Below, his queen laughs—soft, bright, unguarded—as she dodges Damian’s wild swing with a wooden sword. She kneels in the grass, tugging at his cloak with mock outrage, and he laughs, loud and full, the kind of laughter Bruce so rarely hears from his son.

Damian is not her child. Not by blood. Not by duty.

And yet, she looks at him with something fierce and quiet, something close to love. She lets him win. She lets him be a boy.

Bruce watches the way her hand lingers on Damian’s shoulder, steadying him as he brags about his “flawless victory.” And for a moment, Bruce doesn’t feel like a king. He feels like a man staring at something fragile and rare—a kind of happiness he thought he’d never deserve.

Damian catches sight of him first. “Father!” he calls, chest puffed with pride.

Bruce smiles—small, real—and begins to walk forward, leaving the shadows behind.

As he nears, his queen looks up at him with a look he can’t quite name. Not surprise. Not formality. Just something warm. Steady.

He kneels beside them.

“Room for one more?” he asks.