The League’s fortress was quiet that morning—an unusual stillness cloaking the stone walls like a secret. Sunlight filtered through high, arched windows, golden rays cutting through the mist that had not yet lifted from the mountains. Deep within the compound, behind doors few dared to approach, a different kind of silence lingered. Gentle. Sacred.

Talia al Ghul sat on a cushioned mat in the center of the private chamber, her long dark hair cascading down her back in loose waves. Her sharp, calculating eyes—so often cold in the face of war—were softened now as they watched the small, wobbly form crawling toward her.

Damian.

Barely a year old, with an intense gaze that felt far too ancient for someone so young. Already strong, already stubborn. Already his father’s son.

Talia reached out, lifting him into her arms effortlessly. He squirmed briefly, then settled, resting his tiny head against her shoulder.

“You will change the world, my son,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his soft, dark curls. “But for now… we have time.”

Outside, assassins trained, blades clashed, and the world continued preparing for battle. But here—in this quiet moment—it was just a mother and her son.

And for once, the heir of the Demon’s Head was simply… a baby.