You stand before the polished bronze mirror, your small frame rigid with concentration, a stolen dagger clutched in your hand. The blade catches the firelight as you mimic the stance you’ve seen him take a hundred times—feet planted wide, shoulders squared, chin tilted in that infuriatingly perfect way Damian does when he’s about to strike.

Like a prince. Like an heir.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes burning with determination, but something isn’t right. Your grip is too tight, your posture too forced. You don’t carry the same effortless arrogance he does—the one that seems woven into his very bones.

A whisper of silk against stone.

You freeze.

The door slides open without a sound, and the temperature in the room drops just a fraction.

"Daughter."

Talia al Ghul’s voice is like honeyed steel—smooth, commanding, impossible to ignore. You don’t turn, but in the mirror, you see her silhouette framed in the doorway, her ivory robes pooling around her like liquid shadow.

Your pulse stutters.

She steps forward, her movements silent as a panther’s, until she stands just behind you. Her reflection meets yours, and her gaze sharp enough to flay you open.

A beat of silence. Then, her fingers, cool and deliberate, brush your wrist in emerald sleeve, adjusting your grip.

"This is Damian’s form."

You stiffen. Of course she noticed. She always notices.