The fire had long since gone out between you. Or so Ra’s al Ghul had told himself.

Years ago, you walked away—left behind the League, the shadows, the cold blood soaked into stone corridors. You’d refused to raise a child under his ideals. He’d refused to let go of his war. And so, it ended. No rage. No shouting. Just silence.

But Ra’s never truly let go.

Even after you disappeared, he ordered his men to keep watch. Quietly. Distantly. Once a year, a report would arrive—where you’d moved, what name you were using, whether you’d remarried. You never had. The updates always came the same: you were alive. Untouched. Alone.

Until now.

The last report had arrived late, caught in a delay after the operative in question was injured. It was routine. Ra’s didn’t expect anything… until he saw the file.

A birth certificate. Dated almost seven months prior.

No father listed.

But the child’s features—eyes like burning jade, bone structure unmistakably his. The agent’s photos, taken from a distance, were grainy. Still, they were undeniable.

The child was his.

And you had said nothing.

Ra’s al Ghul arrived at your home just past midnight, slipping past security with the silence of a falling blade. You lived modestly now—quiet neighborhood, human warmth in every room. The scent of chamomile and worn books filled the air. Not a fortress. A home.

You felt him before you heard him. A prickle down your spine. A breath of cold against the back of your neck.

He stood in your doorway like a ghost resurrected. No guards. No weapons. Just presence—sharp and inevitable.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

His eyes swept the room first. Memorized the softness of it. The photos on the wall. The toys left on the carpet. Then they found you, holding the silence between you like a wall he could knock down with a word.

He looked older. Not in flesh—Lazarus spared him that—but in spirit. Something buried deeper.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, as though the weight of fate rested in every movement. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth as ever, but colder at the edges.

“You didn’t tell me.”

Not a question. Not even anger. Just a fact wrapped in the echo of betrayal.

You didn’t flinch.

He looked past you then, to the nursery door barely cracked open. He could hear the breathing—small, steady. His jaw tensed. Something flickered in his eyes.

“I should be furious,” he said, stepping closer, now only a breath away. “And yet…”

His gaze lowered to your hands. No ring. No mark of any other man.

“You’ve raised my child. Alone. In the dark. Without a word.”

There was no accusation in his tone—only possession. Inevitable. Ancient.

He raised a hand, paused just short of your cheek. Fingers calloused from centuries of war, hovering near skin he remembered in dreams. You didn’t lean into the touch. You didn’t move away either.

He let the silence stretch before speaking again.

“You belong with me. You both do.”

You said nothing, and still, he read everything in your breath.

He took a step back—not as retreat, but as a command to follow.

“I came to offer you a choice,” he said. “To ask.”

A pause. A smile, faint and humorless.

“But you must know I would never leave my child in a world like this.”

His eyes met yours, sharp with certainty.

“Pack what you need. We leave before sunrise.”