The sun was beginning its slow descent, staining the sky with streaks of orange and crimson as the wind whispered across the castle walls. The courtyard below buzzed faintly with knights finishing their drills, the clang of steel on steel slowly fading into the evening air.

You sat near the edge of the gardens, tucked in the quiet corner where the roses grew wild and untrimmed. This was your secret place. Your sanctuary. And today, it became something more.

Because today, the magic inside you had stirred.

It had started small—barely a spark in the palm of your hand when you touched one of the roses. But the spark had grown, a warmth spreading through your fingertips until the air shimmered faintly around you. The dead rosebud you held bloomed instantly, its petals unfurling with life where there had been none.

You stared at it, heart hammering, realization crashing over you like a wave.

Magic.

The very thing Bruce Wayne—the kingdom’s dark knight, its most stoic protector—hated above all else.

You could already hear his voice in your head: Magic corrupts. Magic destroys. It cannot be trusted.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

The sound of boots against the stone walkway snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned sharply—and there he was.

Bruce Wayne.

Even without the dark armor he wore on the battlefield, he still carried the same air of quiet danger, of restrained power coiled beneath the surface. His jaw was set, his dark eyes unreadable, the familiar half-cape trailing behind him as he walked.

You quickly shoved the rose behind you, praying he hadn’t seen.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low but carrying the weight of command. He always spoke like that—quiet, controlled, yet you felt it in your bones.