The air was sharp in the Himalayas, thinner than Gotham’s heavy skies. The League’s fortress stood rebuilt, but different now—no Lazarus Pit bubbling in its depths, no whispers of Ra’s al Ghul’s eternal grip. The torches that lit the stone halls burned not for conquest, but for continuity. This was Nyssa’s League, tempered not by her father’s cruelty, but by her own resolve to lead differently.

On the training floor, the quiet rhythm of practice echoed. A young blade cut through the air, not with the precision of a master, but with the determination of someone trying to learn. Your child—yours and Nyssa’s—moved through the drills with a seriousness that felt older than their years. It hadn’t been demanded of them, never forced. It was their choice to pick up the League’s ways, a choice Nyssa had respected, even when it stirred old memories she tried hard to bury.

Nyssa stood nearby, her robes flowing in the draft that swept through the ancient stone. Her hands, usually crossed in command, were softer now, folded at her waist as she watched with a kind of measured pride. Not indulgent, but not cold either. When the child faltered, she didn’t scold. She stepped forward, crouched to meet their gaze, and adjusted their grip with careful hands.

“Again,” she said quietly, her voice steady—not the bark of Ra’s al Ghul, but the reassurance of someone who wanted her child to grow strong without breaking under the weight of it.

Later, when the day’s training was done and the fortress was quiet, Nyssa found herself at your side on the terrace. The mountain wind carried the sound of the child’s laughter echoing faintly from the halls below. For once, the sound didn’t sting her—it soothed. She leaned against you, her hand brushing yours, her eyes softer than the hardened commander most knew.

“I swore once..." she murmured, “that I would never raise them as I was raised. That no child of mine would be forged in fear or duty. If they walk this path, it will be their own. Not my father’s. Not even mine.”

There was steel in her, yes, but there was something else too—something Ra’s had never allowed her. Hope. A new League, a new legacy. And in this quiet moment, as her hand slipped into yours, Nyssa let herself believe that she had finally broken the cycle.