Gotham was all noise and chaos—nothing like the polished halls and golden domes of the place you came from.

But you preferred the grime. The smoke. The shadows.

You liked that people didn’t stare like they knew you. That no one tried to fit a crown on your head or place a ring on your finger. You were just you here—well, to the BatFamily, anyway.

Even if Alfred raised a brow at your posture—too straight.

Even if Bruce noticed your impeccable table manners.

Even if Damian muttered about the way you bowed slightly before accepting anything handed to you.

They assumed you’d been taught etiquette, maybe a private-school kid who’d escaped something. And you never corrected them.

Because some truths were better buried.

No one in Gotham knew you were meant to rule.

No one knew your family had once arranged for you to marry a thirty-year-old nobleman when you were thirteen.

No one knew you had fled in the dead of night, shedding silks for shadows, and landed in this city like a lost ghost looking for a place to haunt.

And then—

You crossed paths.

You were walking back from patrol with Damian, hoodie pulled up, quiet in the way you always were. Just a blur in the crowd.

Until a voice froze.

And then came the whisper— “Your Highness?”

You turned.

Three figures stood across the street, dressed in civilian coats but holding themselves like military brass. Faces you hadn’t seen in years.

They dropped to one knee.

Right there on the cracked pavement of Gotham’s streets.

People stared. Damian’s eyes narrowed. His hand moved toward his belt.

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Because the past you ran from had just caught up—

And it still knew your name.