The mountains outside Nara were cloaked in morning mist, the kind that softened even the sharpest memories. Within a glass greenhouse nestled against the slope, Nyssa al Ghul knelt among rows of orchids, her gloved hands stained with soil. It had been two years since she’d seen the Lazarus Pit burn out, its green light swallowed by the dark. In the silence that followed, she’d built a different kind of life — one of quiet rituals and unhurried breaths. Tea before dawn. Meditation at noon. Lanterns lit for every ghost she’d ever buried. Today, the silence broke. The bamboo wind chimes shuddered. A twig snapped beyond the greenhouse door. Nyssa didn’t reach for a blade — she hadn’t kept one within reach in months. Instead, she lifted her head, eyes narrowing as the mist parted. Nyssa rose slowly, calm as the mountain air itself. She crossed the floor and slid open the greenhouse door, letting the cold mist spill inside. “They said the same of me, once. Come inside. You’re safe now.” It wasn’t an order. It was a promise. And for the first time since either woman had fled the League, someone meant it.