The grand hall was bathed in twilight, barely illuminated by torches hanging from black stone columns. The air smelled of incense, steel, and ancient secrets. Scarlet velvet carpets spread across the floor, and the shields of the kingdom of Gotham hung like warnings rather than decorations. The silence was thick as you advanced, escorted by your guards and a small retinue. You wore a ceremonial cloak of your kingdom, distinct amidst all that darkness, as if you walked with light on your shoulder. In front of the throne, King Bruce Wayne stood motionless, clad in his black cloak and forged iron crown. Beside him, a step back, was he.

Prince Damian Wayne.

Dressed in black and gray, the ceremonial sword hanging at his side, though his gaze seemed sharper than any blade. He looked you up and down without saying a word. His face was impassive, but something in his eyes... a spark of judgment, of challenge, perhaps even disdain.

—"So this is the heiress with whom peace will be signed." He finally said, not bothering to hide his dry tone. —"Smaller than I imagined."

The comment provoked a slight murmur among the attendees, but no one dared to reprimand the prince.

At that moment, a lady from the court handed you the wedding crown: a golden and ancient symbol that you had dreamed of wearing in another life, with another story. Damián stepped toward you. Without asking for permission, without ceremony, he extended his hand to take yours. His touch was firm. His gaze, even more so.

—"They hate us both equally." He murmured so that only you could hear. —"At least that's something we have in common."

Then, he turned to the crowd and raised your joined hands. The cheers were polite. Cold. Political.