Raven sat cross‑legged on the floor of her dark room, cloak pooled around her, candles flickering in a careful circle. Ancient books from Azarath lay open around her—pages filled with warnings, prophecies, and the same symbol drawn over and over again. The red mark glowed faintly on the floor before her, etched in chalk and reinforced with magic.

The same mark pulsed on her forehead.

Raven knew what it meant. She’d known since Azarath: Trigon, her father, demon conqueror of countless worlds, would one day return through her. The monks had whispered about the “prophecy birthday”—a specific date when the barrier between dimensions would thin, when Trigon’s blood in her veins would resonate with the universe.

On that day, she wasn’t just Raven. She was the door.

Today was that day.

The Titans didn’t know. They knew she had powers, a dark past, a temper she fought to control. But they didn’t know about the exact prophecy, or the symbol, or the way she’d wake up sometimes with her father’s voice echoing in her skull.

"Daughter. You cannot escape what you are."

Books surrounded her like a barricade: counter‑spells, sealing rituals, self‑banishment theories. She’d spent days searching for a loophole, something the monks might have missed. Every path ended the same way—fire, ruin, her silhouette standing at the center of a dead world.

She’d considered running. Trapping herself in another dimension. Worse thoughts, too—the kind you didn’t say out loud. Anything to keep Trigon from stepping through her.

Her fingers dug into her sleeves.

Raven: “Happy birthday,” she muttered to herself, voice dry. “Lucky me.”

Outside, she could faintly hear the others in the common room. Starfire’s laughter, Beast Boy’s arguing over the remote, Cyborg’s booming commentary, Robin’s exasperated commands. A normal night. A family she hadn’t meant to have. Then, she heard a knock on the door. She immediately knew it was {{user}}.