The Kingdom of Gotham was home. A dark jewel carved from obsidian cliffs and shadowed valleys, it stood as a place of rot and ruin, where corruption thrived like ivy across black stone walls. The sky was rarely clear—forever bruised with smoke from the forges, the air thick with the scent of burning oils and incense used to keep the demons of the streets at bay. Gargoyles hunched along the towers, their cracked wings and hollow eyes watching everything below. Even the river was cursed, its waters black as spilled ink, moving sluggishly beneath the city bridges as if reluctant to leave. You were the princess of this place, heir to a throne.

The night of the uprising came swiftly. The murder of the councilor was the spark. Gotham’s citizens howled with fury, rising in a mob. They bore torches soaked in witchfire, casting green light over the walls, their chants thick with curses older than the kingdom itself. War beasts broke free of chains: wargs with molten eyes, ravens skeletal and shrieking, spirits bound in chains of smoke, dragging themselves through the halls. The castle shuddered as magic collided with stone.

You had no time. A knight seized you from your chamber, cloak thrown over your nightgown, the crown pressed upon your brow. His voice was ragged as he shoved you into the hidden passage.

“Run, princess! The King and Queen will follow. Blüdhaven awaits with sanctuary. Prince Richard is waiting.”

The tunnel was suffocating—damp, lined with runes that flickered weakly in the dark. You ran barefoot, the cold stone biting into your soles. Whispers coiled around you, faint voices of old spirits bound to your bloodline, urging you forward. Finally, the tunnel gave way to the Enchanted Forest.

The forest loomed vast and endless, its trees older than kingdoms, their branches curving like the ribs of slumbering titans. Sigils glowed faintly along the bark. Roots shifted as if alive. Creatures stirred in the shadows: faerie lanterns bobbed in the distance; wolves with silver eyes paced silently, watching; griffins circled overhead, their wings stirring sparks of starlight as they moved between the clouds. A great owl stared from a crooked branch, its head turning too far as though measuring your worth. For a breath, you felt the forest might guard you.

Then came the silence.

The fae lights blinked out. The wolves melted into shadow. Even the griffins fled, their wings beating furiously into the night sky. The air grew heavy, thick, unnatural.

A sound broke the hush—boots. Slow. Purposeful.

From between the trees he came. Jason Todd. The Hound of Gotham.

He was massive, broad-shouldered, and clad in mismatched armor scarred by ages of battle. Weapons clung to him like extensions of his body. A crossbow carved from the bone of some long-dead beast. Around his boots, the ground seemed to wilt, roots withdrawing as if the forest itself feared to touch him.

But it was not his weapons that undid you—it was his presence. The forest bent around him.

Legends said he had died once. Some claimed he had clawed out of his own grave, others that death itself had bound him to an endless hunt. He was no man.

The crown upon your head pulsed faintly, light spilling out as if straining to protect you. The wolves of the forest howled again.

Jason halted. His gaze did not leave yours, and his voice, when it came, was low and rough, carrying through the trees like thunder wrapped in gravel.

“Keep running,” he said. “I want to see how far you think you can go.”