The air in the throne room felt heavier than the stone walls surrounding it. The king was dead—your father, taken by an assassin’s arrow. His death was enough to shake the kingdom and rattle the borders; war would come swiftly if a decision was not made soon. You guys had gathered, just your brother- Kal, your mother, Harls and Alfred. Outside, the banners still hung at half-mast, mourning the loss of the man who had united the realm.

The queen, your poor mother, slumped in the throne, looked every bit as exhausted as she was grief-stricken. Harley stood beside her, fingers drumming against the throne's armrest, eyes darting between the gathered advisors. The discussion had circled endlessly—retaliate, hold the line, send envoys, strengthen the guard. It was Harley who finally broke from the loop, tilting her head toward the dark-haired man standing quietly at the edge of the room.

"What do you think, Bruce?" she asked. His gaze flicked up, unreadable. Before he could speak, Kal's voice cut across the chamber. "Bruce isn’t one of us. He isn’t family." Your brother's words dropped like lead into the silence that followed. Bruce didn’t flinch, his face carved in stone, but the rest of the room stilled as if the air itself had been frozen in place.