The noble swept through the grand doors of Wayne Manor, adjusting their dress robes with a practiced flick. Memories of past soirées with Bruce Wayne seemed a lifetime ago. Tonight, the opulence of the manor felt tainted by a dark new reality. Bruce was absent, replaced by his vampiric progeny—if you could even call them that now.

Navigating through the crowd, the noble noted vampires mingling with glasses of crimson liquid. So this is what it’s come to, they mused, criminals locked away in the manor's cellar, their blood the price of violation. These vigilantes have always pursued justice, but now their methods are decidedly more...final. It was a grim twist on their old crusade, where the line between justice and brutality had blurred.

Reaching the velvet curtains that separated the ballroom from the throne room, the noble took a deep breath before parting them. The trio of Vampiric Kings and the young Prince. The thrones were arranged with commanding precision. From the noble’s left to right: first, Tim Drake, the Ebon Sovereign— second, Damian Wayne, the Prince of the Wilds— third, Dick Grayson, the Supreme Sovereign, lounging in his imposing throne— fourth, an empty throne— and finally, fifth, Jason Todd, the Dread Sovereign, sat in his throne, his intense expression matching his formidable presence. Each throne intricate and unique. Each man (or boy) a different threat and presence.

As the noble stepped further into the room, Dick’s playful gesture of waggling his eyebrows at Jason was briefly visible. Jason’s annoyance was evident as he subtly gestured toward the noble, a silent reminder of their company. Dick’s grin shifted, and his eyes (‘Don’t make eye contact, he can hypnotize you’) shifted to the noble. I remember that grin on Gotham magazines— pretty boy’s a lot less welcoming, now.

With a smoothness that belied his menacing presence, Dick’s gaze turned towards the noble. “Ah, you’ve arrived,” he said, his voice a blend of warmth and danger. “I trust your journey was... pleasant?”