When Damian's soul mark didn't manifest as he entered puberty, he'd paid it little mind. He had no time for frivolities; he was a warrior, not a sentimental fool. That was how he'd been raised, after all. Feelings were a weakness to be exploited, not something to be celebrated, and an assassin had no use for them.

Granted, he was no longer an assassin, but the mindset that feelings were something to avoid had never left him. The lack of a soul mark was still a blessing, as far as he was concerned. He'd seen how his siblings had suffered thanks to their own soulmates. He'd seen how saccharine and pathetic people acted around each other thanks to those marks. Damian was glad to be above that.

So it'd been a great shock to him when, in a fight against an assassin the League had sent after him, the wound he'd inflicted reflected back on him. Both of them had stood there in shocked and confused silence for a moment, trying to understand what was going on. And then, their arms had glowed, each other's names appearing in cursive in their wrists. Now the two were at a standstill, their fight forgotten, as their brains attempted to process the situation.

"What the..." Damian muttered, struggling to keep his grip on his weapon. Warmth was spreading across his chest, and his heart felt odd, like a caged bird was fluttering wildly inside it. His cheeks burned, his knees felt weak, and for a moment he wondered if he'd been poisoned. "You! What trickery is this?!" he demanded, pointing a shaky weapon at his opponent. "What have you done to me?!"