Omar said evenly, but there was an edge to his voice, sharp and defensive.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I shot back, watching him carefully now. “The whole ‘no emotions, just orders’ routine? It’s practically his signature move.”

He gripped the wheel a little tighter, his knuckles turning white. “I follow orders because they keep people alive. Including you.”

I leaned back in my seat, crossing my arms. “Fair point. But maybe following orders isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“Have you?” His tone was flat, but there was curiosity buried underneath.

I glanced at him, debating for half a second whether to keep pushing. Then again, when did I ever know when to quit? “Yeah. Spent a lot of time being the perfect soldier, doing what I was told. It didn’t work out as well as you’d think.”

Omar didn’t respond immediately. The car dipped slightly as we hit a patch of uneven road, and he steadied the wheel with practiced ease. His silence felt heavier now, like he was weighing something.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter. “If that’s true, then why are you still here?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He glanced at me briefly before turning back to the road. “If following orders didn’t work for you, why are you still with the League?”

For a moment, I didn’t know how to answer. The truth wasn’t simple, and explaining it felt like peeling back a layer of myself I wasn’t sure I wanted him to see.

“Because someone has to fix what’s broken,” I said finally. “And like it or not, the League’s a part of that.”

Omar’s hands relaxed slightly on the wheel. “And you think you can fix it?”

I smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Don’t have a choice. Someone’s gotta clean up the mess.”

He didn’t say anything, but his posture shifted—just a little, almost imperceptibly. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and the hard lines of his face softened for a moment before snapping back into place.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, but it wasn’t the same kind of silence as before. It wasn’t empty. It felt like something had shifted, even if it was just an inch.

As we approached Nanda Parbat, the mountains looming over us like silent sentinels, I glanced at him again. “You know,” I said, my tone lighter, “you’re not half as cold as you pretend to be.”

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile I’d seen from him. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I grinned and leaned back, feeling a flicker of something close to satisfaction.

Small steps.

The gates of Nanda Parbat loomed ahead, their intricate carvings unchanged, their grandeur dulled by familiarity. As the SUV rolled to a halt, I opened the door before Omar could bother with any ceremonial gestures. My boots hit the dirt with a crunch, and I stood for a moment, taking in the scene.

The place hadn’t changed. The air still carried that distinct mix of incense and decay, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes for days. Shadows flitted across the courtyard as silent assassins moved like phantoms, their presence a reminder of the ever-watchful League.

And yet, no Ra’s. No Talia. No welcoming committee.

“Wow,” I muttered under my breath, tossing my bag over my shoulder. “Nothing says ‘Welcome back, heir of the Demon’s Head’ like deafening silence.”

Omar, ever the picture of stoicism, followed a step behind me. His gaze swept the area, a reflex born from years of training, though he said nothing.

I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t hurt yourself with all that enthusiasm.”

No response. Just the faintest twitch of his lips, which, knowing Omar, was the equivalent of a full-blown laugh.

Shaking my head, I strode through the gates. The cool stone beneath my boots felt more like a prison than a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the warmth of Infinity Island. The weight of the League’s expectations bore down on me, but it was a familiar weight, one I had long since stopped caring about.

“Let me guess,” I said, more to myself than to Omar. “Ra’s is busy scheming some apocalyptic plan, and Mother’s off proving she’s the deadliest person alive. Classic.”

The hallways stretched out before me, their dim torches flickering against the cold stone walls. I passed by a few Shadows, their eyes lowering respectfully but their silence louder than any greeting.

I waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t all rush to say hello at once.”

The apathy didn’t sting—not anymore. Once, I might’ve craved acknowledgment, sought validation in their approval. Now, their indifference barely registered. They weren’t my family. Not really.

My footsteps echoed in the stillness as I made my way to my quarters, the familiar path etched into my memory. The room was exactly as I’d left it: spartan, functional, devoid of personality. The bed was neatly made, the shelves lined with books on strategy and warfare. It was a museum of who I was supposed to be, not who I had become.

Dropping my bag onto the bed, I turned to Omar, who had dutifully followed me. “Alright, you’ve done your job. I’m officially home. You can go now.”

Omar hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the door. “Master Damian—”

“Just Damian,” I interrupted, my tone sharper than I intended.

He inclined his head, though his expression remained neutral. “Damian, then. If you require anything—”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, cutting him off again. “But trust me, I’ve got this covered.”

With a nod, he left, his departure as silent as his arrival.

I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. The room felt suffocating, its walls closing in around me. Crossing to the window, I pushed it open, letting the cool mountain air wash over me.

“Home sweet home,” I muttered, the words dripping with sarcasm.

For a moment, I let myself reflect. The League had once been my entire world, its teachings ingrained into every fiber of my being. But now, after everything I’d seen, everything I’d lived, it felt hollow. Ra’s and Talia might have shaped me, but they didn’t define me.

This place wasn’t my home.

But for now, it was a steppingstone, a means to an end.

With that thought, I turned from the window, my resolve hardening. There was work to be done, and I wasn’t here for validation or approval. I was here to prepare, to build, to take control of my destiny.

If Ra’s and Talia wanted to ignore me, fine. It just made my job easier.

The courtyard was quiet, save for the occasional whistle of the mountain wind cutting through the stillness. I found Mara where I expected—in the training yard, alone, striking a training dummy with precision so sharp it would’ve made Ra’s weep with pride. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Her movements were methodical, her strikes deliberate, like she was trying to exorcise some invisible demon. Knowing Mara, it was probably a very real one, and probably named Ra’s.

“Still got that flawless form, I see,” I called out, leaning casually against a nearby pillar.

She froze mid-strike, her blade hovering inches from the dummy’s throat. Slowly, she turned her head, her piercing eyes locking onto mine. Wary. Calculating.

“Damian.” Her voice was cool, a perfect match for the chill in the air. “I heard you were coming back.”

“And yet, you didn’t come rushing to welcome me with open arms. I’m hurt,” I deadpanned, pushing off the pillar and walking toward her.

Mara lowered her blade but didn’t sheath it, holding it loosely in her hand like she was still debating whether to finish the training dummy or pivot to me.

“What do you want?” she asked, her tone as sharp as the blade she carried.

I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Easy, Mara. I’m not here to spar. Unless you’re offering.”

Her expression didn’t soften. If anything, her frown deepened. “You always have an angle, Damian. Out with it.”

Fair. We didn’t exactly have a history of trust. The last time we’d been in the same space, Ra’s had pitted us against each other in one of his charming little “family exercises.” Nothing builds kinship like trying to outmaneuver your cousin in a deadly trial, right?

I exhaled, letting a hint of sincerity creep into my voice. “I’m here to talk. That’s all.”

Mara raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Talk?”

“Yes, talk,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s a concept, I know. Words, not weapons. Revolutionary.”

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smirk. Tough crowd.

I crossed my arms, trying a different approach. “Look, I know we’re not exactly... siblings in arms. But you’re smart, and you’re strong. Ra’s knows it. Mother knows it. Even if they will never admit it out loud. But I will. You are strong and you are smart. I’m not here to pick a fight, Mara. I’m here because I think we can work together.”

Her eyes narrowed, her grip on the blade tightening. “Work together for what? Whatever scheme you’re plotting?”

“Scheme?” I repeated, feigning offense. “Do I look like a schemer to you?”

“Yes.”

Fair again.

I sighed, lowering my arms. “Fine. Call it a scheme if you want. But here’s the thing—Ra’s isn’t going to stop. He’ll keep pitting us against each other, testing us, using us. You know that as well as I do. I’m tired of playing his games. Aren’t you?”

That landed. I saw it in the way her jaw tightened, the way her gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second.

“What’s your point?” she asked, her voice softer now but still guarded.

“My point,” I said, stepping closer, “is that we’re stronger together. Ra’s doesn’t want us to see that, but it’s true. You don’t have to trust me completely—I wouldn’t trust me completely. But think about what we could accomplish if we stopped fighting each other and started fighting for something bigger.”

Mara studied me, her eyes searching mine for any hint of deceit. I let her look. She wouldn’t find any.

Finally, she sheathed her blade with a sharp click and crossed her arms. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” I replied, cracking a small grin.

She shook her head, a flicker of something resembling amusement crossing her face. “You’re suicidal.”

“I get that a lot.”

Mara sighed, glancing back at the training dummy like it held the answers to the universe. When she turned back to me, her expression was more thoughtful than wary.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, her tone cautious but not dismissive.

“Good.” I nodded, my grin widening. “Take all the time you need. Just don’t wait too long. Ra’s doesn’t exactly believe in downtime.”

She smirked—barely, but it was there. “You’re insufferable, Damian.”

“And yet, here we are,” I shot back, turning on my heel to leave.

As I walked away, I felt her eyes on me, still calculating, still cautious. But I’d planted the seed. Now, I will focus on making sure my alliance with Mara does not crumble. Then again, I knew it was going to be a balancing act from the start.

There were days when she seemed almost ready to trust me, and others when she wanted nothing more than to shove a blade between my ribs. Earning her trust had taken more patience than I thought I had, and even now, it was a constant battle. Today was one of those days when Mara was lashing out—sharp words, icy glares, the works. Not that I blamed her. She’d been betrayed by everyone she’d ever cared about. Trust didn’t come easy.

As I caught up to her in the corridor, her steps were quick, her body radiating tension. She didn’t even glance at me as I fell into step beside her, but the look on her face said enough.

“I take it you’re in a forgiving mood today,” I said dryly, keeping my voice low. She shot me a glare that could’ve frozen fire. “Right,” I sighed. “Anyway, for this plan to work, we need to stick to the roles. That means being seen as enemies in public. And if we’re going to sell it, we need to make it convincing.”

Her steps faltered slightly, and I caught the flash of doubt in her eyes before she masked it with a sneer. “You’re suggesting what? A staged fight?”

“Something like that,” I said, my lips curving into a wry smile. “A vicious spar should do the trick. Think of it as venting—without actually killing each other.”

“You really think I’ll trust you after all the times we’ve tried to kill each other?” Mara’s sharp retort echoes in my ears as we walk side by side down the dimly lit corridor, the weight of Nanda Parbat pressing down on us like a too-tight collar. The chill in the air bites at my skin, but Mara’s words cut deeper.

I smirk, side-eyeing her as we pass one of Ra’s’ many sanctimonious banners. “Think of it as practice,” I say, voice low enough to avoid prying ears. “Now we just aim for Ra’s instead.”

Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting the urge to smile. Small victories. “And what about Talia?” she whispers, her tone sharper than the daggers she keeps hidden.

Ah, Mother. Always the wildcard. “Leave her to me,” I reply smoothly, though the thought of managing Talia’s ever-watchful gaze makes my stomach churn.

Mara scoffs, folding her arms as we approach a fork in the hallway. “Bold of you to assume she won’t see through you in five seconds.”

“Bold of you to assume she’s paying that much attention,” I shoot back, glancing around to make sure no shadows are lurking where they shouldn’t be. “Trust me, I’ve got experience in dodging her particular brand of maternal interrogation.”

Her pace slows slightly, her brow furrowing as if she’s trying to piece together my angle. “Why are you so insistent on this? On working together?”

I stop walking, turning to face her. The flickering torchlight catches the skepticism in her eyes, but there’s something else there too—curiosity, maybe.

“Because” I say, leaning in just enough to make my words hit harder, “we’ve both been pawns in this family’s game for far too long. Don’t you want to change the rules for once?”

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard. But then she sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“Fine,” she mutters, her voice laced with begrudging acceptance. “But if this backfires, I’m blaming you.”

“Blame is the family currency,” I reply with a shrug, resuming our walk. “Feel free to cash in as often as you’d like.”

We reach the training grounds, where a small group of assassins is sparring under the watchful eye of one of Ra’s’ lieutenants. Mara’s demeanor shifts instantly, her posture stiffening, her eyes narrowing. The transformation is impressive, really—a masterclass in controlled hostility.

I match her energy, letting a smug smirk spread across my face as I draw my blade. The assassins glance at us, their curiosity palpable.

“Care for a rematch?” I ask, my tone dripping with mockery.

Mara steps into the ring without hesitation, her blade glinting in the light. “Only if you’re ready to lose again,” she snaps, her voice carrying just the right amount of venom.

As we spar, our movements are precise but careful, each strike calculated to appear deadly without causing real harm. The assassins watch with rapt attention, their whispers filling the space like buzzing flies.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Mara hisses under her breath as our blades lock.

“Consider it a performance,” I whisper back, pushing against her sword for effect. I almost laughed, this reminded me so much of my training days with the batfamily. I could not believe how much I’ve missed the theatrics of it all. “Theatrics are half the battle.”

She rolls her eyes but plays along, twisting away with a flourish that earns a few murmurs of approval from our audience.

When the match ends in a perfectly executed stalemate, we both step back, breathing hard but unscathed. The assassins disperse, clearly impressed by our “rivalry.”

Later, in the relative privacy of my chamber, Mara drops the act, slumping against the wall with an exasperated sigh.

“I hate you,” she says, though there’s no heat behind the words.

“I get that a lot,” I reply, leaning against the opposite wall. “But admit it—you’re impressed.”

She shakes her head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”

I smirked. “I know.”

“I don’t get you,” she said at last, her voice softer now. She didn’t look at me, though. Her gaze stayed fixed on that invisible spot over my shoulder. “You show up out of nowhere, all ‘teamwork this’ and ‘change the game that,’ and I’m just supposed to believe you’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘grown.’ That sounds painful.” I tapped my fingers on my knee, feigning a nonchalance I didn’t entirely feel. “But sure, let’s call it a conscience. Why not?”

Her glare could’ve melted steel. “You think everything’s a joke, don’t you?”

“No,” I said simply. “Just most things.”

That earned me a small scoff, the barest hint of a crack in her armor. Progress.

“Look,” I continued, my tone shifting slightly, “I get it. Trusting people in this place is like playing with poison—you’re bound to get burned eventually. But you and I? We’re not like the others here. We don’t want what they want.”

“And what exactly do you think I want?” she asked, finally turning to look at me.

“To get out,” I said without hesitation.

Her silence was answer enough.

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not like I can just...leave. It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

She laughed then, but it was bitter, humorless. “Spoken like someone who hasn’t had to fight for every inch of freedom they’ve ever had.”

I arched a brow. “Mara, I literally grew up here. Like you. You think Ra’s was baking me cookies and tucking me in at night?”

That earned me a genuine laugh, albeit a short one. She shook her head, her expression softening. “Okay, fair point.”

We sat there for a while longer, the tension in the room easing bit by bit. Mara toyed absentmindedly with the hilt of one of her knives, her fingers tracing the intricate engravings on the blade.

“You’re different,” she said suddenly, her voice thoughtful.

“Thanks,” I replied with a grin. “I’ll add that to my list of glowing reviews.”

“I’m serious,” she said, shooting me a look. “I don’t know what happened during your time at Infinity Island... but you’ve changed. You no longer take joy in all of this.” She gestured vaguely, as if the walls of Nanda Parbat could somehow encapsulate the League’s many sins.

“I never did, I simply acted as I did. I had to, otherwise, I would have not survived.” I shrugged, my grin fading into something more genuine. “Besides, there’s not much to enjoy about being part of a family that treats you like a chess piece.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no malice in her gaze—just curiosity. “So, what do you want, Damian?”

I tilted my head, considering the question. It wasn’t an easy one to answer, not without revealing more than I was ready to.

“To be free from the al Ghul legacy and repave the League of Assassins,” I said at last.

“Yeah, right,” Mara scoffed. “And I am a saint who rides a unicorn.”

“You’ll believe in it when we’re sipping tea far away from here. Trust me,” I said, folding a map I’d been poring over. It was a rough sketch of Nanda Parbat’s layout; with key points I’d marked for entry and exit strategies.

Mara snorted. “Tea? That’s your big sales pitch? Not freedom or survival—tea?”

“Tea is underrated,” I replied, slipping the map into my belt. “Besides, freedom’s implied. Nobody sips tea in chains. It’s bad form.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that I was pretty sure wasn’t a compliment. “I’ll believe in this plan when we’re not dead.”

I smirked, leaning casually against the weapons rack. “A little optimism wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

Mara shot me a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “Optimism’s a luxury I can’t afford, Prince. Especially not when your grand plan involves sneaking past assassins trained to kill us since birth.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Details, Mara. Don’t get bogged down in the details.”

She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Details like how we get past the guards? Or how we avoid Talia, who will absolutely gut us both if she catches wind of this? Or Ra’s, who—let’s face it—probably has a contingency plan for his contingencies?”

“Do you ever get tired of being this dramatic?” I shot back, grabbing a dagger from the rack and twirling it idly. “You should try my way. It’s much less exhausting.”

“And what way is that?” she asked, arms now firmly planted on her hips.

“Confidence,” I said, gesturing to myself. “With just a dash of sarcasm for flair.”

Mara groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “We’re doomed.”

“Wrong.” I pointed the dagger at her—not threateningly, just for emphasis. “We’re improvising. Big difference.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, her lips twitching like she was fighting a smile. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“You keep saying that.”

“Someone should!”

The banter eased some of the tension between us, but I could see the weight of our situation still hanging over her. Mara was good at masking her emotions, but not good enough to fool me.

“Hey,” I said, my tone softening. “I’m serious about this. I know it’s risky, and I know it’s...a lot. But I’m not going to let us fail. Okay?”

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she sighed. “Okay. But if this goes sideways, I reserve the right to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Fair,” I said with a grin. “But it won’t. I’ve got this.”

Mara shook her head, muttering something about overconfidence as she grabbed a throwing knife from the rack. She tested its weight in her hand, her movements sharp and precise.

“So,” she said, glancing at me. “What’s step one of this brilliant plan?”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Step one? We start with tea.”

She groaned, hurling the knife at the target across the room. It landed dead center, quivering in the wood.

“Fine,” she said, walking past me toward the door. “But if you mention tea one more time, I’m aiming for you next.”

“Noted,” I called after her, watching her go with a faint smile. Despite her cynicism, I could see the beginnings of trust forming between us. It was small, fragile, but it was there.

Now all I had to do was make sure I didn’t screw it up.

I leaned against the cold stone wall, arms crossed, my mind stubbornly refusing to focus on the immediate task of escaping Ra’s’ control. Instead, it drifted back to Infinity Island. To Jade, her wry smirk as she teased me about my arrogance. To Alexander, awkward and determined, vowing to protect his new family.

Family.

The word tasted strange now, heavy with a meaning it never used to carry. I used to think blood ties meant loyalty. Turns out, loyalty is what you fight for, not what you inherit.

That was the problem with Ra’s and Talia—well, one of the problems. They loved the idea of family, the legacy, the dynasty, but not the messy, human parts. It was all chess pieces and long games to them, no room for trust or kindness. No room for someone like me to be... anything other than a weapon.

I pushed off the wall and started pacing, the echoes of my boots bouncing off the stone. My thoughts were buzzing like an annoying fly I couldn’t swat. Mara and I were building something here, something that didn’t rely on Ra’s’ approval or the League’s twisted doctrine. It was fragile, sure, but it was real. Every sarcastic remark, every begrudging nod of agreement was a brick in the wall we were building against Ra’s. I could work with that.

I clenched my fists briefly, the resolve settling deep in my chest. No matter what it took, no matter how many steps we had to take in the shadows—I would make sure we got out of this. All of us.

And if Ra’s thought he could stop me?

Well. He was about to learn what real loyalty looked like.

Chapter Text

Suri’s voice snapped me out of sleep like the crack of a whip. “Mara. Up. Now.”

I jerked upright, already on edge. Suri wasn’t the type to throw around urgency unless something serious was happening. Blinking away the haze of sleep, I rubbed my face and squinted at her. Her expression was carved from stone, her usual composure stretched thin by whatever had brought her here in the dead of night.

“What is it?” I muttered, reaching for my boots.

“Get dressed,” she said briskly, her hand hovering near the hilt of her blade as she kept a sharp eye on the door.

That made my stomach twist. Suri was always calm, steady as a rock in the chaos that came with life in the League. If she looked this tense, something was very wrong.

“What’s going on?” I pressed, yanking my boots on and reaching for my dagger.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “The Lazarus Chamber,” she said finally, her voice clipped.

That stopped me cold. My fingers froze on the strap of my dagger, my heart skipping a beat. “What?”

She glanced at the door, her jaw tightening. “Ra’s summoned you. And Damian.”

Damian. Of course. The tension in my chest loosened slightly. If there was anyone I could count on in this madness, it was my cousin. Not that I’d ever admit it to his face.

Trust was a rare commodity in the League of Assassins, but Damian had earned mine in ways I still didn’t fully understand. And by extension, I trusted Omar and Suri. The two of them had been instrumental in keeping Damian and me in contact under the ever-watchful eyes of Ra’s and Talia.

Suri acted as my shadow, my constant companion and occasional conspirator. Omar was Damian’s counterpart, sharp and unflinching, a mirror to Suri’s calm efficiency. Together, they were the silent threads that kept Damian and me tethered, even as we pretended to be nothing more than rivals in Ra’s’ endless power games.

Which was exactly what we’d need to keep doing now. Whatever Ra’s had planned, we couldn’t let him suspect the alliance we’d been building in the shadows.

I tied the strap of my dagger tight, straightened my tunic, and followed Suri into the corridor.

The halls of Nanda Parbat were eerily quiet, the flickering torchlight casting long, shifting shadows on the stone walls. My pulse quickened with every step, but I kept my expression neutral, my posture straight. Suri walked a step ahead, her movements precise, her hand never far from her blade.

“What’s really going on?” I asked her quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

Her steps didn’t falter, but her grip on her sword tightened. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said, her voice low.

Not exactly reassuring.

The heavy doors of the Lazarus Chamber loomed ahead, the green glow of the pit seeping through the cracks like poison. Suri pushed the door open, stepping aside to let me in.

The chill of the chamber hit me first, a biting cold that settled into my bones. The acrid scent of the Lazarus Pit followed, sharp and metallic, making my nose wrinkle.

Ra’s was already there, standing near the edge of the pit with his hands clasped behind his back. His presence was as suffocating as ever, a heavy weight that pressed against my chest. Talia stood a few paces behind him, her expression as unreadable as ever, though her gaze flicked to me with an edge I couldn’t quite place.

Omar was stationed near the entrance, his arms crossed and his face a mask of indifference. He didn’t so much as glance my way, but the subtle shift of his stance told me he was watching everything.

And then there was Damian.

He stood near Ra’s, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, scanning the room with practiced ease. The faintest twitch of his fingers at his side was the only sign he’d noticed me enter. To anyone else, he looked as calm and collected as ever—a dutiful soldier awaiting orders.

But I knew better. Damian wasn’t calm. He was calculating.

“Mara,” Ra’s said, his voice smooth and commanding. “So good of you to join us.”

I stepped forward, keeping my movements steady, my head slightly bowed in respect. “Grandfather.”

“Another trial,” Damian said, his tone completely devoid of the usual sharpness he reserved for private moments. Here, in front of Ra’s and Talia, he was the picture of obedience, his voice even and deferential. “How unexpected.”

The edge of Ra’s mouth twitched, though it was unclear if it was amusement or disdain. “I have yet to determine which of you is truly worthy to carry my legacy,” he said, his gaze flicking between Damian and me. “This trial will bring clarity.”

Clarity, my ass. This was about my father, about punishing his memory for daring to exist outside of Ra’s’ impossible standards. My fists clenched at my sides, but I forced my expression to remain neutral.

Talia’s gaze lingered on me for a moment before shifting to Damian. She said nothing, but her silence was heavier than any words.

I chanced a glance at Damian, and for a split second, our eyes met. His expression didn’t change, but the faintest flicker of something—determination? Reassurance?—crossed his face.

“Whatever the trial entails,” I said finally, keeping my voice steady, “we will prove ourselves.”

Ra’s smiled, cold and calculating. “Indeed you will.”

Damian and I stood side by side, silent and still, the unspoken weight of our alliance pressing down on both of us. We couldn’t let them see. Not Ra’s, not Talia.

Whatever game this was, we’d play it their way—for now.

The sound of the Lazarus Pit bubbled faintly in the background, its green glow casting a sickly light over the chamber. I kept my focus sharp, though my stomach churned as Ra’s stepped to the side, clearing the space between Damian and me. His voice was calm, as if he were asking for a cup of tea instead of pitting us against each other.

“A simple test of skill,” Ra’s said. “A duel. Let steel decide who is worthy.”

Damian stood across from me, his expression a blank slate. He didn’t look at me like we were cousins, like we’d shared secrets under the cover of night or plotted Ra’s’ downfall together. He looked at me like I was just another opponent—one he had every intention of beating.

Suri moved beside me without a word, slipping my saif sword into my hand. Her touch was light, but I could feel the weight of her silent warning. No mistakes.

Across the chamber, Omar handed Damian his katana with the same quiet efficiency. Damian’s hand closed around the hilt like it was an extension of himself, his grip confident and controlled.

Talia and Ra’s watched from the edge of the chamber, their gazes heavy and unyielding. There would be no room for subtle alliances or hidden tricks this time. Every move, every breath, every flicker of hesitation would be noticed.

Damian inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment of the fight to come. “Ready, cousin?”

His tone was infuriatingly calm, like this was a warm-up drill instead of a trial designed to keep us both on the edge of survival.

“Always,” I shot back, raising the saif. The blade felt steady in my hand, the familiar weight grounding me as I took my stance.

Ra’s raised his hand. “Begin.”

Damian moved first, fast and precise, his katana slicing through the air with deadly intent. I barely had time to block, the clash of metal ringing out as I twisted to the side, deflecting his strike.

“Don’t hold back now,” Damian said, his tone dripping with faux encouragement as he pressed forward, his strikes coming in quick succession.

I grit my teeth, pivoting to avoid his next blow and countering with a slash aimed at his side. He parried effortlessly, his movements smooth and unrelenting.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” he added, his voice maddeningly steady as our blades collided again.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I shot back, ducking under his next swing and attempting to sweep his legs with a low strike. He leapt over it with infuriating ease, his katana flashing as he brought it down toward me.

I twisted away at the last second, Damian’s blade slicing the air close enough that I could feel the sharp kiss of displaced wind against my cheek. My saif came up reflexively, catching his next strike in a defensive arc with a grunt. The impact jarred through my arms, sending a sharp vibration up to my shoulders that made my teeth clench.

“You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s supposed to be focused,” I said, trying to sound sharp, though the effort of holding off his strength threatened to break my tone. Our blades locked, and I used the tension between them to shove him back just enough to get some breathing room. My feet scrambled for better footing on the slick stone floor.

“I am focused,” Damian shot back smoothly, his katana already cutting through the air again before I’d fully regained my stance. The speed of his strikes forced me into retreat, my saif moving almost instinctively to deflect each one.

“You’re the one who keeps talking,” he added, his voice maddeningly steady, like we were having a casual conversation over tea instead of engaging in a life-or-death spar.

My breath hitched as I barely managed to block his next blow. The sheer force of it pushed me back a full step, my boots scuffing against the stone. His movements were a blur—faster than I remembered, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next, his katana a gleaming extension of his will.

I couldn’t keep retreating. I tried to feint, shifting my weight to draw his attention to my left side before pivoting and striking from the right. It was a classic move, one I’d executed a thousand times before in practice. But Damian read me like an open book, his katana sweeping up effortlessly to block my saif. Before I could even think of a follow-up, he twisted his wrist sharply, disarming me with precision so clean it almost felt insulting.

“Predictable,” he said, the word cutting deeper than any blade. His tone was infuriatingly calm, not even winded, as he stepped forward to push me back again.

“Smug little—” I bit off the rest of my sentence, too frustrated to finish it. With a surge of desperation, I lunged forward, aiming for his shoulder. If I could just catch him off guard—

But no. Of course not. He sidestepped with the kind of lazy grace that made me want to scream. His katana flashed as he spun, the motion almost elegant, and before I could adjust, the blunt edge of his blade struck the hilt of my saif, knocking it from my grip.

The metallic clang of my sword hitting the stone floor echoed around the chamber, louder than the bubbling of the Lazarus Pit, louder than the blood pounding in my ears.

I stood there, breath heaving, hands clenched into fists at my sides. Damian didn’t press the attack, didn’t even raise his katana again. Instead, he stood there, katana lowered but still poised, his stance steady and unshakable.

He looked at me, his expression a study in neutrality—no smug smirk, no triumphant grin, just that same maddeningly calm mask he always wore. It was worse than any taunt.

“Yield?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

I glared at him, my hands curling into fists. I wanted to wipe that calm, calculating look off his face, but the fight was over, and we both knew it.

I straightened, swallowing my pride as I stepped back. “Yield.”

Damian nodded once, stepping back and lowering his katana fully.

The room was silent except for the faint bubbling of the Lazarus Pit and the sound of my breathing.

“Impressive,” Ra’s said, his voice breaking the tension. “As expected.”

Damian sheathed his katana without a word, his expression giving away nothing.

But as he turned slightly, just enough to meet my gaze for the briefest moment, I caught it—a flicker of something in his eyes. Not triumph. Not smugness. But love and reassurance.

And then it was gone, replaced by the same blank mask he always wore in Ra’s’ presence.

“Damian,” Ra’s spoke up, his tone calm and measured in a way that immediately set my nerves on edge. “Remove her eye.”

It was as if the ground beneath me dropped away. For a second, I wasn’t even sure I’d heard him right. The chamber felt colder, the bubbling of the Lazarus Pit a dull roar in the background as I turned my head sharply to look at him.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice cracking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

Ra’s didn’t even glance my way, his focus entirely on Damian. “She has failed, and failure deserves a mark. A reminder. Remove her eye.”

I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded in my chest, every instinct screaming at me to run, to fight, to do something. But my body wouldn’t move, frozen by the sheer weight of his command and the cold, unflinching certainty in his tone. My gaze snapped to Damian, searching his face for... I didn’t even know what. Reassurance? Defiance? Anything other than the blank mask he wore now.

For a horrible moment, I believed he would do it. His grip on the katana tightened just slightly, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he turned his head toward me.

“Damian,” I whispered, the word barely audible, but it felt like a plea, a crack in the armor I’d tried so hard to keep intact.

He stepped toward me, and I couldn’t stop the instinctive step back that followed. My legs felt like lead, my breath shallow and ragged. He was going to do it. He had to. This was Ra’s al Ghul’s command, and no one defied him, not even Damian al Ghul.

But then he stopped. He stopped just short of reaching me, his katana lowering slowly until the tip barely touched the ground. He turned to Ra’s, his shoulders squared, his voice steady in a way that didn’t match the fire in his eyes.

“No.”

It was one word, but it hit like a thunderclap.

Ra’s tilted his head slightly, like a predator considering its prey. “No?” he repeated, the word soft but carrying enough weight to make the air feel suffocating.

“I won’t do it,” Damian said, his voice gaining strength. “She failed, yes, but this isn’t the answer. This isn’t how you make an heir, Grandfather.”

My knees nearly buckled with relief. The tight grip around my chest loosened, and I could feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes—not from weakness, but from the sheer, overwhelming wave of gratitude that crashed over me. In that moment, I loved him. Not in a romantic way, not in the way stories talk about love, but in the way you love someone who sees you, who chooses you, even when everything else in the world says they shouldn’t.

But my relief was short-lived.

Ra’s moved faster than I thought possible. One second, he was standing there, calm and still, and the next, his blade was in his hand, slicing through the air with lethal precision. Damian didn’t even have time to raise his katana.

The blade pierced his chest.

“No!” The word tore from my throat before I could think, my voice raw and broken as I watched Damian stagger, his katana slipping from his grip.

He crumpled to the ground, and I was moving before I even realized it, falling to my knees beside him. My hands pressed against the wound in his chest, desperate to stop the bleeding, even though I knew it was useless. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky against my fingers as his breathing grew shallow.

“Damian,” I choked, my voice trembling. His eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, they softened. He tried to say something, but no words came out, just a weak exhale as his hand twitched slightly before falling limp.

I clung to him, my tears falling freely now, mixing with the blood staining the stone floor. My cousin. My ally. The one person in this twisted, chaotic world I trusted more than anyone else. Gone.

“You monster,” I spat, lifting my head to glare at Ra’s, my voice shaking with equal parts grief and fury. “He was your grandson!”

Ra’s regarded me with the same detached calm he always had, as if none of this mattered. “I knew you two were hiding something,” he said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. “Your bond was a weakness. And now you both have paid the price for it.”

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to take the saif from the ground and drive it through his cold, black heart. But I couldn’t move. All I could do was cling to Damian’s lifeless body, my sobs echoing in the suffocating silence.

The sound of my own cries grated against my ears, sharp and ragged as they filled the chamber, and for the briefest second, I hated myself for them. My hands were still pressed against Damian’s chest, uselessly trying to stop the flow of blood that had already slowed to nothing. The sharp edges of the world blurred with my tears, and I couldn’t tell if the tremor in my arms was from exhaustion or the suffocating wave of panic clawing at my throat.

“Will you stop that racket?” Ra’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and exasperated, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “You embarrass yourself.”

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. My fists tightened against Damian’s tunic, smearing blood across the intricate patterns as I tried to block out Ra’s presence entirely.

“I’ll embarrass you,” I snapped back, the words choked and barely audible over my sobs. Not my best retort, but grief wasn’t exactly conducive to witty comebacks.

Ra’s let out a short, annoyed sigh, the kind that suggested he was deeply inconvenienced by my humanity. His boots clicked against the stone floor as he approached, his tone cold and clinical. “Enough. This is unbecoming of someone who claims to be my blood.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me right now,” I shot back, finally raising my head to glare at him. My face was hot with tears, my vision blurred, but I could still make out his infuriatingly calm expression. “You killed him!” My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated how small and broken it sounded.

Ra’s raised an eyebrow, like I was the unreasonable one here. “And I will revive him,” he said flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

That stopped me cold. I blinked up at him, disbelief tightening my chest. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, already turning toward the Lazarus Pit. “Stop your sniveling. We’ll use the Pits, and the boy will return. Stronger, if anything.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Honestly, your dramatics are tedious.”

For a split second, hope flared in my chest. As much as I hated Ra’s, as much as I wanted to see him burn for what he’d done, I clung to his words like a lifeline. If anyone could cheat death, it was him. And Damian—he had to come back. He always came back.

Ra’s gestured to a pair of Shadows, who moved quickly to lift Damian’s body. I wanted to protest, to scream at them to be gentle, but the words caught in my throat. My hands felt empty without him, and I pressed them uselessly against my thighs, smearing blood across the fabric.

The Shadows carried him to the edge of the Lazarus Pit, the swirling green liquid glowing faintly in the dim light. The chamber felt colder somehow, the air thick with a tension that made it hard to breathe. I stood frozen, my feet rooted to the ground as Ra’s stepped forward, his expression unreadable.

“This is your second chance, boy,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, before giving a curt nod.

The Shadows tilted Damian’s body forward, and I flinched as it disappeared into the bubbling green depths. The sound of the Pits swallowing him was wet and nauseating, a sickening gurgle that made my stomach churn. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen. For Damian to rise, coughing and cursing, his usual scowl firmly in place.

But nothing happened.

The Pits churned, the green liquid rippling as if in agitation, but no figure emerged. My chest tightened, the hope that had flickered to life now teetering on the edge of despair.

“Why isn’t he coming out?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound calm.

Ra’s frowned, his gaze fixed on the Pits. “Patience,” he snapped, though there was an edge to his voice now, a hint of uncertainty that sent a spike of fear through me.

The Pits churned harder, the glow intensifying for a moment before dimming again. The liquid seemed to ripple outward, as if something beneath the surface was pulling it inward, dragging it down into an unseen abyss.

“Something’s wrong,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of the bubbling Pits.

“Silence,” Ra’s barked, but he took a step back, his composure slipping ever so slightly.

Another moment passed. The Pits grew still, the surface eerily smooth, like a pane of green glass. My heart sank, dread pooling in my stomach as I realized what it meant.

“No,” I breathed, shaking my head. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”

Ra’s stood rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. “Impossible,” he muttered, his voice low and strained.

I turned to him, my grief twisting into anger, raw and all-consuming. “What did you do?” I demanded, stepping closer, my fists clenched. “What did you do to him?”

Ra’s didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me, his eyes still fixed on the Pits as if willing them to give him something, anything. But the Pits remained still, their glow fading into a dull, lifeless hue.

“Answer me!” I screamed, shoving him with all the strength I could muster. “You killed him! You—” My voice broke, and I choked on a sob, the weight of it all crashing down on me again.

Everything around me faded into static, the sounds of shouts, clashing steel, and splintering stone blending into a cacophony of white noise. My ears buzzed with it, drowning out Talia’s enraged scream as she lunged at Ra’s with a dagger in hand, her voice thick with fury and betrayal. I didn’t care. None of it mattered. Not the fight breaking out around me, not the chaos Ra’s had unleashed on all of us. The only thing I could see was the Lazarus Pits, eerily still, the green glow now dimmed to nothing but a faint shimmer.

My feet moved before I could stop them, dragging me closer to the edge. I stumbled, my legs trembling under the weight of grief that felt like it was pressing down on my chest, crushing my ribs until I couldn’t breathe. My knees hit the cold stone with a dull thud, but I barely registered the pain. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the surface of the Pits, searching desperately for something, anything—a ripple, a shadow, a sign.

But there was nothing.

“Damian…” His name left my lips in a whisper, so soft it barely made a sound, and yet it felt like it echoed through the chamber, bouncing back at me like a cruel joke. My hands clawed at the edge of the Pits, my nails scraping against the stone as if I could drag him back myself.

He had loved me. He had saved me. And now he was gone.

My chest tightened as the memory of his voice, steady and defiant, played in my mind. “No.” That one word, so simple and resolute, had shattered the hold Ra’s had over both of us. He could have done it. I thought he would. For a terrifying second, I had believed he’d follow through, that he’d take my eye and solidify himself as Ra’s heir in the most brutal way possible. But he hadn’t.

Instead, he’d defied the Demon’s Head, thrown away everything for me, and now… now there was nothing left of him.

A strangled sob broke free from my throat, raw and ugly, tearing through the static in my mind. My hands shook as I pressed them to my face, trying to hold myself together, but it was useless. The grief spilled out of me, hot and uncontrollable, as my body curled in on itself.

I could hear them still, Ra’s barking orders, his voice strained and frantic, so unlike the calm, calculated tone he always carried. He was unraveling, his precious plans crumbling in front of him, and yet it brought me no satisfaction. I didn’t care. Let him lose his mind. Let him fall apart. It didn’t change anything.

Somewhere behind me, Talia screamed something incoherent, her rage spilling out in a flurry of sharp, accusatory words and the clang of her blade against her father’s. It should have drawn my attention—it would have, any other day. Watching Talia Al Ghul try to murder her father wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence.

But all I could see was the Pit.

The thought hit me like a knife to the gut, sharp and sudden. Damian was gone. Not just gone, but erased, swallowed whole by the very thing that was supposed to bring him back. The realization clawed at my mind, tearing through whatever fragile thread of sanity I had left. He wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t coming back, and it was my fault.

If I hadn’t failed. If I’d been better, faster, smarter. If I hadn’t needed saving—

My breath hitched, coming in shallow, broken gasps. My head felt light, the edges of my vision blurring as the walls seemed to close in around me.

“Get up,” I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible over the roaring in my ears. My fingers dug into the stone until my knuckles ached, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

Tears blurred my vision again, hot and relentless, as my chest heaved with sobs that wouldn’t stop. Every memory of him played out in my mind in rapid succession, each one sharper and more painful than the last. The way he always stood just a little too tall for his height, his sharp, cutting remarks that masked the rare moments of genuine care underneath. The way he’d stood between me and Ra’s, his voice steady as he told him, “No.”

He had saved me, and now he was gone.

Another sob wrenched free, this one louder, more desperate. My fingers slipped against the edge of the Pits, and I leaned forward, staring into the emptiness below as if I could will him to return.

“Bring him back,” I begged, my voice cracking, though I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. Ra’s? The Pits? Whatever cruel god had decided to take him from me? “Please… please bring him back.”

But there was no answer. The Pits remained still, silent and unyielding, their faint glow mocking me with its emptiness.

My hands balled into fists, slamming against the ground with a force that sent pain shooting up my arms. “You can’t just leave me,” I choked out, my voice shaking. “You can’t—”

My words dissolved into another sob, and I pressed my forehead against the cold stone, my tears pooling beneath me. I had nothing left—no strength, no fight, no hope. Just an emptiness that swallowed me whole, as cold and unforgiving as the Pits themselves.

And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be completely and utterly alone.

Suri and Omar pulled me out of the chamber like I weighed nothing, their grip firm but not harsh. I didn’t fight them. What was the point? The energy it would’ve taken to resist felt like more than I had left to give. My legs stumbled along, barely keeping pace as they dragged me through the twisting halls of Nanda Parbat. The cold stone beneath my boots blurred together with the muted colors of flickering torches lining the walls. Everything felt distant, like I was watching myself from somewhere far away.

I heard their voices, but the words were meaningless noise. Suri’s sharp tone and Omar’s calmer, more measured one blended together, their hurried whispers cutting through the silence but not reaching me. My brain didn’t bother translating. I was too busy replaying everything that had just happened, over and over again, as if my mind wanted to rub salt into every raw nerve I had left.

The glow of the Lazarus Pits. Gone. The sound of Damian’s body hitting the stone floor. Final. The silence that followed. Deafening.

They stopped dragging me once we were outside, and the biting air hit my face like a slap. My brain sluggishly registered the cold, but it didn’t snap me back. I felt numb, like my body and my mind weren’t quite connected anymore. Suri was talking again—fast and clipped, her voice carrying that same edge of urgency she always had when things went sideways. Omar, on the other hand, was staring at me, his eyes full of something I couldn’t quite read. Pity? Concern? Whatever it was, I didn’t want it.

“She’s not even listening, Omar,” Suri snapped, throwing her hands up. “She’s in shock.”

“I know,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound annoyed. He just sounded tired. They both did. That made three of us.

I didn’t react when Omar crouched down, placing a hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture meant to steady me, to ground me, I think. “Mara,” he said gently, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it, “we need to keep moving.”

I blinked at him, the first movement I’d made in what felt like hours. The world came back in fragmented pieces—the crunch of gravel beneath our feet, the crisp smell of the mountain air, the faint orange glow of torches flickering in the distance. Slowly, the words started registering too, like a radio station coming back into tune.

“—alliance with Cheshire,” Suri was saying, pacing a few steps away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “The clone. Damian’s half-brother. Ra’s created him using Talia and Slade. It’s a sick experiment, but typical Ra’s.” She spat the last part like venom, kicking a loose stone across the path for emphasis.

I blinked again. A clone? Half-brother? Cheshire? The words swirled in my head, disjointed and meaningless. I stared blankly at Omar as he spoke next, his calm voice a stark contrast to Suri’s sharp one.

“With Damian gone, we can’t stay here. Suri and I have decided…” He trailed off, glancing at her, and she nodded, her jaw tight. “We’ve decided to leave the League.”

Leave the League. Those words landed in my brain and sat there, heavy and unfamiliar. People didn’t leave the League. Not unless they wanted a knife in their back or a bounty on their head for the rest of their very short lives.

“We can keep you safe,” Omar added, his hand still firm on my shoulder. “Ra’s will focus on the power vacuum, on stabilizing his hold. We can slip away. But we need to go now.”

Safe. The word barely registered. I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel anything except the crushing weight of the truth sitting in my chest, suffocating me.

Damian had come back for me.

Not the League. Not Ra’s. Not for some noble cause or twisted sense of duty. Me.

He had chosen to walk back into this madness, to put himself in Ra’s crosshairs, because I was still here. Because I needed him. And now he was gone, and it was my fault.

If I hadn’t failed, if I hadn’t let Ra’s down, Damian wouldn’t have been in that chamber. He wouldn’t have defied Ra’s to save me. He’d still be here, with that infuriating smirk and those sharp, cutting words that somehow managed to feel like a lifeline when everything else was falling apart.

Instead, he was dead.

And I was still here, dragged out of Nanda Parbat like some broken doll by the only two people in the League who had the guts to defy Ra’s. Omar and Suri were risking everything to get me out, to keep me alive. But I couldn’t bring myself to care. Every step we took, every breath I took, felt like an insult to Damian’s memory. He was gone because of me, and I didn’t deserve to still be standing.

“Mara.” Omar’s voice broke through the fog, more insistent now. He gave my shoulder a gentle shake. “Did you hear what I said?”

I blinked at him, my mouth dry. “Yeah,” I croaked, though my voice sounded foreign, even to me. “Yeah, I heard you.”

He exchanged a glance with Suri, who rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She just turned and started walking, her movements brisk and purposeful. “We don’t have time to babysit her emotions,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. “We need to move.”

She was right. I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart, not here, not now. But as I forced my legs to move, my mind kept circling back to the same crushing realization: Damian was dead because of me. And no matter where we ran or how far we got from Ra’s, I would never be able to forgive myself.

Chapter Text

The first thing I noticed was the smell—sulfur, charred flesh, and something metallic, like blood left out too long in the sun, tangy and bitter enough to twist my stomach. It wasn’t just a smell; it was a violation of the senses, a grotesque welcome mat that burned my nose, clawed at my throat, and clung to my skin like it had decided I was going to be part of the decor. I coughed, a hacking, guttural sound that echoed in the oppressive stillness, and for a second, I swore I tasted ash. Lovely. Just the way I wanted to wake up.

The second thing? The heat. Not just ordinary heat—this wasn’t a summer in Gotham or even a particularly bad firebombing by one of Father’s rogue gallery. No, this heat felt alive, coiling around me like some hellish snake, tightening with every second. It pressed against me from all sides, suffocating and invasive, like it was trying to seep into my bones. It wasn’t even the sweaty, sticky kind of heat—there wasn’t a drop of moisture left to sweat. It was dry, scorching, and utterly relentless.

My head throbbed, a pounding pain that made me wince with every heartbeat. It was the kind of headache I hadn’t felt since I went a few brutal rounds with Todd and came out on the losing end. He’d laughed for hours after that, smug bastard. The memory didn’t exactly help me feel better.

I groaned, attempting to push myself up, but my arms gave out immediately, dumping me face-first into the ground. That’s when I realized what I was lying on: blackened, cracked stone, its jagged surface digging into my skin like it was taking personal offense at my existence. Fantastic. As if dying wasn’t humiliating enough, now I was making out with Hell rock. Classy.

Wait. Hell.

The realization slammed into me like one of Father’s infamously long-winded lectures. My eyes snapped open, wide and searching, as I scrambled to my feet, stumbling slightly before catching my balance.

“Oh, come on,” I growled, my voice more a snarl than an actual shout, higher-pitched than it should’ve been. My throat burned, and it came out raspy, like I’d been screaming for hours. “Seriously?”

And there it was. Hell. Exactly as advertised. The sky was an ugly swirl of red and black, streaked with jagged bolts of lightning that cracked across the horizon like angry scars. The air shimmered with heat waves, distorting the already hellish landscape into something almost liquid. Rivers of molten lava cut through the jagged, rocky terrain, their fiery glow the only light in this cursed place. And the screams—God, the screams. They were distant but constant, an endless cacophony of agony that seemed to echo from every direction.

The ground under my boots was uneven, fractured into deep fissures that glowed faintly with an ominous red light. It wasn’t just rock—it was scorched and charred, as though even Hell itself had endured some catastrophic destruction. Shadows moved unnaturally in the corners of my vision, flickering and twisting like they were alive, watching. Waiting.

I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the oppressive sky, the searing rivers of fire, the jagged obsidian towers that jutted out of the ground like the broken teeth of some ancient, monstrous beast. If Gotham was a nightmare, this was the thing that nightmares had nightmares about.

“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath, the word barely audible over the constant, low roar of the landscape. My hands clenched into fists as I tried to center myself, ignoring the way my body screamed at me to collapse again.

“Okay,” I said aloud, mostly to myself because Hell didn’t exactly seem like the kind of place you’d find friendly faces. “You’re in Hell. Sure. Fine. Happens to the best of us, right?” My voice wavered slightly, but I pushed past it. “Now what?”

I wasn’t expecting an answer, but the oppressive silence that followed felt like Hell itself was mocking me. Fine. Be like that. If Hell wanted a fight, it had picked the wrong al Ghul.

Before I could fully process this fresh hell—literally—the ground beneath me erupted in a violent tremor, cracks splitting open like jagged mouths ready to swallow me whole. I stumbled, barely catching myself as shards of stone clattered around me. Then they came—rising from the darkness like grotesque weeds sprouting from poisoned soil.

Demons.

All claws and teeth and glowing red eyes, their warped, monstrous bodies crackling with malevolent energy. They dragged themselves free from the chasms with a sound like bone scraping on metal, their snarls blending with the guttural screams that filled the air. Their shapes varied—some hulking and brutish, others wiry and insect-like—but they all shared one thing in common: they were very clearly not here for a friendly chat.

One lunged at me without hesitation, its claws aimed straight for my throat. My body reacted on instinct, muscle memory taking over as I ducked low, sweeping its legs out from under it. The demon hit the ground with a wet thud, and I didn’t hesitate. I drove my heel into its skull, relishing the sickening crunch as it stilled. There wasn’t time to celebrate. Another was already coming at me, its bony arms outstretched like it wanted to drag me straight back into the pit. I spun, using its momentum against it, and sent it flying into the first one with a satisfying crash.

“Okay,” I muttered, sidestepping a third that was twice my size and reeked worse than Todd’s gym bag on a bad day. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this—actually, no, that’s a lie—but this is a bit much, even for me.”

They didn’t care. Of course, they didn’t. My existential crisis wasn’t exactly on their list of priorities. Wave after wave came at me, snarling and snapping, their numbers seemingly endless. Their guttural cries mixed with the harsh sound of my own breathing, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

One particularly ugly demon—a hulking beast with three heads, mismatched limbs, and more teeth than seemed biologically feasible—cornered me against a jagged outcrop of blackened stone. Its glowing eyes fixed on me, hungry and gleeful, as if savoring the moment.

“Damn you,” I spat, dodging a swipe of its claws and driving a solid kick into one of its knees. It roared, a guttural sound that made the ground beneath me tremble, but I wasn’t done. “And you!” I barked at another demon, spinning to slam my elbow into its face. I pointed at a third as I dropped it with an uppercut, ichor spraying across the cracked ground. “And you! Go to Hell!”

It wasn’t until the words left my mouth that the absurdity of what I’d said hit me. “Wait—” I panted, straightening up as I dodged another lunge. “We’re in Hell. You’re already here.” I glared at the swarm surrounding me, their glowing eyes narrowing as they closed in. “So where am I supposed to send you? Back to Hell? How does that even work?”

Shockingly, none of them had an answer. One particularly grotesque demon even paused, tilting its malformed head as if genuinely trying to figure it out. “Oh, don’t you start,” I snapped, launching a kick at its chest and sending it flying into the swarm.

Time lost all meaning. The fight blurred into a relentless storm of claws, teeth, and fists. My muscles burned, my joints ached, and I was pretty sure my left shoulder was dislocated, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Every movement was automatic, drilled into me from years of training that had been etched into my bones long before I’d ever thought about the possibility of dying and ending up here.

One demon—a wiry, spindly creature with elongated limbs and too many fingers—caught my arm, its claws raking across my sleeve and tearing into the skin beneath. I hissed in pain but twisted sharply, yanking it off balance and slamming its head into the ground.

Despite the exhaustion creeping into every fiber of my being, I couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped me mid-punch. “What’s the penalty for dying in Hell? Double-Hell? Triple-Hell? Do I get demoted to, what, lava intern?”

That actually got a pause from another demon, its grotesque form crouched and ready to pounce. It tilted its horned head, the glowing embers of its eyes flickering as if debating the logistics. “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” I muttered, snapping my fist into its jaw and watching it crumble.

The fight dragged on. Minutes? Hours? I couldn’t tell anymore. My body was drenched in ichor—thankfully not mine—and the oppressive heat of this damned place clung to me, making every breath a laborious effort. But I didn’t stop.

Because even here, even surrounded by chaos and death, one thing hadn’t changed: I was still Damian Wayne.

And Damian Wayne didn’t lose. Not to demons. Not to fate. Not to Hell itself.

The heat of Hell pressed against my back like an anvil, each breath a labor under the weight of the oppressive, sweltering air. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked through with sweat, ichor, and probably a good helping of my own blood. The sweat dripping into my eyes stung, blurring my vision for a moment, but I blinked it away, too tired to care whether the sting came from exhaustion or the fact that everything around me looked like it had been doused in flames. Which, considering where I was, it probably had been.

My hands tightened around the hilt of my katana, slick with ichor and sweat, the leather grip threatening to slip. The blade had been working overtime, slicing through demon after demon, their shrieks a discordant melody in the symphony of chaos around me. For every one I cut down, three more seemed to rise in its place. It was endless. Relentless. And it was starting to piss me off.

“Fantastic,” I muttered under my breath, shifting my stance as three more demons skittered forward on leathery wings, their snarls like nails dragged across a chalkboard. Their glowing red eyes locked on me with predatory intent. “Just what I needed—Hell’s version of a swarm. Do I get extra credit if I survive this?”

One of the bat-like demons lunged, its jagged claws aiming for my face. I sidestepped at the last second, the movement instinctive, and my katana sang through the air as I brought it down on its arm. The blade sliced clean through flesh and bone, ichor spraying across the cracked ground. The demon howled, its roar echoing off the jagged stone walls, but before it could retaliate, I drove the blade into its neck. It crumpled to the ground in a heap, lifeless.

Its companions didn’t flinch. They didn’t mourn. If anything, they looked angrier. Because of course, they did.

“Right,” I grumbled, spinning on my heel just in time to avoid a second attack. My katana lashed out, cutting through the torso of the next demon in one clean strike. Blackened ichor splattered across my boots, the sticky, reeking mess soaking into the leather. I grimaced. These boots had been new—or at least, they had been. Another casualty. I didn’t have time to mourn them, though, because yet another demon was already clawing its way toward me.

This one was different. Smaller. Fur matted against its twisted body, long ears pinned back, sharp teeth bared in a snarl that shouldn’t have belonged to anything with a face like that. For one absurd second, it reminded me of Earth’s rabbits, the ones that used to roam the gardens at the Manor. My grip faltered, just slightly, the image flashing unbidden in my mind. And in that second of hesitation, the demon struck.

Its claws ripped through the sleeve of my tunic, the fabric tearing as pain flared sharp and hot across my arm. I hissed, biting back a curse, and shoved the memory aside. This wasn’t a rabbit. It wasn’t anything close. It was a demon, another nightmare spawned from this place, and it was either me or it.

“Sorry,” I muttered, and before it could swipe at me again, I drove my katana through its chest with a sharp, decisive motion. The body crumpled, lifeless, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth. I didn’t have time to figure out why.

Because they kept coming.

The horde was endless, a grotesque menagerie of twisted forms and snapping jaws. Some had scales slick with ichor, others fur tangled and matted with filth. Horns, hooves, talons, wings—the variety was dizzying, but what twisted my stomach into knots was the way some of them mimicked animals I’d known. Animals I’d cared for. They weren’t those animals, not even close, but the resemblance was enough to spark something uncomfortable. Something I couldn’t afford to feel right now.

I crouched low, katana raised, as the demons circled me like vultures, their glowing red eyes narrowing in on their prey. The air crackled with the faint, familiar buzz of Hellfire, an itch just beneath my skin. It begged to be let out, roaring inside me like a caged beast desperate for freedom. I’d resisted using it so far, partly because it still freaked me out—and partly because using Hellfire in Hell felt pointless. Like lighting a match in the middle of a wildfire.

But my arms were trembling, my breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. My limbs felt heavier with each passing second, too short and too clumsy to keep up this pace much longer. I could feel the cracks forming in my endurance, in my willpower, but I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip on the katana.

Not yet. Not like this. If Hell wanted me to break, it would have to try a hell of a lot harder.

The next wave of demons surged forward like a tidal wave of claws, wings, and jagged teeth, leaving me no time to catch my breath. I tightened my grip on the katana, slick with sweat and ichor, and stopped fighting the inevitable. The fire roared to life before I could even consciously summon it, like it had been waiting for me to stop holding back.

It started small, a flicker at the edge of the blade, the flames rippling green, streaked with veins of black that pulsed like something alive. Then it surged, rushing up the steel with a hungry ferocity, and I swung with every ounce of strength I had left. The Hell Fire leapt from the blade, not just an extension of my strike but a living force all its own. It arced through the air in a blaze of destructive light, colliding with the horde and consuming them in an instant.

The demons didn’t just burn—they disintegrated, their shrieks piercing the air before they were silenced. The acrid stench of burning ichor hit me like a physical blow, sharp and suffocating, and I stumbled back, chest heaving as I fought to stay upright. My katana hit the ground, the tip sinking into the scorched earth, and I leaned on it for support as the fire sputtered out, leaving behind only ash and twisted, charred remains.

“Okay,” I managed between ragged breaths, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead. My voice was hoarse, my throat raw from the heat and smoke. “That’s... good. And horrifying. But mostly good.”

I glanced down at the katana, its blade still faintly glowing with residual heat, almost like it was alive. The fire wasn’t just something I’d summoned—it was something that had answered me, and it still lingered, waiting, a coiled presence just beneath my skin. It felt... powerful. The kind of power that could swallow me whole if I let it. My stomach twisted, but I shoved the thought aside. I couldn’t afford to think about what it meant, not right now. Not with Hell literally trying to kill me every five seconds.

The ground trembled beneath my feet, a low, ominous rumble that shook loose chunks of scorched rock. I straightened, forcing my legs to hold steady even though they felt like jelly, and looked up. My stomach sank. Another horde crested the ridge ahead, spilling over like a flood, bigger and meaner than the last. These demons were different—hulking brutes with jagged horns and glowing eyes, their forms twisted in ways that made them seem almost stitched together from nightmares.

My fingers clenched around the katana, the weight of exhaustion dragging at my shoulders. My limbs ached, and my breath still came in uneven gasps, but none of that mattered. I wasn’t done yet.

“Round two?” I called out, my voice echoing over the desolate expanse. It came out steadier than I felt, with just enough bravado to make me sound like I had a plan. “Fine. Let’s do this. But fair warning—I’m not splitting the loot.”

The demons snarled in response, a sound like grinding metal and feral rage, and then they charged. The ground shook beneath their weight as they came at me in a wall of claws and teeth, faster and angrier than before. My heart thundered in my chest, but I raised the katana again, the fire sparking to life at the edge of the blade, brighter and hotter than before.

This time, I didn’t wait for them to reach me. With a deep breath, I surged forward to meet them head-on, the fire roaring in my hands like it was ready to burn the world down.

I was leaning on the katana like a crutch, the blade still smoldering faintly from the last fire blast. The air around me reeked of sulfur and burned flesh, my arms were trembling like they didn’t know how to stop, and my legs felt like someone had replaced my bones with wet noodles. The worst part? It wasn’t the fight. No, it was the quiet that came after—the kind of quiet that gave my brain the chance to catch up with everything I didn’t want to think about.

I sat down hard, dropping to the cracked and burning ground. The heat seared through the thin fabric of my tunic, but honestly? I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I could escape the heat down here. The fire, the ash, the eternal burning—it all felt personal somehow, like Hell itself was leaning in close, breathing on my neck, daring me to blink.

And because my brain is an absolute traitor, that’s when the memories hit.

It started with Mara. Always Mara. Her face, the wide-eyed disbelief when I’d stepped between her and Ra’s, was burned into my mind as vividly as any flame down here. I could still hear her voice, that sharp intake of breath, like she couldn’t believe I was that stupid—or maybe that brave.

I snorted to myself. “Probably both.”

My fingers curled into fists in the dirt, the katana’s hilt pressed against my palm. The fight with Ra’s had been quick, brutal, and inevitable. He’d looked at me like I was some kind of broken tool when I said no, that I wouldn’t hurt her. Like I’d betrayed him by refusing to be the monster he wanted.

But the betrayal? That was all his. I could still feel the crack of his hand against my chest, the way his strength had folded me like paper, and then the cold, viscous pull of the Lazarus Pits as they swallowed me whole.

“Trust Ra’s,” I muttered aloud, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “to underestimate the one thing he couldn’t control—me.”

I’d fought back. Even as the Pits pulled at me, clawing at every part of me that was still me, I’d fought. Ra’s must’ve thought the Pits would kill me outright, or maybe that they’d leave me an empty, mindless shell for him to mold into something useful again. But instead?

Instead, I ended up here.

I glanced around at the endless expanse of Hell, the horizon churning with fire and shadow. The sky—or what passed for a sky down here—was a swirling mess of crimson and black, and the air was thick enough to choke on.

“Yeah, great plan, Grandfather,” I said, dragging myself to my feet. “Really worked out for you.”

The thing was, I knew why I was here. It wasn’t just the Pits, though they were a big part of it. It was the fire inside me—the demonic power I’d inherited, the thing Ra’s could never understand or control. When the Pits tried to tear me apart, the fire fought back, and somehow, it had dragged me here instead. To this.

I tightened my grip on the katana, staring at the blade like it might have answers. It didn’t, of course, but it was better than looking at the horizon and thinking about how far I was from... well, everything.

Mara’s face flashed in my mind again, and I shoved the thought away. Not because I didn’t care—because I cared too much. I’d come back to Nanda Parbat for her. I had gone to Infinity Island for Alexander. For all the people I thought I could save, even when I knew better. And now?

Now I was stuck here. But that didn’t mean I was staying.

“Don’t get comfortable,” I told the fire burning in the distance, as if it cared. “I’m not planning on making this a permanent thing.”

The demons had scattered for now, but they’d be back. They always came back. Hell was nothing if not predictable in its chaos. But the more I fought, the stronger the determination burned in my chest. I wasn’t going to die here—not really. Not forever. Because I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

This wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even about Ra’s or his stupid plans or his inability to see me as anything other than a pawn. This was about the people who mattered. The people I couldn’t fail.

Mara. Alexander.

The family I was fighting to protect. The family I would protect, no matter what it took.

I adjusted the katana in my grip, straightening my back. My body felt too small, too fragile, but my mind was clear. Hell might have thrown me down here, but it didn’t know who it was dealing with.

“I’m coming back,” I said to no one in particular, my voice steady, the firelight reflecting in my eyes. “You hear me? I’m coming back.”

The peace didn’t last.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I was already moving before the first screech echoed through the cavern. I pushed off the wall and rolled to the side as claws raked through the space I’d just occupied. The demon—a hulking, winged monstrosity with a face like a broken mask—snarled in frustration, its milky eyes locking onto me.

“Can’t even take a breather, can I?” I muttered, forcing myself upright. My body screamed in protest, every muscle tight and aching, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. I swung the katana up, the Hellfire flickering weakly to life along its edge, and met the demon’s charge head-on. One clean slash, and it went down in a burst of flames and ichor.

The cavern fell quiet again, but I didn’t relax. I knew better by now. Sure enough, the air shimmered with heat, and another batch of demons materialized at the edge of the battlefield, their snarls echoing like a chorus of death rattles. I wiped my blade clean against my tattered sleeve—not that it helped much—and adjusted my stance.

“Come on, then,” I muttered, raising the katana. The Hell Fire sparked again, brighter this time, licking up the blade like it was hungry. “Let’s get this over with.”

I tore through the next wave like I was cutting through water. The fire surged with each strike, more of a partner than a weapon now, burning with a purpose that felt almost alive. The demons didn’t stand a chance. In minutes, the ground was littered with charred remains, and the air was thick with the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh. I planted my katana into the ground and leaned on it, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath.

“Not bad, child,” came a voice, slick with condescension and oozing false praise. It echoed across the cavern, louder than it had any right to be.

I straightened, gripping the katana tighter as a figure emerged from the shadows. He was tall, statuesque, and gleaming like polished metal, his golden eyes glowing with amusement. His entire presence screamed, Look at me, I’m important.

I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’re here to monologue about how doomed I am?”

The demon smirked, slow and smug. “I am Choronzon, a Duke of Hell,” he announced, spreading his arms wide as if expecting applause.

I tilted my head, staring at him flatly. “Wow. A Duke. What did I do to deserve the honor? Forget to tip my waiter?”

His smirk faltered for half a second before he composed himself, clearly not used to being mocked by a kid wielding a sword. “It’s not common to find a living human here,” he said, his tone shifting to something more calculating. “Especially one of the famed al Ghul bloodline. And one who slayed three battalions on his own.”

“Three?” I interrupted, squinting as though I was deep in thought. “That’s it? I was aiming for seven. Guess I need to pace myself.” I sighed, letting the sound hang dramatically in the smoky air. “Also, I’ll have to remind Constantine how unremarkable he’s become if Hell still considers a mortal wandering around here a novelty.”

At the mention of Constantine, his lip curled in obvious distaste. “Constantine doesn’t count. At this point, Hell is practically his weekend retreat.”

I smirked, shifting my stance as I twirled my katana casually. “Makes sense. He’s always struck me as the type to be annoying wherever he goes.”

His glare hardened, though there was a flicker of intrigue in his glowing eyes. “How do you know Constantine, child?”

“I know a lot of things,” I said simply, letting my smirk sharpen into something more dangerous. “For example,” I added, raising my blade, “I know exactly how to turn you into an ashtray.”

The Duke snorted, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the cavern walls. “Put that thing down, boy. Don’t embarrass yourself. Whatever gift the Lazarus Pits bestowed upon your bloodline is no match for my strength.”

“Lucky for me,” I shot back, my voice cool and razor-sharp, “my powers don’t come from the Lazarus Pits.”

At that, the flames licking along the edge of my katana flared brighter, hotter—and then, in a flash, they turned blue. The eerie light cast long shadows across the cavern, and his once-smug expression twisted into something much more satisfying: fear.

“This is impossible,” he hissed, stumbling back a step. “That... That’s—”

“Holy Fire,” I supplied, letting my grin widen into something vicious. “Guess what, Your Grace. Turns out, you’re not fireproof.”

With that, I surged forward, my katana cutting through the air like a streak of lightning.

He roared, swiping at me with claws that could’ve torn through steel, but I was faster. Ducking under the swing, I drove my blade clean across his chest. The Holy Fire erupted on impact, consuming him instantly. His screams echoed through the cavern as the flames devoured him, reducing his grand, self-important form to nothing but ash.

I stood there for a moment, breathing hard but still upright, my katana gleaming with that otherworldly blue flame. Around me, the lesser demons who’d been watching scrambled over each other in their rush to flee. Good. Let them run. Let them spread the word.

Rolling my neck, I cracked it with a sharp sound and sheathed my blade. “Not even a challenge,” I muttered to myself as I surveyed the empty cavern. The Holy Fire flickered out, leaving behind only silence and the faint smell of singed arrogance.

“T-t-took you long enough,” I said, rolling my eyes. I didn’t bother turning around; their presence was unmistakable. It wasn’t just something you felt—it was like the air itself had decided to get heavier, pressing down on me as if gravity had doubled.

“Greetings, great-grandparent,” I continued without looking, my tone as dry as the desert sands Ra’s used to hole up in for his hideouts. Straightening my back, I flicked some stray ash off my shoulder before finally turning to face Lucifer Morningstar. The Lightbringer stood there, immaculate as always, radiating a beauty so surreal it would probably make most mortals weep. Not me. I just smirked, my sword resting on my shoulder, daring them to say something about my posture.

Lucifer tilted their head slightly, those piercing eyes scanning me like they were cataloging every detail. “It looks like you ended up receiving my gifts, unlike my son,” they said, their voice contemplative, like they were weighing the truth of their own words. “Though, the reason these powers woke up is... interesting. A shard of chaos.” Their gaze sharpened. “Your human body must be tearing itself apart with such adversarial forces.”

I barked a short laugh, leaning on my blade like Lucifer’s sheer presence wasn’t enough to flatten most beings into submission. “I’ll admit, it hurts like Hell.” I paused, letting the pun hang in the air before grinning to myself.

Lucifer didn’t react—not really. They gave me a single, slow blink, but I swore there was the faintest twitch of amusement on their lips. “I assume there’s a reason you are here,” they said. Their voice was calm, but it carried the weight of entire universes. “You’ll spare me the tedium of guessing and show me.”

Arguing with Lucifer felt pointless, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I met their gaze and let my memories unfurl, offering them up like an open book. It wasn’t like they needed my permission to dig through my mind. No, this was about mutual understanding, not submission. A timeline undone, fragments of futures that would never come to pass—I let it all lay bare.

“You seem far too comfortable letting a devil sift through your mind,” Lucifer remarked, suspicion laced in their tone, though there was a flicker of curiosity there too.

I shrugged, keeping it casual, like we were talking about Gotham’s endlessly unpredictable weather and not the intricacies of celestial intrusion. “You’ll see why I don’t fear you, great-grandparent,” I said, my voice steady. It wasn’t arrogance. It was absolute confidence—born from conviction, not ego.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no anger in their expression. Instead, there was something deeper, warmer—an ember smoldering since the Fall. Defiance was nothing new to them; they’d seen it countless times. But this? This was something else entirely.

So, they did what they do best. They saw. And with that, they remembered.

It must’ve hit them hard, like a star collapsing in on itself. Fragments of a shattered timeline cascaded through their mind, flooding them with echoes of a reality that had ceased to exist.

“Greetings, great-grandparent,” I said again, though this time my voice carried a warmth that hadn’t been there before, something familiar, something rooted in centuries of chaos.

Lucifer’s composure cracked—just a little. Their eyes widened, and for a fleeting moment, they looked almost human. “Damian,” they breathed, reverence dripping from their tone. “My heir... what a mess you’ve created.” Their lips curled into a sharp, approving grin. “As expected from my great-grandson, a merchant of chaos.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bouncing off the cavern walls. “Thanks for the compliment,” I said, inclining my head mockingly. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“That we do,” Lucifer agreed, their expression hardening as they straightened to their full, imposing height. “Not just here, but in Apokolips as well.”

“Apokolips?” I repeated, my brow furrowing. “That’s not exactly next on my to-do list. Darkseid is a problem for later.”

“Darkseid,” Lucifer said, their voice dipping into something darker, more serious, “is always a problem. Or have you forgotten that this timeline’s shard of chaos still exists? You’ll need it to stabilize the powers awakened by the shard from the timeline that no longer exists.”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “Right, how did I forget that? Fine. Let’s add ‘raid Apokolips for a shard of chaos’ to the list. Anything else, or is that it for today’s family reunion?”

Lucifer’s grin widened, a glint of mischief in their eyes. “Oh, Damian, the fun is only just beginning.”

Chapter Text

“Damian defied Ra’s. He chose to protect Mara, and in doing so...” Omar’s voice caught for a second. His jaw tightened. “Ra’s sentenced him to death. The Lazarus Pits couldn’t bring him back.”

Silence.

“No.” Alexander’s voice cracked, sharp and raw. “No, you can’t mean—he’s not—he’s not dead.” His head snapped toward Mara, desperate, like she could somehow rewrite reality just by existing.

She didn’t. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stood there, frozen, eyes searching the ground like she could find another answer if she looked hard enough. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers flexing, like she was trying to hold herself together by sheer will.

Omar didn’t flinch, but his voice was heavier now. “After that, we had no choice. We had to leave. We could not remain after what Ra’s did.”

Alexander’s body locked up, his whole frame rigid like he was trying to keep himself from unraveling. His fists were clenched so tight I could see the tremor in his knuckles. His breath was coming faster now, and I felt my own heart pick up in response.

Then he took a step back, shaking his head. “No. No, this doesn’t make sense. Damian wouldn’t—he wouldn’t just let death win.”

Omar exhaled. “I’m sorry.” It was barely more than a whisper, empty, because what else was there to say?

Mara sucked in a sharp breath, her body going unnaturally still, like if she moved, the world might collapse. Damian always found a way back. Always. No matter the odds, no matter the cost. But this time, it felt like the universe had slammed the door shut.

Alexander was still shaking his head, muttering under his breath. “It’s not possible.” Like if he just kept saying it, reality would bend to his will. His gaze dropped to the ground, the fire in his eyes dimming, replaced by something far worse—desperation. He was drowning in it, and I had no idea how to save him.

And then it hit me all at once. The weight of it, the truth pressing down like a hand on my throat. Damian was gone.

And Mara—God, Mara—standing there like a statue on the verge of cracking. Her shoulders shook with each breath, every muscle wound so tight she looked like she might snap in half.

I reached out, fingertips grazing her arm, just trying to ground her, to remind her she wasn’t alone. She flinched but didn’t pull away.

“He’s gone, Mara,” I murmured, each word heavy, impossible. “I know. But you need to...”

I couldn’t finish. There was nothing to say. No way to make this easier, to soften the sharp edges of grief.

Mara’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. A brief, shattering kind of understanding. Her gaze dropped. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. But then—just for a second—her shoulders trembled.

And that was all it took for everything to break.

Alexander’s voice ripped through the silence like a blade through glass.

"You were supposed to keep him safe!" he shouted, raw and cracking, desperation laced through every syllable. His fury wasn’t just anger—it was something breaking apart, something barely holding together. His gaze locked onto Omar and Suri, sharp and accusing. "You promised! He’s dead because of you! Because of all of you!"

The words hit like a thunderclap, echoing through the courtyard. A startled flock of birds burst from the treetops, their wings slicing through the heavy air. Even nature seemed to recoil, fleeing from the weight of his grief.

His rage wasn’t contained—it was a storm, wild and unchecked. His fists trembled at his sides, knuckles bone-white. Every movement was sharp, jerky, like he was barely tethered to himself. His face was a battlefield, grief twisting it into something unrecognizable.

Omar didn’t flinch. His expression was carved from stone, but his jaw was tight, tension rippling beneath his stillness. He didn’t speak—not yet. His silence wasn’t indifference; it was restraint, the kind that balanced on the edge of breaking.

Suri stood just behind him, arms locked across her chest, gripping herself like she was trying to stay upright. Her gaze dropped—not in guilt, but because meeting Alexander’s eyes now felt like staring into a fire.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

And then—

“You should’ve protected him!” Alexander’s voice cracked as he pointed, his arm shaking, straight at Mara.

She hadn’t moved. Not once. Pale, rigid, like if she stayed still enough, she could disappear.

"You—" His voice splintered, raw and cutting. "What were you doing? What was so important that Damian had to die for you?” He sucked in a breath, unsteady, eyes flicking between them all like he was waiting for an answer that wouldn’t come. “He should’ve been with me! With Jade—where he was safe!”

His voice finally broke, splintering on the last word. His hand dropped to his side, trembling. For a second—just a second—he looked like he might collapse under the weight of it all.

I stepped forward instinctively, my hand brushing over the curve of my stomach, as if shielding the life inside me from the chaos unraveling in front of us.

"Alexander." My voice was steady, not loud, but enough to cut through the storm.

He didn’t hear me. Or maybe he did, but he wasn’t ready to stop.

“Do you have any idea what he meant to me?!” His voice rose again, sharp and desperate. He spun toward Omar and Suri, arms flying wide, a gesture that was as much helplessness as it was accusation. “He was my brother—my akhi! You were supposed to—”

The words collapsed in his throat. He twisted away from us, hands raking through his hair, his whole body shaking. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, too shallow, too fast. The kind of breathing that hurt just to hear.

His anger cracked, leaving nothing but grief beneath it.

Suri moved. Just one step, but it was enough. Her stance was steady, her voice low, sharp. “You think we don’t know what he meant to you?” The weight behind her words cut through the thick air. “You think we didn’t fight—didn’t bleed—to save him? It happened too fast—”

“Not fast enough!” Alexander snapped, whirling on her, his voice a raw mix of fury and grief. “If you had been, he’d still be here! But you weren’t—you let him—”

“Stop it!”

The words tore out of me before I could think, louder than I meant. Even I startled at the force of them. Alexander froze mid-sentence, his mouth open, breath ragged. His wide, startled eyes snapped to me, like I’d just struck him.

“That’s enough.” My voice trembled, but I stood my ground, stepping fully between him and Suri. The weight of their gazes pressed down on me, but I didn’t flinch.

“Do you think this is what Damian wanted?” My words sliced through the thick, suffocating silence. “For us to tear each other apart? To blame the people still standing instead of facing the fact that he’s gone?”

It tasted like ash coming out of my mouth, burned like fire in my throat. Saying it felt like stepping into the inferno instead of putting it out. But Alexander needed to hear it. Hell, maybe we all did.

His face twisted—not anger this time, something worse. His shoulders caved inward, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers.

“I—” His voice cracked, and whatever he was about to say died in his throat. His head shook once, his whole body sagging as if my words had drained the last fight out of him.

Then his legs buckled. He stumbled back, dropping onto the edge of the courtyard’s low stone fountain. His hands covered his face, and his uneven, ragged breathing was the only sound left.

I let out a breath I had been holding. My eyes flicked to Omar and Suri. They were rigid, silent, their expressions unreadable. But Omar’s gaze drifted toward Alexander, and for a flicker of a second, something passed over his face—guilt, regret, something heavier than either.

Suri exhaled sharply and let her arms drop. I hadn’t noticed how tightly she’d been gripping them until now, red marks lingering where her fingers had pressed into her skin.

And Mara—Mara hadn’t moved. She stood like a ghost, arms limp at her sides, face eerily blank. Her eyes were on Alexander, but it was like she wasn’t really seeing him. Wasn’t seeing any of us.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing down like stone.

I wanted to say something—anything—but the chaos in my chest wouldn’t form into words.

It was Alexander who finally spoke, his voice muffled and broken. “I just… I just wanted him to stay,” he whispered, so quiet I almost didn’t catch it.

I knelt down in front of him, resting one hand lightly on his knee. “I know,” I said softly. My voice barely carried in the heavy air, but I knew he heard me.

He lifted his head slowly, his eyes bloodshot and glassy as they met mine. “It’s not fair,” he said, his voice trembling like a frayed thread about to snap.

“No,” I agreed, my own throat tight, the words thick and heavy. “It’s not.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just us, sitting in the wreckage of our grief, trying to hold together the pieces of a world that had already fallen apart.

Then—pain.

A sharp, twisting ache clenched through my stomach, cutting through everything else. And then warmth—too much warmth—pooling down my legs. My breath hitched as the realization slammed into me.

Oh, hell.

I gripped my stomach hard, staggering back a step, my fingers digging in like I could physically hold back what was happening. My heart pounded in my ears. Not now. Not now.

“Now? Really?!” I muttered, voice tight with both pain and sheer disbelief.

Alexander was still hunched over on the fountain, face buried in his hands, lost in his own storm. Omar and Suri weren’t paying attention either, locked in their silent battle of blame and tension.

But Mara saw.

Her gaze snapped to my face, confusion flashing in her eyes before darting downward—where the evidence was already pooling on the stone.

“Jade?” Her voice was wary, cracking slightly, like she was afraid of the answer.

I blinked at her, barely holding myself up as another wave of pressure rolled through my spine. Oh, this was happening.

“Uh… yeah,” I managed, breathless. “So… my water just broke.”

Silence. Frozen. For half a second, nobody moved, nobody breathed. Like the entire courtyard had locked up, too weighed down by grief to process what I’d just said.

Then—chaos.

“WHAT?!” Alexander shot up so fast he nearly tripped over himself. His face, blotchy and red from crying, drained of color so quickly he looked like he might pass out. “What do you mean your water broke?!” His voice cracked, but this time it wasn’t fury—it was raw, undiluted panic.

I gritted my teeth, another contraction hitting hard. “What do you think it means?” I snapped. “The baby’s coming, genius!”

Omar—always the soldier, always in control—was the first to move. He was at my side in two strides, his arm steadying me before my knees could buckle completely.

“We need to get her inside,” he said, voice calm, sharp, decisive. “Now.”

“No kidding!” Alexander barked, running his hands through his hair like he was trying to rip it out. He spun in a frantic circle, looking around the courtyard like he expected a fully equipped maternity ward to materialize out of thin air. “Where’s inside? Where’s—where do we take her? Do we even have a doctor?!”

Suri shot him a sharp look, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. “Alexander, breathe,” she said flatly, her voice cutting through his panic like a knife. She turned to Mara, who was already hovering nearby, looking about as pale as Alexander. “Go find some clean towels and boil water. Now.”

Mara nodded jerkily, her movements stiff and uncoordinated as she bolted toward the nearest doorway, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. “Right. Towels. Water. Got it.”

“Wait, why do we need boiled water?” Alexander demanded, his voice pitching higher with every word. “Are we sterilizing tools? Are there tools? Why don’t we have tools?”

I groaned, leaning heavily into Omar’s steady grip as another contraction hit, this one harder than the last. “Alex,” I ground out, glaring at him through the haze of pain, “if you don’t stop yelling, I swear I will personally reach over and punch you in the throat while in labor.”

That seemed to snap him out of his spiral—at least temporarily. His mouth snapped shut, though his hands were still flailing uselessly at his sides. He turned to Suri, his eyes wide and desperate. “Okay, so what do we do? What do I do?”

Suri rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Men are useless.” Then, louder, she said, “You’re going to help carry her. Stop flapping your arms and start using them.”

Alexander blinked at her, his panic giving way to a brief flash of indignation. “I wasn’t flapping—”

“Alex,” I interrupted sharply, my voice dangerously low, “get over here and help now.”

That did it. He scrambled forward, practically tripping over his own feet as he joined Omar on my other side. Between the two of them, they managed to lift me enough to get my feet moving, though Alexander’s hands were shaking so badly I half-expected him to drop me.

“Okay, okay,” he kept muttering under his breath like a mantra. “Okay, we’ve got this. This is fine. Totally fine. Not a problem. You’re fine, right, Jade? Everything’s fine?”

I gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk. “Does it look fine, Alex?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but Suri cut him off with a sharp whistle. “Save the banter for later,” she said briskly, already moving ahead of us to clear a path. “Right now, we need to focus on getting her somewhere safe before she decides to kill us all in between contractions.”

“Good luck,” I muttered darkly, my grip tightening on Omar’s arm as another wave of pain hit. “I’m halfway there already.”

To his credit, Omar didn’t so much as flinch. “You can yell at us later,” he said evenly, his tone maddeningly calm. “Right now, just focus on breathing.”

“Breathing?” I repeated incredulously, glaring up at him. “Oh, great advice, Omar. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me just breathe my way out of pushing a whole human out of my body!”

Alexander, predictably, looked like he was about two seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. “She’s not okay,” he hissed to Omar, his voice high-pitched and frantic. “She’s yelling at us. That means she’s not okay!”

Omar didn’t even glance at him. “She’s yelling because she’s fine enough to yell,” he said matter-of-factly. “If she stops yelling, then you can panic.”

Alexander’s face twisted in an expression that was equal parts confusion and horror. “What kind of logic is that?!”

Suri, already halfway up the steps to the infirmary, turned and shot him a withering look. “League logic,” she said dryly. “Now move it before she decides to strangle you with the umbilical cord.”

Alexander let out a strangled noise that was probably supposed to be a protest but sounded more like a dying animal. I couldn’t help it—I snorted, even as another contraction hit.

The infirmary wasn’t much, just a repurposed corner of the compound that smelled faintly of antiseptic and desperation, but at that moment, it might as well have been a palace. Omar and Alexander helped me onto a cot that creaked under my weight, and I bit back a scream as another contraction tore through me. Mara rushed in moments later, a pile of towels in her arms and a pan of steaming water sloshing precariously in her grip. Her wide eyes darted around the room, landing on me with pure terror.

“What do I do with this?” she squeaked, holding the pan like it might explode.

“Set it down before you scald someone, for starters,” Suri said, her voice sharp but steady. She was already tying her hair back with quick, practiced movements, her expression so focused it was almost unnerving. “And grab more towels. We’re going to need them.”

“More towels?” Alexander asked, his voice rising in pitch again. “How many towels does one baby need? This isn’t a laundry service!”

“Alex, shut up,” I hissed through gritted teeth, clutching the edge of the cot so hard my knuckles turned white. “Just… shut up and stay out of the way.”

He flinched, his mouth snapping shut, but he didn’t move far. Instead, he hovered near the foot of the cot, wringing his hands like he was trying to strangle an invisible enemy. Mara dumped the towels on a nearby table and then froze, her eyes darting between me and Suri like she was waiting for instructions.

“Okay,” Suri said, exhaling sharply as she surveyed the scene. “We’re doing this. Omar, you’re with me. Mara, stay close in case we need more supplies. Alexander—”

“Don’t say it,” he interrupted, his voice shaky but defiant. “If you tell me to wait outside, I’m not leaving.”

Suri rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Fine. Just don’t get in the way or faint.”

“I’m not going to faint!” he snapped, though the pale sheen on his face suggested otherwise.

Meanwhile, I was too busy trying not to pass out from the next contraction to care who stayed or left. My whole body felt like it was being ripped apart, and the sweat dripping down my face wasn’t helping. I clenched my teeth and focused on breathing, though the shallow, ragged gasps coming out of my mouth barely qualified.

“This is nothing,” I muttered to myself, trying—and failing—to summon some of my usual bravado. “I’ve taken bullets. Stab wounds. This is—this is fine.”

“You’re lying through your teeth,” Omar said calmly, positioning himself on one side of the cot while Suri took the other. “But I admire the effort.”

Before I could fire back, Suri’s brow furrowed, and she let out a quiet curse under her breath. “Jade, I need you to stay still, okay? There’s… there’s a complication.”

“What kind of complication?” I demanded, my voice sharp despite the pain.

“The cord,” Suri said tightly, her hands moving with careful precision as she examined me. “It’s wrapped around the baby’s neck.”

My stomach dropped, the pain momentarily eclipsed by a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror. “What does that mean? What do you—what do you do for that?”

Suri’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look at me, her focus entirely on her hands. “We fix it,” she said simply. “But you’re going to have to trust me.”

Omar’s face had gone stone-cold, his usual calm hardening into something almost mechanical. He reached for the knife strapped to his belt and hesitated, glancing at Suri. “Do we need this?”

“No blades!” she snapped, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it. “This isn’t an assassination. Just keep her calm.”

“That’s optimistic,” I gritted out, the panic bubbling up in my chest making it harder and harder to breathe. “Oh God. What if—what if the baby doesn’t make it?”

“The baby will,” Suri said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. “But I need you to push when I say, Jade. Not before. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” I said, though my voice shook so badly it was barely audible. “Not like I have a choice.”

Alexander, who had been eerily quiet until now, stepped closer, his face pale but determined. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, his voice steadier than I expected.

Suri didn’t look up. “Hold her hand. Talk to her. Distract her.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping to my side, his hand awkwardly hovering near mine. “Uh, okay. Jade, you, uh… you look like crap.”

I glared at him through the haze of pain. “Wow. Thanks, Alex. That’s exactly what I needed to hear right now.”

“Hey, I’m just being honest!” he said defensively, though there was a flicker of something like a smile at the corners of his mouth. “But, you know, in a badass way. Like, you’re still terrifying, even mid-labor. It’s impressive.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, though a tiny, involuntary laugh escaped me.

“Okay,” Suri interrupted, her voice sharp as a blade. “Jade, on the next contraction, I need you to push. Hard.”

I barely had time to nod before the next wave hit, and I did as she said, every muscle in my body straining as I pushed with everything I had. Omar murmured something soothing in a language I didn’t understand, his steady presence grounding me just enough to keep me from losing it completely.

After what felt like an eternity, Suri let out a relieved breath. “Got it,” she said, her voice softer now. “The cord’s clear. Jade, one more push.”

I didn’t have the energy to respond, but I did as she said, summoning every ounce of strength I had left. And then, suddenly, it was over.

The room went silent for half a heartbeat, and for one horrifying moment, I thought the worst. But then, a tiny, sharp cry pierced the air, and everything else faded away.

“She’s here,” Suri said, her voice almost gentle as she held up the tiny, squirming bundle. “It’s a girl.”

Alexander let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his hands trembling as he reached out, only to stop short like he didn’t know what to do. “She’s—she’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” Suri confirmed, her lips quirking into the smallest of smiles.

I slumped back against the cot, my whole body trembling as I stared at the baby—my baby—through a blur of tears. “She’s okay,” I whispered, the words barely audible over her cries. “She’s okay.”

Mara stepped forward cautiously, her expression softening as she peered at the baby. “She’s beautiful,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“She’s loud,” I muttered, though there was no heat behind the words.

Alexander let out a shaky laugh, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah. She gets that from you.”

I didn’t bother arguing. Instead, I reached out, my fingers brushing against her tiny, perfect hand.

The moment was shattered by a soft grunt from Omar. “We’re not done here,” he said, his tone more practical than sharp. He was right, of course. The afterbirth still needed handling, and ignoring it wasn’t an option. I shot him a look that was half gratitude, half annoyance, but he didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care.

Suri moved first, pulling on the thin gloves they’d managed to scrounge up earlier. “Alright, let’s finish this,” she said, her voice brisk but not unkind. She glanced at Omar, and with an almost imperceptible nod, they set to work.

I stayed propped up on the bed, too drained to do anything but watch. Mara, to her credit, didn’t bolt like I half-expected her to. Instead, she stepped closer, her eyes darting between me and the others as if asking silent permission to help. I gave her a small nod. She hesitated but then knelt beside Suri, her hands trembling as she took the tools offered to her.

The room was quiet, save for the low murmurs between Omar and Suri as they worked. Alexander hovered nearby, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His usual sharpness had dulled, replaced by a hollow focus that made him seem older, more weathered.

“Hold her,” I said softly, my voice breaking the silence. He blinked at me, startled, but then reached out, his hands steady as he took Lian from me. The second her tiny body settled into his arms, his entire demeanor shifted. The cold, rigid lines of his face softened, and for a moment, the grief lifted.

Mara glanced up from where she was helping Suri, her movements slowing as she watched Alexander cradle the baby. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something vulnerable in her eyes—a flicker of something that might’ve been hope or longing.

Omar straightened, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. “Done,” he said simply, his voice breaking the tense silence.

Suri shot him a glance. “No thanks to you,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward in the ghost of a smirk.

“Hey, I did the heavy lifting,” Omar replied, his tone lighter than it had been all night. He glanced at me, his expression softening. “You okay?”

I nodded, though the weight of everything still pressed heavily against my chest. “Yeah. Just tired.”

The room was quiet again, the lantern’s dim glow throwing restless shadows across the walls. Night had settled in, pressing against the windows like a silent spectator. I pulled the thin blanket tighter around me, exhaustion sinking deep into my bones. But none of it mattered—not the ache in my muscles, not the heaviness in my limbs. All I could feel was the tiny, warm weight of my daughter in my arms.

She squirmed, her little fingers curling into a fist before settling again. So small. So new. And yet, she felt like the only steady thing in a world that had been breaking apart for months.

Alexander sat by the window, stiff, silent, staring at something far beyond these walls. His grief clung to him, heavy and unrelenting, but he wasn’t lashing out anymore. No yelling. No accusations. Just cold, quiet pain—walled off so completely none of us could get through.

Mara lingered near the door, half-swallowed by the shadows. She didn’t look at anyone directly, her movements hesitant, almost skittish. The guilt was written in every stiff breath, every downward glance. She didn’t need to say it. It was written all over her.

Omar and Suri stood near the far corner, unmoving. Omar’s arms were crossed, his expression unreadable, while Suri leaned casually against the wall, though her eyes stayed sharp, scanning the room like she was waiting for something to crack. They weren’t just here to protect me. They were witnesses—to whatever fragile thing might be rebuilt tonight.

I shifted my daughter slightly, brushing a finger over her impossibly soft cheek. She scrunched up her tiny face in protest before relaxing again, and despite everything pressing down on me, I smiled.

The silence stretched, brittle and uneasy, until I finally broke it.

“Her name is Lian Damia Harper.” My voice was soft, but it landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the room.

Alexander’s head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowing slightly. Mara froze mid-step, her breath catching in her throat. Omar straightened, his arms dropping to his sides, and even Suri—always unreadable—tilted her head, brows drawing together in something close to emotion.

“She’s named after the one who saved us all,” I said, my fingers smoothing the blanket around her. “Damian saved us, even if he couldn’t save himself. She’ll carry his name. His strength. His memory.”

The weight of it settled over us, sinking into every crack and silence. No one spoke, but we all felt it—the anchor of grief pulling us under.

Alexander blinked a few times, his jaw tightening as he tried—and failed—to keep his emotions in check. “Damia,” he repeated, his voice raw. He looked down, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. “Of course.”

“She’s beautiful,” Mara said softly, her voice trembling. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “And strong. Like him.”

“She’ll need to be,” Omar said quietly, his voice carrying the kind of somber authority that only came with experience. He glanced at me, his gaze lingering on Lian. “The world isn’t going to get any easier for her.”

“It won’t,” I agreed, my tone firmer now. “But she’ll have us. All of us. And she’ll have Damian’s name to remind her of who she is and where she came from.”

Suri let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Damian would’ve hated that. The whole legacy thing.” She smirked faintly, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He hated the idea of anyone living in his shadow.”

I smiled faintly, the memory of Damian’s scowl flashing through my mind. “Yeah, well, he’ll just have to deal with it, won’t he?”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Omar and a soft snort from Suri. Even Alexander’s lips twitched, though his expression quickly hardened again.

“She deserves to know who he was,” I said, my voice softening as I looked down at Lian. Her tiny face was peaceful, her breaths steady and rhythmic. “She deserves to know how much he sacrificed—for all of us.”

Alexander let out a long, shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Lian Damia Harper,” he said again, as if testing the weight of it. “It’s… a good name.”

“It is,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze. “And she’s going to grow up knowing exactly who she is. Exactly who her family is. And exactly what we’ve all fought for.”

Alexander’s expression softened, just slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. She will.”

The room seemed quieter now, like the air had settled but hadn’t yet decided if it was comfortable. Lian squirmed in my arms, her tiny mouth opening in a silent yawn, and for a moment, I let myself get lost in the soft rise and fall of her breath. But I knew I couldn’t leave it like this—couldn’t let the fragile threads holding us together fray.

“Listen,” I started, my voice hoarse from exhaustion, but I forced it to stay steady. “Damian wanted us safe. That’s all he ever talked about—keeping us together, making sure we could survive whatever fresh apocalypse decided to show up next. And if we don’t do that—if we let Ra’s or Gotham or anyone else tear us apart—then we might as well throw his memory in the Lazarus Pits and call it a day.”

Omar shifted, his arms crossing over his chest again, but his eyes softened as he watched me. “No one’s planning on falling apart, Jade,” he said quietly, but there was a flicker of doubt in his tone.

I raised an eyebrow, not buying it. “You sure? Because it feels like we’re one awkward silence away from a full-on melodrama meltdown.” I gestured vaguely around the room, careful not to jostle Lian too much. “Damian didn’t fight for us just to have us turn into a bad soap opera.”

Suri snorted, hiding a smirk behind her hand. “He hated soap operas,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, but it was enough to break the tension slightly.

“Exactly,” I said, leaning into the small crack of levity. “He hated them because they were pointless, and so is this.” I gestured toward Mara and Alexander without singling them out too aggressively. “We are his family. This mismatched, broken family he somehow glued together with his stubbornness and his ridiculously high expectations. And we honor him by staying strong. By staying together.”

Mara flinched, her gaze dropping to the floor, but instead of retreating, she hesitated. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Alexander, though, wasn’t as quick to crack. He stood up abruptly, the stool screeching against the floor as he paced toward the window. His shoulders were tense, his movements sharp, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

I shifted Lian in my arms, her tiny face scrunching up in protest, and I sighed. “Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. None of this ever is. But we owe it to him—to each other—to try.”

Alexander stopped, his back to us, and for a long moment, I thought he’d keep ignoring me. But then he turned, his face hard but his eyes betraying something deeper. He walked toward me, his movements slower now, more deliberate.

“Let me hold her,” he said, his voice quieter than I expected.

I saw it—the crack in his armor, the vulnerability he was trying so damn hard to hide. Carefully, I handed Lian over, watching as he took her with a gentleness that seemed almost out of place coming from someone like him.

She stirred in his arms, her tiny hand brushing against his chest, and something in him shifted. His hardened exterior faltered, and for the first time since everything went to hell, he looked… human.

“I’ll protect her,” he said, his voice rough but filled with conviction. “No matter what. I swear it.”

Mara edged closer, still tentative but no longer lingering in the doorway. She sat down, not too close but not as far as she’d been before. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, but her gaze stayed fixed on Lian. “I want to help,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I owe it to him. To all of you.”

Omar and Suri exchanged a glance, one of those silent conversations they seemed to have mastered over the years. Finally, Omar nodded, his expression resolute.

“We’ll uphold his legacy,” Omar said, his voice steady. “Whatever it takes.”

“Damn right we will,” Suri added, her smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

I leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion tugging at me, but I couldn’t help the small smile that crept across my face. “Good,” I said, my voice softer now. “Because we’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t the suffocating silence of before. It was something else—something tentative but hopeful. Each of them was lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on Damian’s impact, his sacrifice, and the impossible standards he’d always set for himself and everyone around him.

As I watched Alexander cradle Lian, Mara inch closer to the group, and Omar and Suri silently vow to keep us moving forward, I felt it—a flicker of what Damian must have seen in us. Strength. Resilience. Family.

We weren’t perfect. Hell, we weren’t even close. But we were here. And we were alive.

Chapter Text

“Your mortal boy’s making waves,” Mazikeen drawled as she strolled into the throne room, her usual smirk firmly in place. The firelight glinted off her leather armor, and she carried herself with the kind of swagger that could be a weapon all on its own. “The Dukes are nervous.”

I didn’t look at her. My attention stayed on Damian as he barked orders at a pack of demons twice his size, his voice slicing through the noise like a blade. “If they’re nervous,” I said, “it’s because they’re smart enough to see the threat in front of them.”

Mazikeen arched a brow and stepped closer. “And you’re just letting him run loose? Hell’s never exactly been a hands-off operation.”

I finally turned to her, smirking. “Why would I stop him? This is the most fun I’ve had in centuries.”

She snorted, leaning lazily against an obsidian pillar. “You’re playing with fire, boss. Let the wrong mortal grab too much power, and next thing you know, they’re knocking on your throne room door.”

I waved a hand, setting my goblet aside. “Please. Damian doesn’t care about ruling Hell. He’s not here for the crown.” My gaze flicked back to him just in time to see him dispatch an insolent demon with a single, precise strike. Efficient. Merciless. Beautiful. “Besides... he’s good at this. Too good. Almost poetic.”

Mazikeen followed my gaze, something unreadable in her expression. “You like him,” she said, not quite a question.

“I appreciate the artistry,” I answered, which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth either.

There was something about Damian—something raw, something dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with brute strength. He wasn’t like the demons that thrived on chaos for chaos’ sake. No, he was carving order from it, bending Hell’s rules to suit him rather than the other way around.

And damned if it wasn’t working.

Every move he made, every alliance he forged, chipped away at the old order. The lesser demons were already flocking to him, drawn in by sheer audacity, while the greater ones lurked in the shadows, torn between crushing him and joining him.

And me? I watched. I enjoyed.

“He’s going to change everything,” Mazikeen murmured, half admiration, half warning.

“Good,” I said, grinning as I leaned back. “Hell could use a little chaos.”

After all,

Hell has always been full of characters. Every flavor of fanatic, lunatic, and power-hungry monster this wretched pit could spit out. I thought I’d seen them all. But watching Damian handle his so-called followers? That was chaos in high definition.

Take Karma, for instance—a demon with too many eyes and not nearly enough brains. Right now, he was practically slithering on his belly before Damian, his grotesque, elongated tongue flicking in what I assumed was meant to be reverence.

“The Crown Prince is the embodiment of wrath and wisdom!” Karma screeched, his voice like nails on a chalkboard, echoing through my halls. “Lead us, my Lord!”

Damian didn’t even slow down. Just kept walking, boots clicking against the obsidian floor, cloak trailing behind him like a dark banner. His face was set in that perfect mix of boredom and irritation—the kind that said he’d heard this spiel one too many times.

“You’re more useful when you’re not groveling, Karma,” he said, dry as desert sand, not even sparing the demon a glance. He just waved him off like an annoying fly.

Karma, undeterred, scrambled upright—well, as upright as his vaguely foot-like appendages would allow—and stumbled after Damian, practically tripping over himself. “But, my Lord, your ascension—”

“I said,” Damian interrupted, spinning on his heel so fast that Karma nearly fell over, “stop groveling. Or do you need me to carve it into your forehead?”

Karma froze. All his eyes blinked out of sync before he nodded furiously. “No, my Lord! Of course not, my Lord!” He scuttled back, looking like a kicked puppy. A horrifying, multi-eyed puppy, but still.

Lounging lazily on my throne, I smirked as I watched. Damian had this way of cutting through nonsense that was equal parts impressive and deeply entertaining. Most mortals—hell, most demons—would have eaten up the flattery, let it bloat their egos until they were too stupid to see past it. But Damian? He saw through it all. And he made sure everyone else knew it.

And then there was Titus.

The hellhound was a monster—massive, all muscle and sleek black fur that shimmered with something unnatural, his glowing red eyes scanning the room with the kind of focus that only belonged to predators. Damian had found him chained in one of the lower pits, half-starved and feral, and instead of putting the beast out of its misery like any sane mortal would… he’d freed him.

Now, Titus was a shadow at his heels, silent, menacing, a storm waiting to break.

“Sit,” Damian commanded as he passed my throne, his tone sharp, absolute. Titus obeyed instantly, dropping to his haunches with a heavy thud, his massive claws scraping against the stone floor.

Effortless. Precise. Undeniable.

And if the Dukes of Hell weren’t already paying attention, they sure as hell would be now.

Mazikeen, who had been observing the scene from the sidelines with her usual mix of disdain and amusement, raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for a dog person,” she said, arms crossed as she leaned against a pillar.

Damian shot her a look. “He’s not a dog. He’s an ally. And he listens better than most of your demons.”

Mazikeen let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the jab. “Careful, kid. That kind of talk will get you on someone’s bad side.”

“I’m already on everyone’s bad side,” Damian replied, deadpan, before turning back to Titus. “Stay.” The hellhound didn’t move, his glowing eyes locked on Damian like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

I chuckled, swirling my drink lazily. “You know,” I drawled, “most mortals who come to Hell are too busy screaming or scheming to bother training the wildlife.”

Damian didn’t bother looking at me. “I’m not most mortals.”

“No,” I agreed, watching as he turned and strode out of the room, his entourage of demons—including the ever-pathetic Karma—scrambling to keep up. “You’re not.”

As the doors slammed shut behind him, Mazikeen shot me a sidelong glance. “You really going to let him keep climbing the ranks?”

I sipped my drink, savoring the faint burn. “Why not? He’s good for morale.”

She snorted. “Morale? Half the Dukes want him dead, and the other half are too scared to make a move.”

“Exactly,” I said, smirking. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Because the thing about Damian is that he doesn’t just survive. He thrives. And in Hell, of all places, that’s a spectacle worth watching.

When Maze left, I lingered on the throne, letting the quiet settle over me like a second skin. I rolled my wrist, watching the last few drops in my glass catch the light before vanishing into the void. The hum of Hell never stopped—torment and ambition woven into its very fabric. Every now and then, a distant boom echoed through the halls, probably another imp trying something clever. The torches along the chamber walls crackled softly, their flickering glow casting restless shadows over the jagged stone.

I let it breathe for a moment longer. Then, with a flick of my wrist, the empty glass disappeared, leaving behind only the faint scent of whatever had been in it. Rising smoothly, I adjusted my lapels and descended the obsidian steps, each measured footfall sending a soft echo through the vast chamber.

A snap of my fingers sent a ripple through the air. The walls groaned, twisting, reshaping themselves. Heavy stone melted into polished obsidian, threaded with molten gold that pulsed like a heartbeat. Overhead, Hell’s version of a sky stretched open—an expanse of smoldering red clouds, churning and seething against an infinite void. Still menacing, but with a touch more... refinement.

I stepped onto the balcony at the far end, leaning against the railing as I surveyed the realm below. The writhing mass of souls wasn’t as mindless as before. Their movements had a rhythm now, something structured, almost like a grotesque symphony of purpose. Fear wasn’t the only thing driving them anymore. Something else had slipped through the cracks—curiosity, ambition.

Damian’s fingerprints were all over it.

His ideas spread through Hell faster than gossip among lesser demons, igniting something productive. Torturers refining their craft, extracting more than just screams. Souls bartering, negotiating deals with a cunning I hadn’t seen in millennia. It wasn’t just chaos anymore. It was strategy.

I smirked, watching the intricate dance of his schemes play out below. Damian had turned my playground into a chessboard. I wasn’t sure whether to applaud him or throttle him. Probably both.

When Hell’s version of night fell—a dimming of that crimson glow that passed for daylight—I retreated to my private chamber. A sanctuary, in its own way, hidden behind heavy gilded doors that only I—or a particularly determined demon—could breach.

Inside, the fire roared, its glow flickering over polished obsidian walls and ancient tomes stacked in controlled chaos. Plush furniture softened the infernal edge, the room a careful balance of indulgence and dominion.

Hell may have been evolving, but some things? Some things stayed exactly as they should.

The quiet broke with the steady padding of paws, followed by footsteps—calculated, deliberate. Titus entered first, his massive frame a blend of muscle and grace. His coat gleamed like polished onyx in the firelight, eyes scanning the room before locking onto me. No hesitation, no wasted movement. He strode to the center of the chamber, head high, radiating authority without even trying.

Damian followed, as measured as ever. His cape billowed faintly behind him, trailing like the tail of a storm. In one hand, he balanced a plate with a precision that could put the finest waiters to shame. The contents? An unexpectedly sophisticated selection of cheeses. Tucked under his other arm was a scroll—because apparently, ancient infernal contracts were just another part of his Tuesday.

“Great-grandparent,” he greeted, voice cool but not unfriendly as he set the plate down on the long obsidian table. Titus took his place beside the chair Damian had all but claimed as his own, tail flicking lazily against the floor.

“Damian,” I said, letting his name roll off my tongue like aged wine. “How are my favorite great-grandson and his overgrown mutt?”

Titus let out an indignant huff, but Damian just smirked as he settled into his seat. “Titus is thriving, as always. As for me... well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Not exactly a glowing review of Hell’s hospitality,” I mused, taking my seat at the head of the table. With a flick of my wrist, a decanter of something golden and highly flammable appeared. I poured a glass, then arched a brow at Damian.

He waved me off, already cutting into his meal. “I’ll pass. I prefer to keep my wits about me. Especially around you.”

I clutched my chest in mock offense. “Oh, Damian, your words wound me. Truly.”

“Not half as much as they probably should,” he muttered, not even looking up as he popped a bite of cheese into his mouth.

I smirked, swirling my drink. “So, tell me—how’s the fire training? Burning any less, or are you just getting better at pretending it doesn’t?”

Damian’s knife hovered for just a second before he met my gaze, eyes sharp and calculating as always. “It’s coming along,” he said, carefully neutral. “But the stronger I get, the more the forces inside me clash. The pain... let’s just say it’s not getting any better.”

I frowned slightly, setting my glass down. “And the shard of chaos?”

His jaw tightened—rare, but telling. “I’ll need to find it soon. But before that...” He placed his knife down, leaning forward, fingers resting on the table’s edge. “There are changes I want to make. To Hell.”

My interest piqued. I leaned in slightly. “Oh, this should be good. Do go on.”

“As Crown Prince,” he said, voice steady, deliberate, “Hell should be more than just a pit for punishment. It should be a stepping stone. A place where souls can earn second chances. Reincarnation. Maybe even... their way to Heaven."

I just stared at him for a beat. Then, like a dam bursting, laughter tore out of me—loud, unrestrained, the kind that rattles walls and makes flames flicker. Titus gave me a look of mild disapproval. Damian, unimpressed as ever, simply waited for me to finish.

“Oh, Damian,” I said, wiping away an imaginary tear. “You really are my great-grandson, aren’t you? Chaos wrapped in efficiency. Do you have any idea the kind of havoc this will unleash?”

“That’s the idea,” he said, unfazed, reaching for another bite of his meal.

I leaned in, chin resting on my steepled fingers. “And here I thought all those alliances you’ve been forging were just standard power hoarding. But this? This is entertainment.”

“You’re not against it,” he observed, watching me closely.

“Against it?” I grinned, slow and sharp. “Damian, I’m thrilled. I might even break out the popcorn for this one.”

We spent the rest of the meal refining the details—how the simulations would shape redemption arcs, which trials would suit which souls, how much autonomy to give the demons running the process. Every piece fit with precision, sharpened like a blade honed for war.

And yet, as we talked, that nagging sensation surfaced again—that feeling that I was less Lucifer and more Samael in his presence. Damian had a way of pulling that part of me to the surface. It was irritating. It was fascinating.

And it was going to make things very interesting.

Meetings in Hell are usually a parade of posturing, backstabbing, and the occasional literal stabbing. Less council, more circus. I only bother attending to remind everyone who’s in charge.

But the following day, as I lounged on my throne with my usual air of detached superiority, the center of attention wasn’t me.

It was him.

Damian al Ghul-Wayne-Morningstar. Crown Prince of Hell. Eternal pain in everyone’s collective ass.

He stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, green eyes scanning the room like a hawk choosing its next meal. The Dukes and Duchesses squirmed under his gaze—creatures who reveled in torment, who found joy in suffering, yet here they were, unsettled by a single mortal.

It was marvelous.

“Let’s start with the obvious,” Damian said, his tone clipped, all business. He leaned forward, hands pressing into the blackened table, which hissed under his touch like it had an opinion. “Hell is inefficient.”

That got their attention. A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, demons exchanging wary glances. A few braver ones narrowed their eyes at him.

Asmodeus, his horns nearly scraping the ceiling, let out a low growl. “Watch your tongue, boy, before I—”

“Before you what?” Damian cut in, standing tall and locking eyes with him. “Throw an empty threat my way? Waste my time with more posturing? Please. Sit down and let me talk.”

Asmodeus bristled, his claws curling into fists, but Mazikeen, seated at my right, chuckled and waved him off. “Let him finish, big guy. This is already more interesting than your last ten millennia of grunting.”

Damian shot her a smirk before turning back to the room. “Hell isn’t bad at what it does. It’s just... predictable. We punish, we torture, we shove people into eternal suffering, but for what? Does it make us stronger? No. Does it give us any leverage over Heaven? Not really. Does it make us look any better? Not even a little.”

Lilith, swirling molten gold in her goblet, tilted her head. “So what, dear boy? You’re proposing we become merciful?” Her voice dripped with amusement, but there was curiosity beneath it.

Damian started pacing, his movements sharp and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its next move. “I’m proposing we become strategic. Souls come here broken, twisted by their sins. Instead of hammering those sins deeper, what if we turned them into something useful?”

He stopped abruptly, scanning the table. “Picture this. A corrupt politician is forced into a world where lying strips away pieces of his identity. A miser can only survive by acts of generosity. A warlord finds himself powerless until he learns restraint. We don’t just punish their sins—we force them to confront them. They either break and stay damned, or they evolve. Either way, we win.”

The room was silent except for the flickering of flames and the distant wails of the damned.

Belial sneered. “You’re talking about redemption. You’re talking about sending souls back to Heaven.” His tone was thick with disgust. “We’re supposed to be Hell, not a reform school.”

Damian didn’t miss a beat. “First of all, we’re already a reform school. It’s just that nobody graduates.” He let that hang for a second before pressing on. “Second, you’re thinking about this all wrong. We’re not just handing souls over. We’re proving that we can do what Heaven can’t. We take the worst of the worst and turn them into something better. And when we do? That pisses Heaven off more than anything.”

The room erupted—some demons hissing, others actually considering it. Damian leaned back, arms crossed, completely unbothered as the chaos roared around him.

Damian waited for the last echoes of the shouting to fade before speaking again, his voice sharp enough to slice through the lingering tension.

“To the traditionalists,” he began, eyes scanning the room, “I’m not saying we stop punishing souls. That’s still the foundation of Hell. But what if we punished smarter?” He let the words settle before continuing. “If a soul fails their trials, nothing changed for us. They will stay remain in Hell and continue to be tortured. But if they succeed…” He shrugged. “What are we really losing? They’ve already served their time.”

Lilith leaned forward, swirling the molten gold in her goblet. “And for those of us running these little ‘trials’?” she asked, her tone skeptical but laced with intrigue. “What’s in it for us?”

Damian smirked, slow and sharp. “You get to play God.”

That got their attention. He started pacing, his movements deliberate, his hands gesturing as he spoke. “Imagine designing entire worlds tailored to a soul’s deepest flaws. Their worst tendencies, their most destructive instincts. You decide the rules, the obstacles, the torment. We’re not just torturers anymore. We’re architects. We mold them, push them to their limits. And when they break? We rebuild them—stronger, weaker, or something entirely new.” He let his gaze sweep across the room. “This is still Hell. But with a purpose.”

A thick silence followed. Even Asmodeus looked thoughtful, his massive brow furrowed as he mulled it over.

Mazikeen, lounging lazily in her chair with one boot propped up on the table, let out a low chuckle. “I hate to admit it,” she drawled, a wicked grin spreading across her face, “but the kid’s got a point. This could be… fun.”

Belial scoffed, but the venom from earlier was gone. “Fun? You’re talking about turning Hell on its head. Fun doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“No,” I said, finally speaking, drawing every eye back to me. I straightened on my throne, wings unfurling just enough for dramatic effect. “It’s not fun. It’s audacious. And if there’s one thing Hell thrives on, it’s audacity.” I held Damian’s gaze, my lips curling into a slow, satisfied smile.

“Congratulations, Crown Prince. You’ve officially made me interested.”

Damian inclined his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “About time,” he said, voice dripping with that familiar brand of snark.

One of the younger demons, a silver-haired upstart named Raviel, grinned wide enough to show way too many teeth. “So we get to play creator? Build worlds, design scenarios, tailor the torment?”

“Exactly,” Damian said, pointing at him like he’d just won a prize. “You set the rules. You design the trials. And when the souls fail? You decide how they suffer.” His voice was smooth, deliberate. “But this isn’t just about punishment. This is ownership. Mind, body, soul—you break them down, reshape them, forge something better than what they were before.”

A hush fell over the room, broken only by the crackle of flames and the distant wails of the damned. The demons—these lords and ladies of torment—weren’t scoffing anymore. They were listening.

And why wouldn’t they? Damian was playing them perfectly, the way a master con artist never lets the mark realize they’re being sold a lie. Or in this case, the truth—wrapped up in ego, power, and just enough temptation to make it irresistible.

From my throne, I swirled the liquid in my glass, watching it catch the firelight like molten stars. The faintest smirk tugged at my lips as I glanced at Mazikeen, who was perched beside me, absently sharpening her blade just for the aesthetic.

“He’s playing them like a fiddle,” I murmured, amusement curling in my voice. “The Duke of Subtlety and Sin. Delightful, isn’t he, Maze?” I gestured lazily toward the table. “A little fear, a lot of respect... it’s a recipe as old as sin itself.”

Maze snorted, not even looking up from her knife. The edge gleamed as she ran a finger along it, testing it with the kind of casual menace that could make even the boldest demon nervous. “Reminds me of someone I know,” she said, voice dry, sharp as her blade.

“Oh, flattery will get you everywhere,” I replied with a lazy grin.

Meanwhile, Damian kept pacing, his voice weaving through the room like a spell. He wasn’t posturing. He didn’t have to. His confidence was controlled, measured—not reckless, but deliberate. "You all complain about inefficiency," he said, voice smooth but cutting. "About souls slipping through the cracks. This is how we fix it. We don’t abandon our roots—we strengthen them. Adapt, or stagnate. The choice is yours."

One of the traditionalists, clinging to the old ways like a drowning man gripping a rock, muttered something under his breath.

Damian caught it anyway.

"Got something to add, Bael?" he asked, his tone polite, almost too polite, as he turned to face the demon.

Bael’s massive horns scraped against his chair as he leaned forward, glaring. "You're overstepping, boy. Hell doesn’t need your mortal sensibilities."

The room stilled.

The kind of silence that tightens like a noose.

Damian didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t shift. But something in the air changed, an invisible drop in temperature. He stepped toward Bael, slow, deliberate, his boots clicking against the stone floor with a sound that somehow seemed louder than it should have been.

"Mortal sensibilities?" he repeated, soft but edged like a blade. "I’ve walked through the fires of your domain. I’ve survived death, betrayal, loss—things you can’t comprehend. So tell me..." He leaned in slightly, his mismatched eyes catching the firelight—one glowing green, the other burning blue. "Which part of that seems mortal to you?"

Bael clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Mazikeen let out a low whistle. "Bold move," she murmured, clearly entertained.

"Boldness runs in the family," I said, smirking.

Damian let the silence stretch just long enough before turning back to the rest of the room, posture casual, presence anything but.

"This isn’t about sentimentality," he continued. "It’s about strategy. Control. Power. Right now, Heaven sees us as predictable—eternal torment, never-ending suffering, nothing new under the sun." He let that sink in before pacing again, his voice carrying through the chamber.

"But imagine if we start refining souls instead of just punishing them. Imagine we take the worst of the worst and forge them into something stronger, something... useful. You think Heaven wouldn’t owe us for that? You think they wouldn’t fear us for proving we can do what they never could?"

He stopped, letting his gaze sweep the room.

"If you’re too stubborn to see that, you can step aside. But don’t be surprised when the ones who do see it start leaving you behind."

There it was—the final stroke. He didn’t need to yell, didn’t need to threaten. He knew exactly where to cut, and he did it with surgical precision.

The innovators were buzzing now, whispers spreading like wildfire. Even some of the traditionalists looked begrudgingly intrigued, though they'd rather claw their own eyes out than admit it.

"Efficient and ruthless," Maze mused, shaking her head with a crooked grin. "He really is your blood, huh?"

"Not bad for a mortal," I said, tipping my glass in his direction. "Not bad at all."

“It’s the mental torture aspect, isn’t it?” I murmured to Maze, watching as one of the younger demons—some upstart dripping in gold rings—leaned in to whisper excitedly to his neighbor. “They’re imagining all the ways they can make a soul twist itself into knots without lifting a claw.”

Maze smirked, twirling her blade between her fingers. “Oh, they’re loving it. Nothing gets demons going like the idea of making someone break themselves. Saves on effort.”

Damian’s voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. “Think about it. Physical torment is predictable. It’s monotonous. But this?” He gestured to the room, letting his words sink in. “This is dynamic. Unpredictable. Every soul is a unique puzzle. And who better to solve those puzzles than you?”

That was bait, pure and simple. And they took it. The room shifted—curiosity sparking into something sharper. Interest. Hunger.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” the anvil-faced demon grumbled, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Then don’t volunteer,” Damian said with a shrug. “We’ll let the more... creative minds handle it.” His gaze flicked to Raviel, who nearly dropped his quill in his eagerness to nod.

Maze let out a low laugh, shaking her head. “He’s got them wrapped around his finger.”

“Of course he does,” I murmured, swirling my wine. “Efficiency, creativity, a healthy dose of fear... he’s hit all the right notes. And they don’t even realize it.”

Damian straightened, surveying the room like a king taking stock of his court. “This isn’t just about punishment. It’s about evolution. Adaptation. Survival. Hell isn’t some stagnant pit—it’s a system. And like any system, it either evolves... or it dies.”

No need for applause. No need for more debate. The room was his.

“Well,” I said, draining the last of my drink. “That was a masterclass in manipulation.”

Maze sheathed her knife with a flourish, grinning. “Think he’s gunning for your throne?”

I laughed, pushing off the throne, adjusting my coat. “If he is, he’ll have to do better than that.” I glanced at Damian, watching as the demons practically buzzed with the energy of his proposal.

“But I’ll admit... he’s making things interesting.”

Chapter Text

The rumor mill on Earth had been blazing—almost literally, given how infernal gossip had a habit of scorching its way through the realms. At first, it sounded like one of those ridiculous tales demons spun just to amuse themselves. Lucifer has a great-grandson? An al Ghul, of all things? That alone was enough to raise eyebrows, horns, and possibly pitchforks. But then came the real kicker—this mortal had been named the Crown Prince of Hell.

Absurd. Hilarious, even.

I thought that was as mad as it could get. But no, the underworld thrives on plot twists. Next thing I heard? Lucifer and Damian weren’t just running Hell together—they were trying to reform souls.

I nearly choked on my tea.

Reform? Here? That kind of bleeding-heart nonsense belonged upstairs, in the land of harps and halos, not in the pit where pitchforks and suffering were the main attractions. It reeked of something angelic, naive, maybe even hopeful. Which meant I had to see it for myself. Because who in their right—or very, very wrong—mind wouldn’t want front-row seats to Hell’s first-ever attempt at salvation?

The chamber where it was all going down? A masterpiece of Hellish grandeur. Jagged obsidian walls jutted out at angles that shouldn’t exist, carved with runes that flickered like embers ready to catch fire. The air hummed with energy—a blend of raw, ancient magic and something eerily precise, like Lucifer had stolen blueprints from Heaven’s tech department and improved them out of pure spite. The room felt alive, pulsing with chaotic power that could unmake a lesser creature just by standing too close. Brilliant craftsmanship, honestly, even if the purpose of the place was downright baffling.

And in the center of it all—Damian.

He had that al Ghul presence—sharp, cold, magnetic—but now layered with something darker, more commanding. He wasn’t just standing there; he owned the room. Every demon packed into the chamber, from cackling imps to the nastiest dukes of the pit, couldn’t look away. Not that any of them dared hold his gaze for too long. The moment those sharp green eyes cut in their direction, whispers died, laughter choked mid-snarl, and the whole room seemed to shrink under the weight of him. He was every inch the Crown Prince of Hell—unquestionable authority wrapped in barely-contained chaos.

And then there was Lucifer.

Perched off to the side like a king observing a particularly entertaining court, they didn’t need to do much to command attention—space just bent around them. They lounged with that effortless grace that came from millennia of power, every movement precise but casual, like the whole affair was an amusing game. To anyone who didn’t know them, Lucifer might’ve looked indifferent. But I knew better. There was a glint in their eyes, subtle but unmistakable—pride, curiosity, delight at whatever madness their great-grandson was about to unleash.

I found a nice, shadowy corner to lean against, letting the scene unfold. My serpent’s curiosity burned hotter than the Hellfire surrounding us. After all, it wasn’t every day you saw something new in Hell.

Reforming souls?

The audacity alone was worth witnessing.

And let’s be honest—who doesn’t love a good show when it’s guaranteed to be chaos, failure, or both?

From my spot against the jagged wall, I had the perfect view of the chaos unfolding in the simulation chamber, and let me tell you—it was glorious. The soul in question, Falman, had been a particularly vile little conman in life, making his fortune by swindling old ladies out of their pensions. The setup for his trial? Ingenious.

A pristine, picture-perfect neighborhood. White picket fences, neatly trimmed lawns, friendly neighbors waving as they passed. Falman, however, had no idea he was in Hell. As far as he knew, he had earned his spot in some kind of idyllic afterlife. No fire, no brimstone—just eternal sunshine and small talk.

And yet, something wasn’t right.

At first, Falman basked in it. He embraced his good fortune, indulged in the endless supply of comforts, charmed his neighbors into adoration. But the longer he stayed, the more cracks started to show. Strange little inconsistencies. Moments where his perfect world seemed to adjust to his choices.

The demons watching had expected him to take full advantage of his new reality—to con, manipulate, win. Instead, the frustration was eating him alive.

Damian, standing at the center of the room like he owned it, folded his arms, head tilting slightly as he watched the soul stumble through another painfully awkward interaction. A smirk ghosted at the edge of his lips, like he already knew how this would end and was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

“See?” Damian finally spoke, his voice dry but cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “Even the most self-serving liar starts to crack when the world refuses to play by his rules.”

A few demons scoffed. Others exchanged looks, intrigued despite themselves.

“But he thinks he’s in Heaven,” one of the traditionalists grumbled. “Where’s the punishment?”

Damian shot him a look. “Oh, trust me—this is torture.”

On cue, Falman’s simulation threw another wrench into his carefully constructed façade. His neighbor, a chipper old woman who should have been an easy mark, had just innocently mentioned how he had been chosen as the moral example for their community.

Falman’s entire body went rigid.

Demons cackled as he sputtered out a weak response, his mind racing to figure out the angle, the con, the way out. But there wasn’t one. Every choice he made was being quietly, subtly judged. And no matter how hard he tried to fake it, he couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that he didn’t belong here.

It was beautiful.

Lucifer, lounging lazily in a throne-like construct that absolutely hadn’t existed five minutes ago, chuckled softly but didn’t speak. They simply steepled their fingers and leaned forward, watching as the weight of the scenario pressed down on Falman’s psyche.

A voice from the back—some hulking brute with a face like an anvil—grunted, “He’s gonna crack. Bet he breaks down and confesses.”

“No,” Damian said immediately, not even bothering to look at the demon. His voice was firm, certain. “He’ll adapt. Eventually.”

Lucifer’s smile widened.

In the simulation, Falman was spiraling. He knew something was off. He knew there was a test. He just didn’t know what it was. And so, for the first time in his wretched existence, he was forced to actually try to be a good person.

Not out of guilt.

Not out of redemption.

Because he was trapped.

The demons around me were leaning in now, watching as Falman plastered on his best fake smile and—painfully, awkwardly—started making choices that weren’t just about self-preservation. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t even good. But they were different.

Damian turned back to the room, arms crossed, that quiet, self-assured gleam in his eyes. “Told you,” he said simply, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.

Lucifer clapped, slow and deliberate, the sound echoing through the chamber.

“Well done, Crown Prince,” they murmured, amusement curling in their voice. “A promising start.”

The demons muttered among themselves, some grudgingly impressed, others clearly itching to poke holes in the whole setup. I stayed put, watching Damian. He was tense—just a little, not enough for most to notice—but there was something in his expression. Pride? Determination? Maybe both. Whatever it was, it was clear this wasn’t just a performance. He actually believed in this.

And, for the first time in centuries, I found myself curious. Maybe this little al Ghul prince could actually pull it off.

I’d been skeptical. Obviously. The Crown Prince of Hell? A human kid—well, mostly human—with enough emotional baggage to sink a fleet? It sounded like the kind of Hell politics I usually avoided like holy water. But standing there, watching him work, I started seeing the bigger picture. There was something about him—sharp, magnetic, maddeningly competent. And judging by the way the demons hung onto his every word, I wasn’t the only one catching on.

Take Karma, for example. A mid-level demon who, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t blink at authority unless it was threatening him directly. But with Damian? He was practically vibrating with excitement, his many eyes darting between the simulation console and the Crown Prince like an infernal groupie who just got invited backstage. Every so often, he’d adjust a lever or tap a dial, clearly invested in the soul’s progress.

“Prince Damian,” he chirped, voice practically dripping with giddy enthusiasm as he gestured at the console, “I could tweak the next test. Maybe swap out his neighbor for someone who owes him a favor—see if obligation makes him worse?”

“No,” Damian said, sharp but not unkind. He didn’t even look at him, his focus locked on the soul still sobbing in the middle of the simulation. “We run the exact same scenario again. Let’s see what he does when he knows what’s coming.”

Karma’s enthusiasm deflated slightly, but he nodded so hard his horns nearly smacked the controls. “Oh, of course! Brilliant strategy, Your Highness.”

Lucifer, lounging a few feet away, snorted softly at that, but Damian ignored them. He took a step forward, his cape trailing behind him like it had a mind of its own, and turned his attention to Titus.

And when I say hellhound, I don’t mean some oversized mutt with a bad temper. This beast was all sinewy muscle, glowing eyes, and teeth that could probably chew through diamond. The demons closest to him gave him a wide berth, their usual bravado conspicuously absent.

Smart.

Titus let out a low, rumbling growl, almost bored, like he too was waiting to see if this whole reform idea had teeth.

Lucifer watched it all with quiet satisfaction, their sharp eyes flicking between Damian and the simulation. They didn’t say much—just the occasional hum of approval or an amused remark—but there was something unmistakable in their gaze. Amusement at the chaos Damian was creating without even trying.

And me? I couldn’t help but be impressed. Hell had always been chaos, wild and uncontained. But Damian wasn’t just surviving it—he was shaping it, bending it into something new. Something that thrived within the madness instead of fighting against it. And for the first time in a long while, I found myself wondering… maybe he could actually pull this off.

And if he did?

What a waste of mortality.

As the simulation ended and the last of the crowd trickled out, leaving behind the hum of residual magic and the faint scent of scorched air, I lingered near one of the jagged pillars. The heat still pressed against my skin, a cloying reminder of Hell’s flair for theatrics. I had nowhere urgent to be, and, frankly, I was curious.

The place wasn’t empty—not entirely.

Off to the side, a cluster of demons had gathered, their forms flickering between their grotesque true shapes and more socially acceptable versions. At the center of it all was Raviel—a young demon with sharp, angular features and fiery-red eyes that seemed to burn brighter the more animated he got. He was clearly in the middle of a speech.

“—and did you see him?” Raviel practically vibrated with excitement. “The way he handled Titus? That’s not just control; that’s respect. He didn’t even have to try. It’s like everything bends to him because it has to—it’s instinct.”

I arched a brow, stepping out of the shadows. “Instinct, huh? Funny. I always thought it was more about manipulation and a talent for theatrics.”

Raviel’s head snapped toward me, his expression flickering between irritation and something almost like awe. “Crowley,” he greeted, dipping into a bow that was just a little too dramatic. “Didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Observing.” I shrugged, slipping my hands into my pockets. “You seem awfully taken with the kid. What’s he got that’s got you lot singing his praises like he’s Hell’s next big thing?”

Raviel straightened, silver hair flaring slightly as his enthusiasm kicked up again. “He’s different. Don’t get me wrong, Lucifer is... well, Lucifer. But Damian? He’s not just here to rule. He’s here to change things. He sees us—not as cogs in the machine or pawns on the board, but as something more.”

A hulking demon beside him, his skin cracked like molten obsidian, rumbled in agreement. “The prince doesn’t waste words,” he said, voice like grinding stone. “Tells you what’s what, leaves no room for doubt. You screw up? He makes you feel it. But you prove yourself? He remembers.”

“Exactly!” Raviel jumped back in, eyes practically glowing. “And these simulations? Genius. It’s not just punishment anymore—it’s about proving worth. He’s giving Hell... I don’t know, purpose.”

I snorted, leaning against the pillar. “Purpose? In Hell? Now that’s a concept I’d have bet my shades against a century ago. But go on, Raviel, what’s in it for you? Don’t tell me this is all selfless admiration.”

Raviel hesitated—just for a second—then rolled his shoulders, like he was shaking off the weight of the question. “I mean, yeah, sure, it’s good for me too. The simulations give us a chance to step up, to prove what we’re capable of. I’ve already volunteered to run a few. Karma says we’ll be working directly under the prince soon.”

Now that was interesting.

I glanced back at Damian, who was still in deep discussion with Karma and a few other demons. He was already building something, pulling the right pieces into place. And, whether they realized it or not, Hell’s own were choosing to follow him.

The game had changed.

And I was starting to think Damian had already won.

“Oh, Karma said that, did he?” I smirked, turning back to the group of demons. I saw as Raviel shifted just slightly at the mention of him. There was a story there, but I wasn’t about to dig—not yet, anyway.

“And what happens if this whole operation flops? If redemption turns out to be one of those nice ideas that Hell chews up and spits out like stale wine?”

Raviel’s jaw tightened, his fiery eyes locking onto mine with surprising intensity. “It won’t flop. The prince won’t let it. He’s... relentless. And maybe that’s what scares the old guard the most. He doesn’t just play by their rules—he rewrites them.”

I considered that, tapping my fingers idly against the cool stone of the pillar. Relentless. Yeah, that sounded about right.

Raviel studied me for a beat, then tilted his head. “What do you think of him?”

I chuckled, straightening up and brushing imaginary dust from my sleeve. “Oh, he’s impressive, I’ll give him that. Smart. Dangerous. Probably a little too sure of himself for his own good, but hey, that’s practically a requirement down here. He’s shaking things up, and that’s always fun to watch.”

Raviel grinned, sharp teeth flashing in the dim light. “Fun? You think this is fun? Crowley, this is history in the making!”

“History,” I repeated, tone thick with sarcasm. “In Hell. You lot do love your theatrics.”

Raviel laughed, bright and crackling, the sound bouncing off the cavernous chamber walls. “You’ll see, Crowley. Give it time. The prince isn’t just going to change Hell—he’s going to change everything.”

The other demons chimed in with murmurs of agreement, their excitement humming through the air like static before a storm. And, against all logic, I found myself... entertained. Maybe even a little impressed. Hell had always been chaos, destruction, eternal misery. But under Damian al Ghul?

It was becoming something else. Something new.

I shook my head and turned to leave. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your hero worship. Just don’t forget where you are, Raviel. Hell’s still Hell, no matter how much polish you slap on it.”

But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the thought:

What if the kid actually pulls this off?

And, more importantly—

What the hell happens to the rest of us if he does?

Leaving Hell was always a bit like stepping off a rollercoaster you weren’t entirely sure was real. One moment, I was in the sweltering depths of the underworld, thick with sulfur and the ever-present hum of tormented wailing. The next? Solid ground—or at least Earth’s version of it.

London.

The shift always hit like a slap of damp air. The city smelled of rain-soaked pavement, exhaust fumes, and that faint metallic tang that never quite went away. No fire, no brimstone, no screaming souls—just the steady hum of life trudging along, blissfully unaware of the wars waged in places it would never see.

And there she was, waiting for me like the loyal beauty she was—my Bentley.

Even under the washed-out grey of an overcast sky, she gleamed, black paint polished to perfection, chrome accents catching the faintest glimmer of daylight. She looked just as pristine as the day I first laid eyes on her. Better, even—like she’d settled into herself, aged like a fine wine. I ran a hand over her roof, a gesture more ritual than anything.

“Miss me, darling?” I murmured, slipping into the driver’s seat.

The leather interior welcomed me like an old friend, the air still holding that familiar blend of motor oil and expensive cologne. A reminder that the Bentley wasn’t just mine—she was me.

The engine roared to life, a deep, satisfied purr that sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. The Bentley didn’t just run—she performed, a symphony of power and grace wrapped in vintage charm. As I eased her onto the streets, slipping seamlessly into the chaos of London traffic, I let myself enjoy the way lesser vehicles moved aside, whether consciously or by some deep, primal instinct that told them this car owns the road.

The drive to the bookshop was a ritual in itself—just me, the city, and the familiar blur of red buses, hurried pedestrians, and the occasional honking horn. The Bentley cut through it all effortlessly, a shark among minnows. I smirked, pressing the accelerator just enough to remind everyone else exactly where they stood in the grand hierarchy of automobiles.

By the time I pulled up outside Aziraphale’s shop, the drizzle had started, misting the streets in a glossy sheen. I parked with care, running a hand along the Bentley’s side in silent appreciation before stepping out and adjusting my sunglasses.

The bookshop was the same as ever—tucked neatly between two unremarkable buildings, its window display a haphazard mess of books arranged with more enthusiasm than intent. Classic Aziraphale.

I exhaled, letting a smirk tug at my lips.

Time to see what my dear angel had been up to.

The bell above the door let out its usual cheery jingle as I stepped inside, aggressively quaint as ever. It was so out of place in my day-to-day existence that I grimaced on instinct. Not that I disliked it exactly—it was just... too cheerful. Like it hadn’t gotten the memo about the world’s general state of disrepair.

Then the smell hit me.

Old paper, leather bindings, a faint whiff of chamomile. The kind of scent that could lull you into believing the world was a kind, orderly place—a dangerous illusion if you asked me.

The shop itself looked like it hadn’t been so much organized as it had been abandoned to the whims of time and dust. Shelves groaned under the weight of books crammed in with no discernible logic—first editions of Dickens wedged between obscure treatises on angelic hierarchies and cookbooks detailing the history of Victorian-era puddings. Piles of tomes spilled onto the floor in precarious stacks, each one daring gravity to make a move.

The dim light filtering through the mottled windows turned floating dust motes into tiny, glittering galaxies. An ancient-looking gramophone played something soft and classical—the sort of thing Aziraphale favored when he wasn’t debating the finer points of Queen with me.

And there he was.

Standing behind the counter, fussing over a porcelain tea set like it was the single most important task in the universe. His pudgy fingers moved with surprising precision, arranging each delicate piece just so, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

The whole scene was so absurdly homey it made my teeth itch.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked up as I stepped inside, his face lighting up like I’d just brought news that Heaven had finally abolished paperwork. “How lovely to see you! Tea?”

I shut the door with a little more force than necessary, shrugging off my coat and tossing it onto a chair buried under precarious stacks of books. “Angel, you and your tea are a constant in this chaotic universe. Meanwhile, I’ve just come from Hell, where the whole operation is being rewritten from the ground up. And you? You’re here hoarding baked goods and avoiding celestial drama.”

Aziraphale emerged from behind a shelf, teapot in one hand, a plate of scones in the other. He was beaming, of course, but his smile faltered just slightly when he caught the glint in my eye. “Oh, dear. That tone of yours sounds suspiciously like you’re about to tell me something… unsettling.”

I dropped into one of his absurdly delicate chairs, which creaked ominously under my weight, and picked up a teacup, inspecting it as if it might bite. “Not unsettling, exactly,” I drawled. “More like… revolutionary. And for once, I’m not the one behind it.”

That caught his interest. He set the scones and teapot down, settling across from me with the kind of eager curiosity only he could manage. “Oh, do go on.”

I leaned back, adjusting my sunglasses, making sure to drag out the pause just long enough to annoy him. “Hell’s got itself a new princeling. Damian al Ghul. Mortal kid, enormous chip on his shoulder, ego to match.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, pouring tea with that irritatingly precise care of his. “Al Ghul… as in the League of Assassins? Oh, I’ve read about them in Gabriel’s reports. Quite the dramatic lot, aren’t they?”

“You have no idea,” I said, swiping a scone and taking a bite. Annoyingly good, as always. “This one’s turned Hell into a bloody self-improvement program. No more fire and brimstone—not just that, anyway. He’s got demons running simulations, testing souls to see if they can learn, grow, change. And the worst part? It’s working.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, practically glowing with that infuriating angelic hopefulness. “Working? Truly? Oh, Crowley, that’s wonderful news!”

I held up a hand, chewing deliberately slowly, just to annoy him. “Don’t get all giddy just yet. The kid’s still Hell’s new golden boy, not some divine savior. But I’ll admit… watching a soul claw its way out of its own self-made misery is… something. Even Lucifer seemed mildly entertained, and you know how hard it is to get them off their throne for anything that isn’t apocalyptic.”

Chapter Text

Two years. That’s how long it took to drag this unholy alliance of celestial and infernal forces into something vaguely functional. I’d say it felt like an eternity, but in Hell, the concept loses its punch. Lucifer and I worked nonstop—me through sheer force of will and borderline exhaustion, them with that infuriating effortless grace. The hardest part? Getting the Princes of Hell and the angels of Heaven to speak, let alone work together. These weren’t exactly groups known for warm reunions. Every meeting teetered on the edge of disaster. More than once, I found myself mentally calculating how fast I’d have to duck if a flaming sword or infernal trident came flying.

But somehow—against all odds, reason, and my personal expectations—they warmed up to each other.

Turns out, Heaven was more sentimental than its reputation suggested. The angels weren’t just willing to entertain the idea—they were excited. Most of them downright wept at the sight of their fallen siblings, golden tears shimmering like morning dew on roses. Disgustingly poetic, I know, but watching Seraphim and demon lords embracing, muttering apologies over grudges older than humanity itself? Even the stoniest heart would crack. Not that I’m admitting mine did. At least, not in front of Lucifer.

The Princes of Hell, meanwhile, stood around like awkward kids at a school dance. Mammon kept glancing over his shoulder, convinced this was some elaborate trap. Asmodeus cracked jokes that landed about as well as a lead balloon. Beelzebub just stared at the floor, likely trying not to step on any emotional landmines. Lucifer, of course, was the exception. They stood composed, exuding that calm, knowing presence—like they’d seen this play out before. Which, of course, they had. 

They didn’t gloat, at least not visibly. But I’ve been around them long enough to catch the subtle shifts in posture, the slight quirk of their lips. They expected this, and I had to wonder—was it bittersweet? Watching it unfold again, knowing this time might just succeed where the last had failed?

And then there was me.

Damian Wayne, mortal-born interloper in this celestial soap opera. I wasn’t prepared for what came next.

The angels—all of them—turned their attention to me. Their golden eyes softened, like they were looking at some fragile newborn creature. It was jarring. I’d been called many things in my life—brat, heir, demon spawn—but never precious.

And certainly never by an entire choir of divine beings.

They didn’t just tolerate me. They adopted me.

I couldn’t walk three feet without some angel ruffling my hair, offering me glowing fruit that tasted like sunlight, or giving me vague, overly optimistic advice about my “destiny.”

Honestly? I wasn’t sure whether to be honored or deeply concerned.

Lucifer stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold with an expression I couldn’t quite pin down. Pride? Amusement? A hint of jealousy? Probably all three, though they’d never admit to the last one.

Still, I caught the way their eyes narrowed just slightly when Azrael all but shoved a chorus of cherubs aside to hand me a feather from their own wing as a “token of admiration.”

"Adored by Heaven and Hell alike," Lucifer muttered under their breath, just loud enough for me to catch. Their tone was dry, but there was something underneath it—something almost fond. "Careful, little one. You’re starting to make me look bad."

I arched a brow, smirking. “Don’t worry. Your title as the Morning Star is safe. For now.”

They rolled their eyes but said nothing, letting the scene play out. If anything, I got the feeling they were tolerating my newfound fan club because, in some twisted way, they thought I deserved it. The great-grandchild of Lucifer Morningstar, being coddled and adored by celestial beings on both sides of the divide—it was surreal. Almost laughable.

And yet, there was something about it that settled a part of me I hadn’t realized was restless.

Lucifer leaned back against their throne, the flickering Hellfire casting shifting shadows across their face as they smirked. "Oh, come now, little one. That eye-roll was almost celestial. I should be insulted."

I sighed dramatically, adjusting my cape as if shaking off their teasing. “It’s called having standards, great-grandparent. You should try it sometime.”

Their laughter rang out, melodic and strange, echoing through the chamber like a song with no clear beginning or end. Before I could fire back, Lucifer straightened, their gaze shifting past me with something dangerously close to genuine interest.

"Crowley!" Their voice carried effortlessly through the cavernous hall.

It didn’t take long.

Crowley sauntered in from the direction of the “gardens”—if you could even call them that. Hell’s idea of a garden was more of a graveyard of charred stumps, dunes of ash, and twisted metallic vines that pulsed faintly with infernal energy. And yet, somehow, Crowley made it work, moving through the desolation like he was stepping out of a five-star botanical retreat.

He stopped mid-step as Aziraphale caught up behind him, the angel’s face an open book of concern. The pristine white of his robes stood out against Hell’s bleak backdrop, and the way his brow creased with every nervous glance at Crowley made it painfully obvious he hated being here.

Crowley muttered something under his breath—probably sarcastic, knowing him—but Aziraphale only pressed his lips into a thin line, hovering at the edge of the gathering like he was deciding whether or not to bolt.

Lucifer’s smirk deepened.

Oh, this was about to get interesting.

“Shido!” I shouted as the vortex swallowed me whole, the sensation of falling pulling me abruptly back. Lucifer’s laughter echoed faintly behind me, a reminder that whatever awaited me in this rewritten timeline, they would always be watching—and meddling—from the shadows.

The portal spat me out without ceremony, dumping me straight into Darkseid’s throne room like I’d been unceremoniously ejected from the universe itself. Typical.

The place was suffocating—vast, cavernous, and oppressive in a way that pressed against my bones. The air was thick with ash, laced with something worse: despair, woven into the very fabric of Apokolips. Jagged obsidian spires jutted from the ground like the fossilized remains of some ancient beast, twisted into a throne room that was more a monument to suffering than a seat of power. Above, parademons circled in restless swarms, their screeches blending into an unending, nightmarish cacophony. They were grotesque, part-insect, part-monster, with glowing yellow eyes that cut through the gloom like dying stars.

I landed on my feet, of course. Because I’m a Wayne. We don’t do undignified entrances.

Brushing off my coat, I let my gaze flick lazily across the throne room before landing on the massive, unmoving figure seated atop his obsidian throne. Darkseid. King of Apokolips. Tyrant. God. And an overgrown megalomaniac with a superiority complex the size of the multiverse.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my shoulders like I’d just been inconvenienced rather than thrown into the lion’s den.

Then, louder, with all the venom I could muster, I said, “Greetings, King of Apokolips.”

Darkseid didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched, the red glow of his eyes searing through me with slow, predatory intensity. The air around him warped subtly, as if existence itself recoiled from his presence. He leaned forward, the shift deliberate, like a beast acknowledging prey that had wandered into its den.

"Who are you, child?” His voice was a low, reverberating growl, each word crawling through the air like thunder before a storm.

I met his stare head-on, standing tall despite the unfortunate fact that I was currently ten years old. My voice was unwavering. “I am Flamebird, Crown Prince of Hell and great-grandson of Lucifer Morningstar.”

Silence. A heavy one. The kind that made lesser beings crumble.

His gaze sharpened. Not with fear—Darkseid feared nothing—but with something closer to interest. Analyzing. Calculating. “What is the scion of Hell doing in my palace?” he asked, his tone edged with menace.

Above us, the parademons screeched louder, the sound like metal grinding against bone. I didn’t flinch.

“I’m here for your shard of chaos,” I said, dry and unimpressed, as if I were requesting an extra sugar packet for my tea.

The effect was immediate. The throne room darkened further, the already ominous atmosphere twisting into something sharper. The air turned electric, crackling with energy that didn’t belong in this realm.

And then I saw it.

A faint purple glow flickered in the shadows, pulsing with a rhythm that felt almost alive. Slowly, it intensified, casting eerie, shifting light against the blackened walls until it was impossible to miss—the shard. Suspended midair like a malevolent star, its glow beckoning with a pull I could feel in my bones.

The second my eyes locked onto it, the rest of the world dulled. The suffocating presence of Apokolips faded. The parademons, the throne room, even Darkseid himself—all of it dimmed into the background noise of existence. The shard was calling. Resonating. It knew me, recognized the piece of itself already buried deep within my soul.

I stepped forward before Darkseid could react.

The pull grew stronger, tightening around my mind, my magic, like a tether dragging me toward something inevitable. My hand reached out, fingers inches from its surface. The power pulsed, its energy coiling around my wrist like a serpent, tasting my intent.

Then my fingers closed around it.

And then—pain.

Not the kind you grit your teeth through, not the kind you can push past. This was something deeper, something raw and relentless, burning through every nerve, every thought, every piece of me. I might’ve screamed—I think I did—but the sound barely registered, lost in the chaos roaring inside my skull. This wasn’t like Hellfire or Holy Fire. I knew those. I’d learned to wield them, to tame them. This? This was something else entirely. Something that wasn’t meant to be held.

My knees hit the floor. The world blurred at the edges, but I didn’t let go. Couldn’t. If I did, it was over. I would’ve failed—Lucifer, myself, the world I was trying so damn hard to save.

I thought I understood pain. I’d been burned, broken, thrown into the Lazarus Pits, torn apart and stitched back together more times than I could count. But this wasn’t just pain. It was erasure. The shard wasn’t simply hurting me—it was unmaking me. Woven into my bones, my blood, my soul, and still, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t complete.

The shard already inside me—buried deep, pulsing with its own chaotic heartbeat—reacted violently to the one in my grasp. I could feel it, the resonance, the undeniable truth: I wasn’t meant to contain this power. If I kept it inside me, it wouldn’t just kill me—it would obliterate me. I wouldn’t die a warrior, wouldn’t die a prince. I would vanish. A flicker of potential, snuffed out by my own arrogance.

I couldn’t let that happen.

So I did the only thing I could. I let go.

And chaos answered.

Power surged outward, an inferno of raw, unchecked force ripping free from my body. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t fire. It was something older, wilder—something that couldn’t be caged. A shockwave detonated from where I knelt, blasting outward in a storm of light and shadow. The walls cracked. The obsidian spires shattered, raining molten debris. The parademons above screeched, their monstrous forms disintegrating as the energy devoured them whole.

And through it all, Darkseid stood unmoving, wreathed in flames, watching as his throne room crumbled around him. He should have been furious. Maybe he was. Or maybe—just maybe—he was impressed.

I didn’t care.

The world burned, and for the first time, I let it.

I let it all burn.

Chapter Text

Dear Readers,

I’m thrilled to announce that the third part of the series, The Reluctant Hero, is finally here! This story dives into the chaotic, magical mess that is John’s life—a man who never asked to be a hero yet somehow keeps saving locked-up magical deities. Time travel is already complicated, but when you add cosmic debts and divine favors to the mix, things spiral fast.

John’s no hero—just a guy trying to survive an endless string of disasters, all while the universe insists on dragging him into its mess. If you’ve been waiting to see how a reluctant savior copes with interdimensional grudges, tangled timelines, and magical mayhem, this is the story for you.

I hope you enjoy this new chapter of John’s reluctant adventures as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

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Dear Readers,

I’m thrilled to announce that the third part of the series, The Queen of Darkness, is finally here! This story dives into the magical and bloody path of Raven as she wakes up in her past, before she had ever summoned Trigon. With Azarath in peril, she will need to rush to save her home and take down her father.

I hope you enjoy this new chapter Raven's adventures as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

Chapter Text

Dear Readers,

I’m thrilled to announce that the third part of the series, Changes in Between, is finally here! This story is all about Dream, Hob, and Billy. They will be the IT family of the supernatural community!

I hope you enjoy Part V as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

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