The Lazarus Pit hissed, alive with its usual fury—green light pulsing like a heartbeat, ancient and restless. The chamber reeked of old magic and resurrection, and Ra’s stood at its edge like a high priest at the altar of the impossible.

He had done this countless times for himself. But tonight, the Pit wasn’t for him.

She lay wrapped in silks, her body untouched by time but claimed by death all the same. Still. Beautiful. Cold.

Ra’s stared down at her, his expression unreadable—somewhere between reverence and madness. “You always said I feared death too much,” he whispered, more to the pit than to her. “Perhaps. But it’s you I fear being without.”

He gave the signal. The acolytes moved in silence, lifting her gently, reverently, and lowering her into the swirling green abyss.

The Pit screamed. It always did.

He didn’t flinch.

Steam rose, thick and violent, licking at the stone like fire, as if the Earth itself resisted letting her go. The glow pulsed brighter, brighter—until it was blinding.

Then— A gasp. Sharp. Ragged. Alive.

Ra’s stepped forward, cloak billowing behind him. And for the first time in centuries, the Demon’s Head let his guard fall. Just a little.

“Welcome back, my beloved,” he said.

The Lazarus Pit had taken. Now he would see what it gave in return.