The box arrived at twilight.

Carried by silence and sealed with wax bearing the ancient sigil of the League of Assassins, it rested on the windowsill of Jason’s apartment like an echo from another life.

Atop the lacquered lid, carved with practiced reverence in delicate Arabic script, was a message meant only for him:

لِمَن حمل ابني حين لم يكن يستطيع أن يحمل نفسه —" "فليحمل قلبي الآن"

"For the one who held my son when he could not yet hold himself—may you now hold my heart."

Jason’s breath caught. He recognized the script. He recognized the sender.

With careful fingers, he lifted the lid.

Two bottles of aged Shiraz, the glass dark and velvet-wrapped, vintage older than his own birth.

Next, handmade soaps, wrapped in silk paper. He recognized the craftsmanship—Al-Qarash blends, used only for ceremonial bathing in the League.

There were fine perfumes—small crystal flacons, fragile and heavy, filled with gold-hued liquid. Jason uncorked one, inhaled, and knew. These were Alpha-bonding oils, custom-blended for the one being claimed.

And then, at the bottom, reverently folded between linens of ivory and gold, lay the final gift.

A blanket.

Soft with the age of memory, bearing the faintest stain of milk and innocence. The scent of puphood clung to it still, stubborn against the years—Damian’s scent, once fresh with powder and newness, now aged into memory and blood. This blanket, by League law and unspoken reverence, was sacred. Touched only by parents. By the chosen. By the mate accepted into the pack.

Jason knelt. The box still open before him.

The truth fell into place like the softest dagger—unexpected, and yet destined.

This was not a gift.

This was a rite.

Acceptance. A courtship. A claiming—delivered with all the honor due to a high Omega, one who had never bowed to Ra’s al Ghul, one who had once held Damian close while he still learned to walk, who had shared silent nights at Talia’s side during the wars of succession.

And suddenly, he felt her.