Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One afternoon, Sara and her rebellious sixteen-year-old daughter, Laurel — her perfect carbon copy — were lounging on the couch, munching on buttery popcorn while watching an episode of a TV series they had been following together after school.

“This show is full of clichés. I don’t like it,” Laurel said cheekily, chewing with her mouth open, just as Sara tossed one of her delicious little white popcorn “missiles” at her.

“It’s amazing, just enjoy it — don’t overthink it,” Sara replied with a laugh. Now in her forties, she had retired from the chaotic, time-and-space-hopping life with the Legends alongside her ex-wife Ava. They had promised never to tell their daughter anything too shocking about their pasts — they wanted to protect her from their absurd experiences. They wanted to give her a normal life. The kind neither of them ever got.

Sara and Ava had split up before Laurel turned twelve. Things just weren’t working anymore. Ava had become a big deal at the FBI and was always traveling, while Sara couldn’t quite settle into being a stay-at-home mom — she missed the thrill of traveling, the carefree rush she once had. The woman she once loved had turned back into the person she’d first met: all business, always serious. They had decided to go their separate ways, but stayed on good terms for their daughter’s sake.

“I think you like Mike, and that’s why we watch this show, Mom!” the younger one teased, snatching the popcorn her mom had just eaten.

“Well, he is cute — no denying that!” They both laughed.

A few minutes later, Sara got up to fetch some water and glasses — maybe even a few cans of Coke — but something pulled her toward the window of their suburban home in Star City.

Purple smoke was rising in the distance, staining the street with an eerie hue.

“That can’t be… it’s impossible,” she whispered, stunned by the sight — so distant and yet so familiar — that it stirred far too many questions within her.

Laurel, not far behind, heard her despite the low voice.

“What’s going on, Ma?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” the blonde cut her off quickly. She had never shared much about her past with her daughter. Laurel knew she had traveled a lot and believed she had worked for the CIA — a convenient cover story that explained why she spoke so many languages, knew martial arts, and why there were a few weapons stashed around the house.

Sara let it go and enjoyed the evening with her little mini-me.

Laurel fell asleep on the couch, maybe bored by the show, maybe just tired from school and the gym.

Sara stood up to fetch a blanket from her bedroom to cover her up, but when she reached her doorway, she found a dagger lodged into the doorframe.

She pulled it out immediately. One end bore the familiar cord used by the League of Assassins; the other carried a symbol she didn’t recognize.

They had entered her home? But who? After all this time — all these years?

She hid it away, grabbed the blanket, and returned to her daughter.

It was a warning. She knew that. They wouldn’t hurt them — not yet, at least. Not that night. And either way, Sara was already ready to fight.

A sheet of paper slid under the front door just as she was tucking the blanket over the peacefully sleeping girl.

It was blank. It needed heat to reveal its message, so she turned on the induction cooktop in the kitchen and held it over the warmth, revealing handwriting in Arabic — a style she recognized all too well from her time in the League.

“The Guild of Tanathos is hunting down all those who ever served the League of Assassins.

Anyone who has served Ra’s al Ghul may either fight, flee… or kneel once again before him.”

“Shit,” she muttered. This was real — too real. And she wasn’t ready to face any of it.

She just wanted to be done with that life, live off her savings, and raise her daughter in peace.

But fate had never cared much for what she wanted.

She tucked the knife into her sleeve the moment she heard footsteps behind her.

The blonde girl stood there, eyes red from sleep, blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape — she looked so small like that.

“Who were you talking to? What’s going on?”

“No one, I was just talking to myself,” Sara replied casually.

“I’m going to bed. Night, Ma,” the teen said, brushing past with a shrug, like she couldn’t care less.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Sara said, smiling — maybe a bit too forcefully.

Her night wouldn’t end there. She had to reach out to some old contacts to find out whether the threat was real… and how she was going to protect her daughter.

She grabbed her car keys and left the house. She typed a message to her daughter on her iPhone but paused before sending it. Then she deleted it. There was no need to warn her — she was probably already asleep.

Before leaving for good, she went back into her bedroom and retrieved an old necklace, tucking it under her sweater. It was a small keepsake from her days with the League — a symbol of her status.

She headed toward the violet smoke rising in the sky — a League message. Having a base in the city made things easier. She hoped to run into an old acquaintance, though she wasn’t sure if her long-outdated credentials would open more doors than they’d close.

She parked the car a short walk away and approached the location. She didn’t recognize it — probably a new operational base. It had been over twenty years since she’d left Nanda Parbat. Her life had taken strange, winding paths. She had even returned there once more before exiting that timeline for good. That place had always meant home, in some twisted way.

And now she was opening that door again.

She entered a nearly empty private parking lot and found a girl standing there, wearing the League of Assassins’ uniform. A red cord hung from her shoulder — odd, Sara thought. Red was the color of the Demon’s heirs — Nyssa’s color.

Much had changed since the second time she’d walked away from Nanda Parbat. This might be one of those things.

“I’m Taer al-Sahfer,” she said, without greeting, showing the necklace as she moved past the young woman — who, with shoulder-length jet-black hair, suddenly raised a sword to her throat. Her eyes were almond-shaped — though not exactly. She looked like she might be from the Hindu Kush region.

“Taer al-Sahfer?” the girl laughed, stepping closer and forcing Sara to raise her hands.

“I found this. I assume it’s yours,” Sara said, slowly pulling the dagger from the pocket of her black jeans and tossing it to the ground.

“None of what you’ve just said is true. You might want to reassess your beliefs.”

The blade touched her throat. Sara was starting to get irritated now.

“You haven’t introduced yourself,” she pointed out.

“My apologies,” the girl replied, voice calm. “I’m Ashari, daughter of Ra’s al Ghul. Heir to the Demon.”

She didn’t lower her weapon at first. Only after a long moment did she ease it down, letting Sara drop her hands to her sides. It was clear they were both choosing — cautiously — to trust each other.

“Who is Ra’s al Ghul now?” Sara asked, curious.

She knew that Talia and Thea had once tried to revive the League, but also that Thea had ultimately stepped away from it. Talia, on the other hand, had shifted her focus to Gotham — and to managing her financial empire.

“If you were truly Taer al-Sahfer… you’d already know.”

“Are you kidding me? Who do you think you are? My daughter is your age — go back to your place, little girl.”

She was clearly annoyed, but trying to keep her composure, crossing her arms over her chest.

“How dare you speak to me like that? I am the heir of the Demon.”

There was something familiar about her demeanor — the blonde wondered if she had met her before. Her accent was a blend — mostly British, but tinged with something Arabesque. Clearly raised in Nanda Parbat.

“And I’m no longer part of the League,” she said, turning her back on her. “So I don’t bow to anyone.”

Suddenly, headlights flashed from a two-seater car. It was sleek, sporty but refined — a Lamborghini maybe, dark blue. A figure stepped out, and both women fell silent, ending their spat instantly.

A tall woman emerged, her long black hair shining under the streetlight. She wore a long black coat down to her calves. Too far away to be recognized, at least by the blonde — who still had her back turned to the other woman.

“Mama,” the girl murmured, stepping aside to make room as the woman approached — wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that concealed her face.

Chapter Text

“Sara,” said the mysterious figure, removing her sunglasses and hat.
“Nyssa? Is that you?”

The two embraced warmly, something they hadn't been able to do at Oliver's funeral. Sara was shocked, speechless.
All those years apart, and yet Nyssa's face hadn’t changed — still pale, with just a hint of makeup around her eyes. She still wore her intoxicating perfume, impossible to ignore.

They pulled apart. The blonde was smiling, and Nyssa offered a shy smile in return.

“What are you doing here?” Nyssa asked, her tone sweet but firm.

“I got a letter and a dagger. I saw the smoke and put two and two together. But this girl told me—”

She paused, replaying the scene in her head, remembering that the girl had said mama. She stopped abruptly, then after a brief silence, continued:

“Mama? She called you that, didn’t she? Is she your daughter?”

Sara panicked. Nyssa placed a hand on her forearm and gave her a reassuring smile.
How could Nyssa have a daughter? Sara had Laurel, sure, but it had always been a dream to have a child. Nyssa had always shut down that possibility. She was a lesbian — how had she done it? That girl looked familiar because she was the daughter of her first love!

“Sara, this is Layla. Layla, this is Sara.”
The young girl finally lowered the sword she had been gripping with suspicion, then reached out to shake hands.

“We’ve already met, haven’t we, Ashari?”
“Yes, Taer al-Sahfer,” the girl replied coldly and distantly.

Nyssa chuckled at the tension between them.
“Let’s drop the battle names, at least for now.”
She paused briefly, then continued in a more serious tone.
“Sara, I’m sorry you received that letter — it’s not from us. It’s from the Guild of Thanatos, a faction that broke away from us years ago, under Malcolm Merlyn’s tyrannical rule. Now they’re either attacking our former brothers or trying to force them back into their ranks.”

“I have a daughter, Nyssa. I can’t risk them hurting her,” said the blonde quickly, unwilling to dwell too much on her child.
Nyssa stepped away, her posture suddenly formal again. It was like being thrown back in time.

“I can’t tell you what to do. The League of Assassins is doing everything it can to contain the threat,” said the older woman firmly, while her daughter drifted toward the car her mother had exited earlier.

“I’m not asking what I should do. I want to know if I need to expect an attack at any moment,” Sara snapped.

“I don’t predict the future. I can’t help you.”

“You’re Ra’s al Ghul now,” she stated, rather than asked.

“Exactly. And because I am Ra’s al Ghul, Sara... I’ve already said too much. You’re no longer welcome in our safe houses. You’re not one of us. Take your daughter and go as far away as you can. That’s all.”
Nyssa spoke coldly and distantly, as if she needed to convince herself that Sara was no longer her concern.
But the blonde kept staring at her, noticing a couple of fine lines near her eyes. Time had touched her face too.
And yet... she was still her Nyssa, or at least Sara hoped so.

“Stop. This isn’t you,” said the younger woman, closing the distance between them. But Nyssa scoffed and put her hat back on.

“If you came here looking for comfort, you’ve come to the wrong place, habibti. I’m here on business. It was nice to see you again, but I have a few matters to handle around the city. The smoke wasn’t for you, and my presence here is just a coincidence.”
She turned and walked away, giving her back to Sara.

“You know that attitude of yours has never had the effect you hoped on me!” Sara shouted after her, following.

“Then I hope age has brought you at least a shred of good sense,” Nyssa replied without turning, slightly quickening her pace.
But Sara caught up with her and grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her.

Nyssa froze. She sighed — loudly enough for Sara to hear — then turned around deliberately, locking eyes with her.

“Touching Ra’s without permission is a crime like no other.”

“When we were together, we committed worse crimes in the League’s eyes. And you liked it.”

“There’s no reason to dredge up the past. Stay with your daughter. Get on a plane and leave. The League trained you well. I hope you and your daughter understand that your presence alone is the only reason you're still alive.” She continued, trying to mentally distance herself from Sara's overwhelming presence.
She had changed a lot. Her hair was now pulled into a long braid, with a few strands of white clearly visible. Her makeup was slightly more pronounced than in the past. Less muscular. A few wrinkles had found their place, even on her.

“My daughter has no idea about my past,” Sara said.

“That’s a real shame. She’d only admire a mother like you.”
Sara had never even considered revealing what she had done during her time with the League of Assassins. Never.
She still suffered nightmares because of the unspeakable things she had done.
She feared her daughter would turn her back on her—but now, the need might become real.
She would try to delay that moment for as long as possible.

“And your daughter? Does she appreciate you for who you are?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not my father. Have a good evening, Sara. Take care.”
Nyssa cut the conversation short. She needed to walk away.
Sara turned her back and left the garage, heading home.

Her daughter was still asleep, hadn’t noticed her absence. So she went to bed—but this time, she pulled her gun out of the safe and slipped it under her pillow.
Better to be overcautious than caught off guard.
It had been years since she’d felt this way. She had forgotten what it meant to be afraid. But now she was—because of her daughter, sleeping in the room next door.

The next morning, she woke at dawn. Her daughter was still asleep, so she didn’t wake her—it was Saturday, after all, no school.
How was she going to handle this?
There was a tight knot in her stomach.
Flashbacks from the night before would come and go.
To distract herself, she made Nutella pancakes for her daughter to find when she woke up.

Then she went for a run—to clear her mind and process everything she had learned the night before.
Nyssa had become Ra’s al Ghul. And she had a daughter.
Was she biological? She looked a lot like her, after all.
When they were young, Sara often imagined seeing the woman she loved in place of her father.
She used to wonder what she’d look like wearing that shining cloak and that ring on her finger.

Now that it had happened, she couldn’t help but wonder—at what cost?

She ran around the block.
Even though her Apple Watch had already marked the end of her workout, she kept going, needing to feel lighter.
What was she supposed to do?
She couldn’t just pack up and leave like nothing had happened.
She’d have to tell her daughter something—maybe suggest a vacation.
But there was school, and she couldn’t justify that many days away.

Ava had vanished completely from their lives.
She wasn’t going to call the woman and ask her to take their daughter.
Whoever was after them, they clearly knew about the girl.

Then she smiled.
Nyssa hadn’t changed.
She still looked at her the same way, despite the cold façade.
That nonchalant elegance—she had clearly passed it on to her daughter.

She laughed again, thinking about how young she had been back then, how her heart used to pound harder every second she saw the older woman.
How her breath would catch in her throat and grow shorter.
Then she remembered the fights—and the sex.
They had always been intense. In love and in conflict.

She wondered if Nyssa was still like that, even now that she wasn’t twenty anymore.

She pushed the thought away.
The sun was in her eyes.
She raised her hand to block it a little and turned the corner, heading home.
She took the elevator and soon walked back into her apartment, still sweaty and out of breath from the run.

“Good morning, Mom. No hugs, you’re sweaty and you stink,” said her daughter, chewing her breakfast.
Sara kissed her on the forehead.

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’m gonna take a shower,” she said, turning on the coffee machine so it’d be ready when she got out of the bathroom.

“You went running super early!” the girl shouted.

“I couldn’t sleep,” the woman replied from the other room, unsure of where that conversation might lead—but decided not to leave anything out.
Her daughter seemed to ignore her at first, but when Sara came out of the shower with only a towel around her, grabbing her mug of hot coffee, the girl—wearing an oversized sweatshirt and tiny shorts while sitting at the kitchen island—looked at her.

“Why?” she asked between bites.

"Let’s put it this way... an old acquaintance from back when I used to work is in town. Seeing them stressed me out a bit," she said, choosing to stay vague but still face the topic openly.

“Did you two do some 007 stuff together?” her daughter laughed, clearly not taking it too seriously as she scrolled lazily through her phone.

“Something like that,” Sara replied with a smile, amused by her daughter’s innocence. She blushed a little, realizing that, in fact, they had lived through some very spy-movie-worthy moments—especially one, she recalled, in Paris. That one had ended in a particularly heated way.

To push the impure thought away, she brought her hand to her lips and cleared her throat.

“Ew, Mom, you’re blushing! Gross!” her daughter teased, as usual.

“What’s gross?” Sara laughed.

“I dunno, I’m guessing there was something between the two of you, based on how you’re reacting.” Her tone turned more serious.

“Nothing important, Laurel.” Yeah right, she thought, blushing even more.

“A little spy-story romance? Tell me yes—tell me there was a tall, French-speaking James Bond type with a son my age, blue eyes, and filthy rich.” She laughed, fully lost in her fantasy, the kind of energy she’d been missing the night before now suddenly back.

“Something like that, sweetheart, something like that. But it was a woman,” she added with a laugh, but in a firm tone.

“So more Atomic Blonde than Bond?” Laurel asked, sounding slightly disappointed.

“You’re asking too many questions. Finish your food and go back to texting your friends. Better yet, go out with that cute guy who keeps writing to you, and give me a break,” she said, grabbing the now-empty plate in front of her.

God, how much she wanted to tell her that woman had been the first woman in her life. Her first real love.

“Come on, give me at least one juicy detail,” her daughter said, her curiosity spiking. Sara genuinely didn’t know how to answer—but between sips of coffee, she chose to give away just a bit.

“She was the first woman I was ever with. We worked together—actually, she was my superior. But that’s all you’re getting, young lady. No more gossip. Now go study.”

Satisfied for now, the girl got up and headed to her room—but before she could even cross the doorway, she shouted. 

Chapter Text

Hearing the scream coming from the next room, Sara ran in immediately and found a man dressed in a uniform similar to the League’s—though slightly different—holding a dagger to her daughter’s throat.

Sara’s expression changed instantly, and she saw red. She lunged forward, despite having only a towel wrapped around her, but before she could even reach them, three men—whom she recognized as members of the League—burst in through the apartment windows.
In less than two minutes, the hostile was down, and the girl was in her mother’s arms.

“Thank you,” Sara said in Arabic, as one of them pulled down the hood hiding his identity. Her daughter sobbed in her embrace while Sara stroked her hair, trying to soothe her. They weren’t safe anymore—this had been the first direct attack.

“Talibah?” Sara recognized her instantly, even though she was now in her thirties. She hadn’t changed a bit—youth still radiated from her, maybe her hair was a little shorter, but it wasn’t obvious under the braids she now wore.

“Taer al-Sahfer, you're not safe. Come with us,” she said, gripping the blonde’s forearm, and Sara returned the gesture with affection.

“Mom?”

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

“Mom, what are they saying?” Laurel was stunned by how her mother seemed to relax after seeing the woman—who was she? And why were they speaking Arabic?

“Give me ten minutes, Talibah. I’ll grab a backpack and we’ll go. Who sent you?” Sara asked as she tried to calm her daughter, stepping out of the bathroom, its floor now completely covered in shards of shattered glass.

“You know better than to ask pointless questions.”
Talibah confirmed what Sara had already suspected—Nyssa had her men watching them. Then she switched languages, so the girl could understand and grasp how serious the situation was.

“Sweetheart, grab a few clothes and the essentials. We can trust them. Be quick.”

“But—what did that man want? Mom, there’s a man lying on the bathroom floor!”

Talibah turned to the crying girl and looked her in the eye. Then she said in English, “Do what your mother says. We’ll explain everything on the way. No arguments.”

“Easy with my daughter,” Sara said while throwing on a T-shirt and pulling up some pants, noticing Laurel was already stuffing a gym bag with useful things.

“If it weren’t for us, you wouldn’t have a daughter right now,” Talibah challenged, but Sara let it slide.

“Miss,” Talibah cleared her throat, her tone growing more authoritative, as Laurel picked up her iPad and phone.

“What?” she answered between sobs, tossing clothes and a stuffed animal she’d had since childhood into the bag.

“You can’t bring those.”

“You’re joking, right? How am I supposed to manage without them?” she snapped.

“There’s no signal where we’re going.”

“They tried to kill me and now you’re taking my things away too? Who the hell are you people? What do you want from me?!”
The girl was now completely unbearable.

Sara realized she had never truly noticed how annoying her daughter could be—she’d spoiled her too much, and now she was seeing the consequences. She regretted it.

“Listen, Laurel. You want answers, and you’ll get them. But right now, our priority is to follow Talibah. She’s a friend—and remember, she just saved your life. Trust me, my love.”

The girl zipped up the duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder. A few minutes later, Sara was ready to leave as well.

They took the stairs to leave the building, while the two men accompanying Talibah opted for the emergency exits. During a brief moment of calm, Sara smiled as she looked at Talibah’s uniform, which now clearly bore the marks of her professional rise within the League.

“You’re still by her side, aren’t you?”
“Always.”
“High ranks suit you.” Sara noticed, and Talibah gave her a faint smile—pleased that Sara had picked up on it. To the younger woman, the person who had once stood beside her Leader back when they were barely more than girls, had always been more than a role model. When Sara had left, Talibah had struggled; she missed her confidante, her rock, her anchor.

Little Laurel kept huffing now and then, but they all got into the car before anyone could ask questions. It was still early, and the doorman was on vacation.
No one saw anything.

They got into the car, with the two men taking the front seats while the three women climbed into the back. Seconds later, the vehicle sped off, completely ignoring every traffic law along the way.

Sara laughed at every turn, and even Laurel found herself giggling, despite being angry at her mother. There were too many things she didn’t know, and it made her feel left out.

“Okay, now I want to know who these people are. Especially because, judging by the way they drive, I might not get another chance to ask,” she said with a trace of amusement. She’d missed a bit of adrenaline in her life, and the driving style of the League Assassins gave her a taste of it.

“What do you want to know?”

“Who this woman is, and why a bunch of guys dressed for Halloween invaded our bathroom? What a freaking question, Mom, just tell me everything,” she snapped, exasperated and sharp, earning a glare from Talibah, who had been listening.

“Talibah is an old friend of mine, Laurel. And show a little respect—they saved your life. You were attacked because of things I did in the past, and I’m sorry. I truly am. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Fantastic. So now I’m stuck with cosplay freaks, a borderline depressed mother, and people trying to kill me because of your mysterious spy past. What more could I ask for on a Saturday? Maybe Wi-Fi and a night with my damn boyfriend,” she said, gripping the seat in front of her, while the assassin sitting there gave her a sideways glare.

“I made choices in the past—to survive. I’m not proud of what I did, but that’s how it went, Laurel. I didn’t want you to ever learn about this part of my life, but apparently, it always finds a way to resurface.” Sara was annoyed, and she really didn’t want her daughter seeing her League self, but there was no escaping it now.

“So they’re not just your friends. You were part of this too,” Laurel said, surprised.
“Yes, for a few years,” Sara admitted quietly.

Laurel looked out the window, then cast a judgmental glance at Talibah, then at her mother, and let out a sigh.

“So it’s all been a lie?”
“I never lied. I just left out details you didn’t need to know,” Sara clarified.

“Why? You don’t think I can handle knowing who my mother really is?”

“I didn’t do it to be cruel. I did it to protect you,” Sara replied, starting to fiddle with one of the rings on her fingers—an old habit she still hadn’t managed to shake.

“Protect me? Yeah, that worked out great, Mom!” Laurel said sarcastically, mimicking the guy who had held a knife to her neck that morning—rolling her eyes, sticking her tongue out, and running a hand along her throat. Talibah smiled.

“For sixteen years, it worked. I guess the time had to come eventually. Scream at me if you want—it won’t change anything.”

“You could’ve told me. I would’ve handled it, even if I still don’t understand anything—except that apparently, you were in disguise too. What are you guys, some kind of special ops?” she asked, firm but slightly more understanding, resting her hand on her forehead.

“From now on, no more omissions. If you ask me something, I’ll answer. But I’m not sure you really want to know everything.”

“I don’t know, Mom. I seriously can’t make sense of anything right now. This is objectively a mess,” she said, pulling her legs up onto the seat and hugging them, despite the seatbelt pressing against her.

“This organization has a code. One of their laws is to carry the secret of their existence with honor and respect. Anyone who learns they exist doesn’t have many choices. That’s why it’s survived for centuries, Laurel.”

“So? Not even your own daughter was allowed to know?”

“No. Not even you.”

“And what about Mom Ava? Did she know?” Laurel asked, already sure of the answer.

“She read my file. I never gave her the details. It’s… not simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about this. It’s a mess, and I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

“Laurel…”

“What is this organization?”

“It’s called the League of Assassins. Or the League of Shadows, depending on who you ask and in which century.”

“This is a joke, right? Where are the cameras? Do you even hear yourself, or do you think you’re living in some kind of TV show?”

“I’m completely serious, Laurel.”

“Right. Any minute now I guess the dragons will show up too,” she muttered, stunned and hurt.

“Every now and then, one does show up,” Talibah added dryly, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “We’re here,” she said more seriously, opening the door and stepping out.

Chapter Text

They arrived at a safe house—an enormous penthouse atop an old abandoned hotel. A figure stood cloaked, tall, definitely female, slender. Sunlight burst through the large windows, the dusty floor was pale and reflected the light.

“We were expecting you.”
It was Layla, Nyssa’s daughter. Sara had promised herself to call her that—the name Nyssa had used to introduce her—also because she was sure it would annoy her, and she loved getting under people’s skin. She wanted to see just how much of her mother was in her.

“Layla, I thought you’d gone back to Nanda Parbat,” Sara said, dropping her backpack to the ground. Laurel followed suit, until the heir of the Demon turned around and lowered what had been concealing her face.

“I go where I am needed. My task here is to protect you. I suggest two strategies,” she said, clearly irritated by Sara’s defiance. As she studied her peer, she maintained flawless posture, not swaying an inch.

“Are those strategies yours, or your mother’s?” the blonde asked, sharp as ever, arms crossed.

“Ra’s al Ghul has far better things to do. The strategies are mine. If you like them, great. If not, you’re welcome to handle things on your own,” she replied, clearly annoyed.

“Could you speak a language I can actually understand?” asked the youngest of the blondes, sitting down on a couch. The other girl nodded and continued in English, though her accent was notably thick.

“Taer al Sahfer, you have two choices. First: you accept joining the Guild of Thanatos. The League will hunt you down and condemn you for betrayal. Second: you return to the League of Assassins, kneel before Ra’s al Ghul, and we will protect you and your family.”

“I’m sure Nyssa has considered a third option.”

“No. There is no third option. We’re at war. And until the world is cleansed of the Guild’s infection, we don’t have the luxury of half-measures. This is what I can offer.”

“I’ve never been one to play with open cards, Layla. Take me to your mother. I’ll only decide after negotiating with her. I need to understand who’s moving the pieces on the board,” Sara replied, regaining clarity. She had no intention of making deals with a kid. She didn’t care who she was or what she represented.

“This move is insolent—you match perfectly the image my mother painted of you when she told me your stories growing up. Honestly, I don’t understand what compels her to help you and your daughter. My mother will not accept any negotiations.”

“Let me speak to her. I might just prove you wrong,” Sara said with a smirk, hoping that, despite the years, Nyssa was still her Nyssa.

“I pray to the gods my mother puts you back in your place,” the girl said, furious.

“You sound a little too confident about that,” Sara replied. “Your mother and I go way back—long before you were even born. Doesn’t seem like the best way to start an alliance.”
She closed the distance between them, making the other visibly uncomfortable, while her daughter watched from a distance, surprised.

“You’re not exactly my age. I’ll make sure myself that my mother doesn’t repeat the mistakes she made when she was young.”

“Now you’re the insolent one. Know your place. If I ever had to kneel, I’d still outrank you. I’m sure your mother gave you a proper and respectful education on hierarchy,” Sara snapped.

Layla turned her back, offended—wounded to the core. But she knew she couldn’t argue. The beloved of Ra’s al Ghul stood on the same hierarchical level as the heirs—and in this case, seniority prevailed.
It was a clear case of checkmate, and Sara was exceptionally skilled at playing with words.

A couple of hours went by, and the Safe House slowly emptied. Fewer and fewer assassins came and went, until Talibah decided to look for Laurel, who had holed up in an empty room, sketching in a small notebook she had brought with her.

“Don’t tell me I’m not even allowed to do this, because I might go insane,” she said, sitting on the floor by the window.

“You’re free to draw as much as you want. I came to apologize,” she replied softly, sitting down next to her. Now dressed in civilian clothes, she looked a lot less intimidating.

Laurel looked at her in surprise, raising her eyebrows, then set the notebook and pencil down on the floor beside her.

“Well then, I guess I owe you a thank-you. But please, you go first,” the blonde said with a slight laugh.

“First of all, I’m Mesi. You don’t need to call me Talibah—you’re not one of my sisters, so you can call me however you like. And... I wanted to apologize if I came off as too... threatening. It’s just part of what I do. I don’t really know how to be otherwise,” she said sincerely.

“Don’t worry, Mesi. I figured that out, and I actually have to thank you for it. I get that your... line of work is difficult. It’d be easier for me to understand if my mom hadn’t hidden it all these years, but yeah.”
She didn’t feel very comfortable—actually, she was kind of embarrassed to have her sitting right next to her—but she was curious to see where this was going.

“Your mom’s a good person who had to make some tough choices. She’s made a few mistakes too, but... who hasn’t?” Mesi said, her voice even quieter now.

“She feels like a stranger to me,” the girl admitted wearily.

“Nah, she’s still the same. You just have to learn to look at things from different perspectives. Let me tell you something—if I’m still alive, it’s only because of your mother. She saved my life. I’ll owe her forever,” she said with a warm smile.
She was looking at a miniature version of the woman who’d been her best friend for years.

“Really?” Laurel asked, surprised.

“Yeah. But I’m not going to tell you what happened—that was a different life. All you need to know is that when I got assigned to the same team as your mother and the woman who’s now Ra’s al Ghul, I was proud. So proud. She never lost the kindness and light inside her. Never. Not even after everything,” she said, with genuine pride in her voice.
And maybe, the girl thought, she really did believe in what they were doing.

“But what does Ra’s al Ghul even mean? Nyssa? These names, these words—I don’t understand them. You guys are speaking... Arabic, I think?” she asked quickly, as if spitting out all the questions she hadn’t dared ask her mother. She was too upset to pretend everything was fine.
Then she corrected herself mentally—she wasn’t angry. She was disappointed. Betrayed, even.

“They’re not names—they’re titles. Ra’s al Ghul means Head of the Demon. But it’s not satanic or anything—it’s just a saying. He’s our leader. Nyssa was the name of our leader before she took on the mantle of Ra’s.
And no, it’s not Arabic. It’s an ancient Arabic dialect spoken only in the Hindu Kush, where our headquarters are.”

“Okay, well... that’s all very romantic and fun, but I still don’t get what you do exactly—besides crashing through windows and throwing flying knives,” she said, glancing down at the notebook on the floor, no longer looking at Mesi.

“We maintain the global status quo. We dedicate our lives to ensuring that no catastrophic or chaotic events disrupt the balance of society.”

“That sounds poetic, but it also means things will never change—because of you.”

“That’s a very good observation, but no. It doesn’t mean we prevent change or evolution. We’re part of it ourselves—we adapt, we evolve, we bring change too. We make sure the weakest are protected.”

“Yeah, but you talk about it like you’re delivering safety and fresh roses. I saw what you did to that man who—”
She stopped, as if the realization hit her right in that moment—what that man would’ve done to her, if the girl she was now talking to so calmly hadn’t shown up.

“He was going to kill you,” the other finished the sentence for her. Laurel nodded silently, lips pressed shut, as if suddenly unable to breathe.

“Tell me something, Laurel. If tomorrow you had to choose between killing one person to save a hundred, would you do it?” asked the dark-skinned girl with long braids, seriously.

“Of course,” the young girl answered quickly, without thinking too hard about it.

“Perfect. That’s exactly what we do. Only we really do it. No hypocrisy. And we’ve been doing it for centuries. No one’s ever noticed us in history—no books speak of us. Our members have stayed hidden under hoods for the most part. Only a select few know our traditions. Welcome to that rare group.”

“Have you ever played Assassin’s Creed?” she asked, suddenly struck by what felt like an epiphany, chuckling as the realization hit her all at once.

“What’s that?”

“A videogame… Okay, I’ll take that as a no. Anyway, you should play it. You guys are way too similar—even this solemn tone and all.”
They both laughed.

“Thanks, Mesi. For saving my life. And for answering all my questions,” the girl said, feeling lighter. The woman beside her smiled and gently placed a hand on her knee.

“Anytime. But try not to get yourself almost-killed so often… don’t go acting like your mother.”

Chapter Text

In the bedroom, meanwhile, Layla was wondering how to deal with the situation between the two old flames. Her mother had never hidden the existence of that lost love from her.
She lay down on the bare mattress and stared at the chandelier, hoping the answers would just fall into place on their own.

Maybe that’s exactly why her satellite phone rang.

"Mother."
She was the only one who could possibly call her.

"My daughter, how are things going?" Her tone was affectionate, yet distant as always—Nyssa’s typical oxymoronic way of addressing her.

"She’s unyielding. She refuses to accept my proposals. She wants to speak with you and only you. She won’t agree to any kind of compromise that excludes—"
She was cut off firmly.

"What did you propose to her?"
Then silence. Layla felt judged.

"To kneel before you, Mother," she replied with a steady voice, trying to convince herself it had been the right move.

"That doesn’t work with her. You made a mistake. You challenged her head-on." Nyssa’s voice was barely audible through the phone, yet it made Layla’s heart skip a beat.

"Mother, I had no other proposals to make. I—"
Nyssa interrupted her again.

"Come home. I’ll speak with her myself. I expect you tonight. Don’t waste any more time."

"But Mother, that’s not standard procedure!"

"When you're trying to defeat an opponent, you have to understand how they move. Clearly, you still need more training."
Her tone was the usual, but Layla couldn’t help but feel offended. That woman had just reentered her mother’s life, and she was already getting in the way?

"I’m sorry I disappointed you. I thought I was supposed to follow protocol. Apparently, I was wrong," she said, a hint of regret in her voice.
A soft chuckle came from the other end of the line.

"Oh, Layla. Habibti. It's all right. It’s Sara. You haven’t made any unforgivable mistake. Take the jet and come home. I’ll be waiting for you."
With her, it will never be a matter of following standard procedure, Nyssa thought.

It was lunchtime, and Talibah had gone out to get pizzas for everyone, leaving Laurel and Layla alone in the same room for the first time.

“I didn’t introduce myself earlier, which was rude of me. I’m Ashari, daughter of Ra’s al Ghul, heir to the Demon,” said the dark-haired girl, extending a hand toward the blonde, who was sitting on the table reading a Vogue magazine.
Laurel glanced up briefly, then rested the magazine on her thighs, her feet still propped up on the chair.
Sara, meanwhile, was in the background sharpening some daggers Talibah had lent her, listening but never directly watching the girls’ interaction.

“I’m Laurel Sharpe Lance, daughter of my mother.”
She pointed at Sara with her index finger, her voice sounding annoyed.
Ra’s’ daughter laughed heartily.

“You’re funny, I like you,” she said, closing the distance between them. “Let’s just say you can call me Layla too. Your mother’s already made a habit of it, after all.” She smiled.

“Take it easy, I have a boyfriend,” Laurel replied with a chuckle, now observing her more closely.
She had vaguely Middle Eastern features, dark skin, sleek shoulder-length hair, and a pair of earrings in each earlobe.
There was an air of confidence around her, but also elegance. She clearly knew how to work people.

“Then I think I’ll stick with Ashari. It suits you better,” the younger, curly-haired girl went on.

“I wasn’t hitting on you. Looks like we’d better become friends, though.”
She turned to look at Sara, who was casually following the conversation with the occasional smirk, but now met her gaze.

“We’re heading to Nanda Parbat, it seems. My mother is granting you an audience.”

Sara was pleasantly surprised—she hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t set foot in that place for years.
She was curious to see what Nyssa had made of it… but also hesitant.
How would her daughter handle all of it?

“You talk about your mother like she’s a goddess,” the blonde pointed out.

“She is,” came the sharp reply.

“Seriously? You people are so full of yourselves.”

“Ask your mother if Ra’s al Ghul should be considered a god or not. She knows quite a bit about that.”
There it was—her first jab.

Sara walked over to the girls as Ashari slipped into the next room.

“What does that mean?” she asked her mother.

“Remember when I told you that an old flame of mine was in town?”

“Adios chicos,” she said in an over-the-top, soap opera-style tone, rolling her eyes. “Is she Ashari’s mother?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Sara confirmed quietly.

“And let me see if I’ve got the whole picture right—she’s also the leader of this cult.”

“It’s not exactly a cult… but yes,” Sara replied, resigned.

“My crazy Saturday, ladies and gentlemen. My freaking crazy Saturday. I should make a movie about it as soon as we’re back from the mountains,” she said dramatically, waving her hands in theatrical fashion.

“How do you know Nanda Parbat is in the mountains?” Sara asked, surprised.

“Mesi talks a lot and she’s super friendly,” she replied honestly, as Sara placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to hug her.

So they took the jet that was stationed in a bunker not far from the Safe House, where they had stayed only until lunchtime. Now, everyone was dressed in civilian clothes instead of their uniforms.

They were all walking briskly. After so many years, Sara felt truly alive again—the adrenaline pumping through her veins made her alert, sharp. The crisp air kept her awake, and she couldn't help but realize how much she had missed this.

“Am I the only one flying on a jet for the first time?” the young blonde asked uncertainly.

“I’ve been flying on jets since my mother adopted me,” her peer answered casually, dressed head to toe in high-end designer clothes.

Sara heard it but didn’t respond. Inside, her heart felt lighter with every passing second—adopted, not her biological daughter.

“Her Majesty adopted you?” she chuckled, putting exaggerated emphasis on what she still found ridiculous.

“Yes. My village had been wiped out by a crashed plane. She had just arrived at the scene when she found me in my biological father’s arms, begging her to save me. I was four years old, and she had only recently become Ra’s al Ghul. She decided to raise me as her own,” Layla said, ignoring the girl’s jab but punishing her with a look that needed no further explanation.

“That’s... kind of sweet.”

“She’s the best person I know,” the Heir said, as they began to board the jet and take their seats. The two girls sat next to each other, while Talibah and Sara remained mostly silent, simply listening as the two started to bond.

Chapter Text

The takeoff happened a few moments later. A flight attendant came by and asked if they’d like some sparkling wine. Laurel, amused by the whole situation, agreed—only for Sara to stop her immediately.

“You’re not old enough to drink.”
“Oh come on, Ma', I’ve had a crazy day. I deserve it.”
“No. Out of question. Not in front of me, and not with my permission,” she said, turning away.

Ashari, on the other hand, accepted the drink, took a small sip, and casually continued the conversation. Laurel couldn’t help but notice the grace, poise, and elegance in everything she did.

“How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Laurel answered bluntly.
“You’re legal in a lot of countries. Just don’t get caught by your mom. Here, drink,” she said, handing her the glass with a genuine smile. Laurel raised an eyebrow.

“Is it poisoned?”
“Cowards use poison. Besides, I already told you—I like you.”

So Laurel took a sip. Sara saw it. She didn’t get mad, but pointed it out to Talibah, who chuckled as Laurel started coughing from the burn in her throat.

“How old are you, anyway?” Laurel asked between coughs, as the other girl reclaimed the glass from her hand.

“Twenty. But for us, drinking has a ritual meaning. In small doses, we drink to honor the gods,” she said, raising the glass in the air and finishing the rest in a few elegant sips.

Then she pulled out a phone. Laurel thought she was texting someone, but it was actually a satellite phone—she was inputting coordinates to check how much longer until arrival. Not that Laurel had any idea. She leapt toward her as if she hadn’t seen a phone in years.

“Please let me borrow it,” Laurel begged, drawing the attention of a few nearby women who looked on, stunned.

“What do you even want to do with it? It’s a satellite phone,” the older girl said, trying to fend off the smaller one, who was half-wrestling it out of her hands.

“Even better!”
“Stop or I’ll actually hit you,” she warned with a playful yet serious glare.

Talibah and Sara laughed at the scene—it looked like the girls had known each other for years, bickering like siblings.

“I can’t let you use it. It doesn’t even have normal phone numbers. You can’t just call whoever you want.”

“What does that mean?” Laurel asked, panting as she gave up the chase.

“It means you can only call or receive calls from numbers already stored in the phone—and they have to be other satellite phones. But seriously, who are you so desperate to call?” she asked while fixing her clothes and settling more comfortably into the luxurious seat.

“My boyfriend. He was waiting for my answer about going out tonight.”

“Move on, darling. There are plenty of handsome boys in Nanda Parbat. You’ll get over him,” she replied calmly.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I want him…” Laurel muttered, disheartened.

“Ah, you Westerners and your obsession with monogamy,” Layla said, exasperated.

"WHAT?!" Laurel said. 

They landed after many hours of travel, but fortunately the private jet was comfortable enough to keep the fatigue at bay. While Talibah, Laurel, and Ashari had dozed off, Sara remained tense the entire time—on edge about returning to that place. A place she had hated… but also deeply, deeply longed for.

They disembarked into the courtyard of Nanda Parbat. The engines stirred up a thick cloud of dust and sand, so it was only after a few moments that they could see the faint lights of the fortress.

“This is it?” Laurel asked softly.
“Nanda Parbat? Yeah,” Sara replied.
“Home,” said Talibah and Ashari at the same time. They glanced at each other.

They began walking toward the main gate. A few sentinels approached them but, upon seeing who they were, didn’t even think to ask for identification. Laurel could swear she was terrified. These people walked around with swords and bows like they’d just stepped out of Game of Thrones.

“Why the bows and swords? Don’t you have more modern weapons?” Laurel asked boldly.

“We do. We just prefer not to use them,” came a steady but warm voice from behind a column—just before they reached the entrance. Sara smiled, breath catching in her throat for a split second. Then she stepped into view, radiant as ever.

Her hair was long and loose, falling in waves over a green cloak—the same cloak her father had worn for hundreds of years. It dragged on the ground behind her, heavy. Beneath it, she wore more modern clothes—not the traditional tunic Sara remembered.

“It’s a traditional choice, but practical. No one expects an arrow. Plus, it’s become something of a signature,” she continued.

“Welcome home.” Then she paused for a moment, stopping in front of Laurel. “For you, I suppose it’s more appropriate to say: welcome.”

Laurel felt a wave of intimidation as the woman stood close, completely disregarding personal space.

She noticed Talibah and Ashari kneeling. Sara was about to do the same, but the woman stopped her with a simple hand gesture.
Laurel could barely breathe. Who was she? Her mother’s ex? Why were they all kneeling? And how was she supposed to breathe with this woman standing right in front of her?

Nyssa leaned in slightly toward her ear and whispered, “You can breathe. You don’t have to kneel. Not you.”
Sara heard it too. It warmed her heart to see Nyssa treating her daughter with such respect. Her eyes sparkled as she watched the interaction, unable to tear her gaze away from her daughter’s blue eyes—now blushing.

“You’re always late, Sara,” Nyssa said, turning to look at her.

“And you’re still a Swiss clock—despite a few gray hairs. Nice to know some things never change,” the blonde replied.

Nyssa motioned for her daughter and Talibah to rise, and shortly after, they disappeared. Then, turning her back to both Sara and Laurel, she said:

“Follow me.”

After a short walk through the corridors of Nanda Parbat—damp but lined with carpets and lit by torches, and occasionally even some electric lights (surely installed by Nyssa)—and after passing a few sentinels who remained perfectly still, they reached a very spacious hall.

"This used to be your father’s wing, if memory serves me right," said Sara, who smiled from time to time, perhaps recalling moments from her youth.
Nyssa’s face also relaxed whenever she saw Sara smile.

"Yes, this is the floor reserved for the Ra’s al Ghuls. I made a few changes here and there, so you might notice some differences. But please, sit down—I'll have some tea brought in."

So the women did just that, sitting on a low couch—mother beside daughter—and Nyssa took a seat in a nearby armchair.
Moments later, a servant arrived carrying cups and teapots, with steam rising gracefully from them.

"You must be Laurel," Nyssa said in a firm, almost declarative tone.

"And you must be Nyssa," the girl replied, matching her tone.

"Not many still use that name, but yes, I am. Tell me—what have you learned about the League of Assassins?"
Was it a challenge? Laurel wasn’t sure, but she answered with what Talibah had told her.

"That you maintain the status quo, or something like that. That you're in charge and apparently all of you look like you walked out of the Middle Ages. You do know electricity exists, right? No need for candles and torches to light up the place."

Nyssa laughed—this girl was her mother’s copy, maybe even a little less assertive.

"You're close enough. That’s all I need. Welcome to Nanda Parbat. My daughter will be by your side during your stay. You're invited to take part in any activities that interest you—maybe you'll leave here better than you came."
Nyssa’s tone was gentle—she wouldn’t pressure her into doing anything she didn’t want to do. Otherwise, she’d have already sent both of them away. This way, she could earn their trust.

Two knocks at the door preceded Layla’s entrance. She knelt the moment she saw Nyssa, leaving Laurel puzzled—she didn’t understand why.

"My daughter, please, join us," invited Ra’s al Ghul. Layla accepted and sat down across from Laurel.

"What’s this kneeling thing about?" Laurel asked. Layla responded with a calm yet authoritative tone.

"It’s a sign of respect. We swore to follow Ra’s al Ghul in all things. We chose to submit to the League’s laws. By kneeling, we remember that—and make it a visible symbol."

"Is everyone always this grandiose and dramatic in here?" she asked after nodding at her peer.

"They tend to be, yes," Sara answered quietly, with a smile.

"I’m sorry to break the mood," Nyssa said gently, clearing her throat and sipping her tea, "but for now I must ask that we speak of more serious matters."
"The League is currently fighting the dissidents of the Guild, and you were attacked for two reasons. The first is that Sara, had she remained in our ranks, would now hold a very high position.
The second—I must apologize directly to both of you, especially to you, Laurel. The relationship, as you’ve probably figured out by now, that once bound me to your mother, exposed you both. That is why we are granting you refuge within our walls, for as long as necessary."

“Your offers are always costly, Nyssa. What’s the price to pay this time?” Sara said, glancing first at her daughter and then at the woman she had loved for years—feeling somewhat ridiculous for even thinking that, after all this time, the Demon’s Head might still love her. From her words, it sounded like Nyssa had moved on. Still, she reflected, when they had met in the garage, Nyssa had called her habibti—maybe not all hope was lost.

“I’m afraid so. I won’t ask you to swear allegiance to the League—at least, not at the beginning. But it would be wise for both of you. Should you refuse and the League find itself forced to fight battles on multiple fronts, you’ll be on your own. We can’t afford to waste resources on you.”

“Fine, Nys—” She paused for a moment, then the ring the leader wore proudly—far too large for her slender fingers—snapped her back to reality. She corrected herself. “I called you Nyssa, I’m sorry—Ra’s al Ghul.”

“It’s not a problem. You’ll get used to it. You’ve always had a certain aversion to titles—even when you held one yourself. I only ask that you respect our code within these walls.”

“What does that mean? How long are we supposed to stay here?” Laurel asked, visibly shocked.

“Wait a second, I thought Miss Sharpe Lance was only going to shadow me for a few days. If we’re talking about an extended stay, I have something to say about that,” Layla chimed in, just as offended.

“They’ll stay as long as necessary. Do you wish to voice your concerns?” the woman asked mockingly, already knowing this would remind her daughter to fall back into line. Sara noticed how Nyssa had started using the same parental strategies her own father once used—with a gentler touch.

“But I have to get back to my boyfriend… and… what am I supposed to do about school? This is a nightmare. You don’t even have electricity! Please, I need an iPad or a computer. I’m not asking for much,” Laurel said dramatically once again.

“I’m sorry, but it’s for your safety. If your boyfriend loves you, I’m sure he’ll wait. As for school, you’ll find that the teachers here in Nanda Parbat are excellent. As I mentioned, you can follow any classes you’re interested in, along with my daughter,” Nyssa replied courteously, though she had no intention of indulging the whims of her old lover’s child.

“I was hoping to finally escape school, at least,” she grumbled, crossing her arms and slumping into the seat.

“We do have electricity, we’re not Vikings,” Layla replied sharply as she stood up.

“Sweetheart, could you show Miss Sharpe Lance to her room, please?” As the girl nodded, Laurel also stood and followed her out.

“Goodnight, Mama,” Layla said before leaving the room. Nyssa joined her by the door and placed a kiss on her forehead. Laurel watched the scene and laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” Layla whispered as she led her to the door, while the blonde caught up from behind and gave her a light push from her shoulders, pulling her back slightly.

“Mommy still gives you bedtime kisses, little one?” she teased playfully, laughing while Layla did the same. She then opened the door, waiting for Laurel to walk through first. As she did, Laurel turned around, still giggling.

Nyssa stopped at the window that opened onto a private terrace—much larger than the one she had had as a girl.

“‘Night, Ma,” Laurel said in slang, then turned to Nyssa with a smirk. “Night to you too, Your Majesty,” she added with a little curtsy, as if she were wearing a gown. Nyssa didn’t take offense but raised an eyebrow challengingly, while her daughter—still holding the door open—shook her head and muttered, “You’re an idiot,” laughing. As Laurel passed through the door, Layla gave her a light slap on the ponytail she had tied up.

Chapter Text

Nyssa and Sara were alone, for the first time in years.

“That girl is definitely your daughter,” Nyssa said with a laugh, pointing to the door the two had just walked out of a moment before.

“They get along well. They clicked instantly. I suppose a good friendship might come out of it. Sooner than I could ever bond with Layla, at least,” Sara pointed out, perhaps trying to skirt around any deeper conversation.

“Who knows, in another life… maybe they would’ve been sisters,” murmured the Demon’s Head, speaking her thoughts aloud as she looked outside.

“Maybe,” the blonde replied dreamily. “The cloak suits you. I always knew you’d wear it, but I have to admit it looks even better on you than I imagined back then,” she added, looking down, afraid to meet her eyes, yet still proud.

“Thank you, Taer al—” Nyssa chuckled. “I suppose I should get used to calling you Sara again,” she said, keeping her distance from the blonde.

“You can call me whatever you want. You always could,” Sara replied, getting up.

“Then let’s make a deal: in private, we let go of the formalities,” Nyssa said, adjusting the cloak that was likely starting to weigh heavily on her shoulders.

“Like the old times?” said the blonde, closing the distance between them, approaching Nyssa whose body was leaning slightly toward the wide arched window.

“Not quite. If I remember correctly, in private we used our titles differently,” Nyssa recalled, then glanced at Sara, who blushed just a few steps away. She had expected a reaction like that and didn’t want to miss it.

“It was our way of loving each other,” Sara said softly, but her gaze dropped to the green and red rugs—decidedly easier to face than the emotions reflected in the eyes of the woman standing before her.

“Our love was a battle, Sara. We never saw it any other way. We were both too proud, chasing different goals. You were always too free, too rebellious to fit into the place the League had planned for you. I never held it against you,” Nyssa said, stepping out onto the terrace. But Sara followed.

She noticed Nyssa was struggling with the small clasp on the left shoulder of her mantle, so she stepped in to help.

“May I?” she asked, even as her fingers were already freeing the fabric to smooth it out and fix it properly. It was clear Nyssa had silently allowed her to touch her once more.

In a few seconds, everything was in place—but Sara’s hands lingered a moment too long. Nyssa felt it and turned. And for the first time, they were too close.

Sara realized Nyssa had never changed her perfume—and that it was still intoxicating. Just the way she liked it. Just the way it made her feel alive.

Nyssa felt the same about Sara—those ocean-colored eyes of hers became too dangerous at close range. She had to step away. They had always seemed so bright to her, in a place where there was nothing bright at all.

“You still keep your distance from me, but I can’t tell if it’s out of pride or fear,” Sara struck low, and Nyssa met her eyes despite the darkness, accepting the challenge.

“Every time you get close, I lose a little bit of clarity. Allow me to prevent that from happening again,” she said in a voice both commanding and hoarse.

“Sounds familiar. You’ve never been good at keeping me away,” Sara teased. She had always been good at sparring with Nyssa, at holding her own. Others didn’t dare, and she was certain Nyssa liked her for that—she broke the monotony.

“If you want the League’s protection, you must follow my rules, Sara. No exceptions.”

“That wouldn’t be anything new. I’ve always followed your orders—whatever form they took…”

“You were good at dodging them.” Nyssa cut her off quickly, almost sharply, as if her temper was flaring. Sara often triggered these reactions; it was more common for them to argue than not. Everyone in the League knew it—but they always found a way to resolve it.

“Do you miss fighting with me?” the blonde chuckled, knowing full well that Nyssa was also remembering how natural it had always been for them to clash like that.

“I miss everything about you. But I respected your need for space, habibti.” Nyssa said softly, turning her back to her and looking out from the terrace.

“When you are the subject, the word ‘space’ shouldn’t even exist, Nyssa.” Sara said as she embraced her from behind, resting her forehead against the taller woman’s neck. It took a bit of courage—perhaps the word habibti stirred something deep inside her, though it wasn’t the first time Nyssa had called her that.

Sara closed her eyes, inhaling the crisp Hindu Kush air and Nyssa’s scent. She thought of how much she had missed her, and how in her youth she could always reconcile the peace and war of Nanda Parbat in the woman’s arms.

“What are you doing, Sara? Using tenderness to distract me?” Nyssa murmured, placing her hands over the blonde’s, holding them close, even though her colder, more cynical nature urged her to pull away. Sara felt the heavy ring Nyssa wore press against her fingers.

“It scares me… how the chemistry between us hasn’t changed at all.” Sara whispered, shyly. And suddenly it felt like no time had passed since the days she’d nervously crawled into the older woman’s bed—always timid, always flustered.

“It was never just about chemistry, and you know that. But I’m not that same person of twenty years ago.” Nyssa said, slowly turning around, letting go of Sara’s hands—but Sara followed her movement.

“And I’m not the little girl from back then, either. I can’t treat you like a stranger. I can’t stay silent when I feel what we were still lingers in our lives…”

“You were never silent, Taer al-Sahfer. Your tongue has always been your downfall.” Nyssa said, now only inches from her face. The air between them was electric; the blonde shivered while the brunette’s breath quickened.

“I can’t argue that… it was my downfall even when it was busy on your body.” Sara said, letting her fingers barely graze Nyssa’s jawline.

“I dreamed of your return within these walls—for at least a decade,” Nyssa confessed, taking Sara’s hands in hers, “But they always turned into nightmares. One of us ended up spilling the other’s blood.” she revealed, allowing her hand to drift just slightly over Sara’s shoulder.

“I dreamed of you too—again and again, especially when I was out on missions with the Waverider.” Sara said, stepping back, realizing this closeness might only cloud things for them both.

“Did your dreams end with my blade in your skin too?” Nyssa asked with a knowing smirk.

“Never. I always read the ‘The End’ like in those books about queens and knights I read as a child. You were my clean air, even when I didn’t know I could breathe it—just like now.”

“This ring changed me. I’m not the same woman who once loved you unconditionally.” Nyssa said, showing the golden dragon’s head. Once, Sara remembered, it was a necklace around her neck instead.

“I know. But you haven’t sent me away—not even after I was objectively annoying to your daughter. And you still call me your beloved, habibti.”

Nyssa paused, needing a moment to think before responding. What was Sara suggesting? What was she truly referring to?

“You’ve had other lovers since me. I’ve never been able to move on from you.”

Sara said, sitting on a small chair facing the mountains.

Nyssa closed her eyes, running her fingers through her long hair and tucking it behind her ears. Then she spoke again.

“Though many women—beautiful women—have shared my bed, only one has ever shared my sleep, my nights, and my tears. That’s why I’ll never stop honoring you as you deserve.”

She glanced out over the balcony. The mountain and the waterfall were close—but not close enough to hear. The air felt cool, maybe even damp. Then she continued.

“I can’t pretend your presence—convenient as it may be—brings me joy or contentment. Your return wasn’t voluntary, it wasn’t an act of love. But I also can’t pretend your presence leaves me unaffected.”

Sara was shaken by Nyssa’s words—so honest and sharp. She stood there, silent, unsure of how to respond, frozen.

“Did I unsettle you?” Nyssa chuckled, the way she used to—dropping her monologues and savoring the silence that followed.

“I expected a bit of anger… maybe some disappointment. That you’d feel betrayed, even. But not this.” Sara confessed.

“And why would I? I was the one who told you to leave back then—in that prison. I was the one who told you to rebuild your life and leave it all behind. That never meant I’d do the same in your place, or that it wouldn’t affect me. You did what was right for you.” Nyssa said, her tone laced with superiority.

“It wasn’t fair. I had the upper hand over you—I came back for you. In that prison… I would’ve started a war to let you free. You pushed me away, you stopped me.” Sara snapped, clearly hurt. How could Nyssa think letting her go had been an easy choice?

“I made the right choice. I saved you. Merlyn would’ve killed you. I kept the promise I made to your father—and I won.” Nyssa said firmly, without wavering.

“Don’t think for a second that I didn’t think of you every moment—until Oliver told me you’d found a way to escape. I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped believing you’d find a way.” Sara said, her voice trembling, fighting back tears. Nyssa couldn’t even look at her.

“I would’ve done anything—I’d have given my life to the Gods three times over if that’s what it took to set you free. I was born to serve the League—but not you. You were always light, even when your darkness took over.”

“You condemned yourself.” Sara accused.

“No, habibti. I condemned myself when I let myself love you.”

“Was it worth it?” Sara asked, furious now, finally understanding the weight of Nyssa’s sacrifice. And she wondered—how deeply must she have been loved for Nyssa to let her go? She cursed herself—for every second wasted, every pointless argument, every careless kiss, every night she had chosen sleep instead of staying awake, watching the woman who had loved her more than anyone ever would, protect her from the cruel, ugly world.

And in that long silence that filled the room, stretching the space between them while pushing her closer to Nyssa once more, Sara wondered—how much did Nyssa still love her if she allowed her, despite all the pain, to still find refuge in her home, in her kingdom? And not just that—but to look at Laurel with respect, with that sense of peace she had brought into her chaotic life.

“Looking at Laurel… I suppose it was.” Nyssa said softly, regret and maybe a tinge of sorrow leaking from her voice. She reached out and wiped away Sara’s tears with her thumb. Sara noticed her hands had never hardened. Her fingers still knew exactly how to touch her.

“These are exactly the kind of answers I’ve never been able to stand.” Sara said as she left the room, not looking back, leaving Nyssa alone—only the final click of the door marking her exit.

Chapter Text

After the heated argument, Nyssa remained puzzled—how could she still, after all these years, feel the aftermath of a fight with that woman so deeply? The blonde had changed, for sure. Now she was confident—almost always, at least—powerful. Motherhood must have strengthened her, she mused to herself, then chuckled softly as she sank into an armchair. Becoming a mother, to her, meant assuming a new weakness.

She decided to let Sara cool off for the moment. Their conversation wasn’t over, but it was getting late, and she wanted to rest. So, before undressing from her cloak and daily garments, she summoned a very young servant into the room. She asked for paper and ink and then wrote a letter.

Once it was finished and sealed with her green wax—the color of Ra’s al Ghul—she signed it simply:

Yours, N.

Soon she realized she wouldn’t sleep a wink that night. The younger blonde would always haunt her rest. She had the same servant help her out of the heavy cloak and quickly left the room—but not before leaving the sealed envelope on the desk.

Just a few rooms away, loud laughter echoed through the halls. The two girls were there—Laurel was completely at ease by now, laughing with tears in her eyes and a hand on her stomach.

“No, no—hold on a second. What do you mean this used to be your mother’s room?”

“Yeah. Once she became Ra’s, she took over the chambers that had been left empty for a couple of months. She gave it to me when she adopted me. But the books and most of the big furniture are a collection of things from all the past Demon’s heirs.”

“Doesn’t it feel weird? Growing up surrounded by all these… souls?” the blonde asked suspiciously, lying on her stomach on the bed, chin resting in her hands, gaze drifting across the tall shelves and the messy desk.

“Sometimes I think about it, yeah. But it’s not terrible. In the end, it’s a starting point—many leaders came through these very rooms,” she replied, sitting atop the mentioned desk.

“I think I’d find it weird sleeping in the same bed where my relatives spent their lives.” She rolled around in the soft sheets.

“And, ew, gross—imagine your mom had sex here! That’d be horrible.”

“Nah, you’re just immature. I’m sure she had just as much fun here as I did,” the other girl teased, clearly enjoying the reminder that she was older.

After a few minutes of laughing so hard they could barely breathe, the noise settled, and Laurel gathered the courage to speak.

“I think you know more than I do about their little fling.”

“Well, if you’re calling it a ‘fling,’ then yes, I definitely know more than you,” she said, moving to lie next to her on the bed.

“What do you mean by that?” the younger one asked, sitting cross-legged and looking at her.

“It was far from a fling. They were together for almost eight years in total. Then your mom left the League a couple of times—something that had only ever been granted once before, to a man who later imprisoned my mother. That’s when they broke up for good.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, shocked. Why had her mother hidden such an important story? And why had the woman she thought of as the epitome of elegance and composure ever been imprisoned? The revelation left her shaken.

“I don’t understand why she never told me,” she said, exposing her vulnerability.

“Maybe because it still hurts?” she suggested gently, likely hitting the mark.

“I don’t know. She talks about my other mother… I mean Ava. She left us when I was little. Chose her career. I never understood why she had to choose at all,” she confessed softly. The other girl placed a hand on her shoulder in comfort.

“It’s not important. She’s the one who’s missing out.”

“That’s the first nice thing you’ve said to me,” the younger one said tenderly.

“You don’t get shit, as usual. It’s the second. I told you I liked you earlier.”

They burst into laughter again.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to swear.”

A mysterious figure, moving with calm yet swift steps through the corridors, smiled at the sound of the girls’ chatter. She leaned casually against the doorway—Nyssa, the Demon’s Head, uncertain whether to enter the room of the woman she had longed for years.

She knocked on the door directly across from her daughter’s. Before any response could come, she walked in confidently as always—her posture upright, authoritative. She didn’t need anyone’s permission to enter her own home. After all, Nanda Parbat was still her domain. Yet, she wanted to announce herself to the other woman.

“If I remember correctly, we had a rule,” Nyssa said, finding Sara sitting in an armchair under an open window, cigarette between her fingers—a habit she had never fully kicked. She looked at Nyssa suspiciously, surprised by her presence. The brunette leaned against the now-closed door, wearing only beige linen pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. Her style was so different now—lighter, more open. Sara wondered if she really had changed that much—enough to leave behind dark colors? It seemed impossible. And yet…

“We had a lot of rules,” said the blonde, turning toward the window and inhaling. Smoke drifted freely. Her hair was down—so different from the other’s, neatly tied in elegant braids. Sara now wore an oversized sweatshirt.

“The most useful one said we couldn’t go to bed without resolving a fight,” Nyssa recited from memory, as if the rule had shaped her whole life. But it didn’t seem to have any effect on Sara.

“We always solved our disputes with your beloved art—whether it was war or sex,” Sara said dismissively, as though none of it concerned her anymore, or like she was detaching from old, vague memories.

“You’ve changed. You’re almost convincing as a liar now. You didn’t used to be so good at it,” Nyssa replied sharply, sitting at the foot of the bed, not too close to Sara. Not even she knew what exactly she hoped to get out of this late-night visit.

“Maybe it’s the light colors—they make you less mysterious, less demanding. Anyway, I have no desire to revive dead traditions,” Sara said bluntly. A stark contrast to the image she’d given earlier—flirtatious, playful with Nyssa. She had really pissed her off, and the brunette was just starting to realize it.

Sara crossed her legs, eyeing the woman sitting nearby from head to toe.

“Grant me a duel. You can choose the weapons. I ask for nothing else,” Nyssa said boldly again, playing a psychological game—moving her pawns across the board.

“You never just ask for what you say you want,” Sara replied, lifting her chin in a challenging way.

“I swear on my ring that this time, I do.”

Sara seemed to consider for a moment, fiddling with the thick hem of her sweatshirt. Her cigarette was almost finished—just a couple more drags. As she raised it again, Nyssa understood. She still knew her too well. She’d finish the cigarette, then she’d go.

“So you haven’t changed that much after all. You still won’t refuse a challenge you know you’ll lose. I’ll even give you the first move—as thanks for your bravery.”

“You can keep the first move. I know it’s just an excuse to watch me sweat,” she said, stubbing out the cigarette on the windowsill. Then she stood and walked to the door, gesturing for Nyssa to follow her.

“I was hoping you’d want to keep your defeat in an intimate setting, Taer al-Sahfer.”

“Never cared about that. I’ll even make you rethink that arrogance of yours, Ra’s al Ghul,” she said with a smirk, stepping past Nyssa and out the door, the brunette following close behind granting her a smirk.

From the room across the hall, the two girls emerged the moment they heard the adjacent door close again—the one belonging to the Heir.

Chapter Text

“Are they together?” Laurel whispered to the other girl, peeking through a crack in their door. They both crouched down—blonde on the bottom bunk, the other above—quietly watching.

“Obviously, genius. They’re walking together, aren’t they?”

“I mean…”

“I know what you mean. I don’t know,” the older one cut her off bluntly.

“Let’s follow them,” the blonde said, tugging on her sleeve.

“I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders,” Layla muttered flatly.

“Then let’s be quiet,” Laurel said, grabbing her arm and sneaking out as soon as the door clicked shut behind the others. “Do as I say and we won’t get caught.”

They made their way to the throne room. Inside, a pair of guards stood watch.

“Choose your weapon,” Nyssa said, sliding her sword from its sheath and handing it absentmindedly to a servant.

“The bō. But if I remember right, you’re not a fan of it. Use your sword,” Sara replied, stepping away from her.

“I insist. I’ll take the bō as well,” Nyssa said, addressing another man with a simple gesture that was enough for him to understand. He turned to retrieve the same weapon Sara had chosen, but the foreigner stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“So you can say I beat you because we used your weapon? I’m not giving you that excuse.”

Nyssa chuckled and reclaimed her sword. The servant cast Sara a glance, suspicious of her boldness and ease in front of the Demon’s Head.

“So sure you’ll win, Sara?”

“First blood, then. May the best woman win,” Sara winked, and Nyssa waited—for the other to make the first move. Which she did, quickly.

From a side entrance, the two girls slipped into the room but were soon intercepted by a servant.

“Majesty, what are you doing here?” the young man asked in their native tongue.

“If you value your tongue, pretend you didn’t see us,” Ra’s daughter snapped, ducking behind a hidden recess. He nodded and vanished.

They watched from the shadows. Laurel grew anxious—she’d never seen her mother fight. The metal staff looked fragile compared to Nyssa’s sharp blade.

“Why are they fighting? Didn’t seem like they had a fight…” she whispered, voice trembling.

“I guess it’s a duel. My mother’s not aiming for vital organs. They’re probably settling something,” Layla replied, sitting cross-legged with a careful eye.

“What a modern resolution. Do you also have bonfires for emotional closure?”

“Your mom’s kind of hot, girl,” the dark-haired one added with genuine surprise, earning a shove from the younger blonde.

Sara had a chance to strike Nyssa but held back. Nyssa didn’t. She kicked the blonde’s calf, knocking her to the ground.

“Sparing me won’t help you win,” she said, eyes locked on Sara’s, forcing her to fully grasp her mistake. But then Nyssa felt the energy in the room shift—someone unexpected was watching them.

“But it’ll distract you,” Sara replied, recovering and landing a hard blow that sent Nyssa down as well. She pinned her with a chokehold. For a brief second, Sara was flooded with something she hadn’t felt in years—the scent of the powerful woman, laced with sweat, stirring emotions she wasn’t ready to face.

Nyssa, experienced, slipped free of the hold and pointed her sword at Sara’s throat with ease. She was taller, dominance came naturally in close combat.

“I’m enjoying this. Get up. Let’s go again,” she said, offering a hand as she retracted the blade.

“You’ve already won, but sure. Fighting’s the only way we can be in the same room without hurting each other,” Sara replied, declining her hand.

“And that’s saying something… But careful with your words, Taer al Sahfer,” Nyssa warned, turning toward the hiding spot of the two girls. “We have an audience.”

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” Sara added, only making things worse, sharing a complicit glance with the other woman.

Laurel turned to Layla, glaring. “Miss I-follow-my-mother’s-instinct, your brilliant plan was absolute shit.”

Layla snapped back, “Maybe if you didn’t stomp around like a rhino, we wouldn’t have been caught. Even the servant heard you. I sneak into government buildings without getting noticed—who do you think messed up here?”

Sara rounded the stone bench behind which the girls were hiding, now arguing aloud. She sat on top of it and laughed. They were so caught up in their spat they didn’t even notice her—despite her breathing was still irregular for the activity. Sara looked like someone who’d seen much worse and was clearly amused by their little nighttime stunt.

Nyssa, on the other hand, remained rooted at the center of the room. Her gaze was hard, almost betrayed—there was more to her daughter’s disobedience than just teenage mischief. Maybe the little blonde had the same effect on Layla as Sara once had on her.

“Mother,” Layla said, standing and straightening her clothes, “I had no intention of giving in to such immature behavior. I apologize. I will accept any punishment you deem appropriate.”

She lowered her head, aware of the offense to her mother, to the throne, to the mantle. She felt guilty—truly—but she’d gone along with Laurel’s antics, and she believed it was right to face the consequences too.

Every so often, Layla cast glances toward her mother. Nyssa’s gaze never softened, but Sara gave her a different look—gentler, more understanding. Layla soon realized an entire silent conversation was happening between the two women. It ended with a softer glint in Nyssa’s eyes and a subtle shake of her head, while Sara answered with a faint nod.

“I hope you both learned something from this duel. Despite Taer al Sahfer—or Sara, as you know her,” she said to Laurel, who quickly mimicked Layla’s composed posture—well, sort of. She looked more like a stiff parody. “—being a little rusty, she’s still one of the best fighters on this planet.”

Nyssa then approached the blonde, still casually seated astride the bench.

“The only one who can keep up with me.”

Then she returned to the center of the room, motioning for the girls to leave. They did, but not before Layla bowed in respect.

“Off to bed now. For real this time,” Sara said as she rose and walked over to the other woman.

Chapter Text

“Do you think they really went to bed?” Sara asked, stepping closer to Nyssa, who stood still with an annoyed expression.

“No, I really don’t,” she replied, her voice softening the moment Sara’s hand rested gently on her wrist. Nyssa’s face twitched slightly at the touch.

“You’ve kept training all these years, you’re still skilled. But your judgment is still your worst enemy,” she said, trying not to pay too much attention to Sara’s hand on her wrist. The blonde was standing close beside her, her hand resting lightly as if it were an unconscious gesture.

Nyssa was staring at the ruined Lazarus Pit, while Sara looked toward the door. Their closeness was once again becoming toxic, intoxicating—and yet, inevitable and necessary.

Sara swallowed. Under her fingers, she felt a thin bracelet. Just below it was another, with the same pattern—one adorned with little red leaves, the other yellow. Sara recognized them immediately: luxurious bracelets Nyssa had gifted her for a Christmas the younger woman had insisted on celebrating. Sara wore the red one (Nyssa’s color), and the brunette wore the yellow.

“I thought I’d lost it,” the younger woman whispered, surprised to feel it under her fingers.

“And yet it’s always been here, safe,” Nyssa said with a soft smile, taking her fingers in hers, brushing against them and making Sara shiver—only to tense up immediately after. Maybe she’d gone too far in letting herself go, but the other woman’s fingers had always felt terribly right in her hand.

“Have you been wearing both all this time, or is that just a special touch for my return? I don’t even remember you being this flashy—objectively speaking, age hasn’t done you any favors,” Sara joked, though Nyssa felt insulted.

“Not everyone wears jewelry out of vanity, Sara. Some wear it not to forget,” the brunette said bluntly, but she didn’t let go of Sara, whose fingers seemed to cling even tighter, cradling themselves in Nyssa’s hand.

“I always thought you preferred forgetting over remembering. I guess I was wrong,” the blonde said, turning her gaze away again, yet remaining close.

“You’re the only one I never wanted to forget. The only memory that gave me a reason to live in that dungeon under the usurper’s reign. You’re worse than a scar that never heals.” Her tone was no longer gentle—it was venomous, sharp.

“Is there something unresolved we need to talk about? We won’t solve anything with swords. Neither of us will ever kill the other. A duel is pointless.”

Sara’s voice had taken on a combative edge too, but she didn’t dare let go of Nyssa’s fingers—if anything, she held on tighter, hoping Nyssa wouldn’t run.

“You don’t get to joke about what you abandoned, Taer al-Sahfer,” Nyssa said harshly, stepping in front of her and losing herself in those blue eyes that still burned with fire.

“You could’ve written to me if you missed me so much. No need to wear me on your wrist—emails exist now.”

“You could’ve stayed, if you couldn’t bear to leave me alone,” she replied without thinking, a victim of her emotions—Ra’s al Ghul once more. She would soon regret it.

“You’re angry—but about what, Nyssa? You’re the one who let me back in,” Sara said, gripping her wrist again. She could feel the brunette’s heartbeat pounding under her skin.

“I’m angry because I know the cost of your presence, Sara. You can’t come back into my life every time you need something. Every time you’re lost, you come back.”

“I can’t help it. You’re the only place that’s ever felt like home. I see the way you look at my daughter. I see how you look at yours. Your gods didn’t betray you—and neither did I,” Sara said, her voice trembling.

Nyssa stepped closer, wiping away a tear that had fallen on Sara’s cheek, her hand moving gently to cup the blonde’s thin face—who immediately leaned into it.

“You don’t know how many times I had to stop myself from looking for you over the years. I was the one who told you to build a life outside these walls. But I hoped—for once—you’d obey me completely. I hoped you’d never come back. My gods, it seems, enjoy testing my patience,” she whispered, echoing Sara’s tone from earlier.

“Then take your hand away. No one’s touched me like this in twenty years,” the blonde whispered, her voice uncertain.

“Then move away yourself, if you’re so brave. I’m not,” Nyssa answered, dominant, challenging the crying blonde. Her pale blue eyes glowed against the redness of her pupils.

“Since when do you admit you’re not brave, Ra’s? If your enemies heard you…” she said, trying to force a bitter, defeated smile.

“My greatest enemy is standing right in front of me—and the worst part is, I can’t escape you.”

“Since when am I your greatest enemy?” she asked, offended.

“Since I realized I’ll never be able to run away. Not completely.”

“So what’s your strategy, Ra’s? How do you prefer to face this battle?”

Sara closed the distance with a few steps, resting her hands on the woman’s hips. She lifted her chin, trying to catch her gaze, searching for a reaction to the touch. Nyssa had always been taller, and Sara had to hope she’d look down—but she didn’t. Instead, she shot her a glance and raised an eyebrow.

“The same way I’ve handled it before, I suppose.”

“By surrendering?” Sara replied with confident irony, locking eyes with her.

“You have a revisionist take on history, Taer al Sahfer,” Nyssa now held Sara’s gaze, piercing, inspecting. Her full lips hovered just inches from Sara’s own, who struggled to withstand the silent battle between their eyes.

“The ancients advised to keep your friends close… but your enemies closer.” Her voice was low, warm, husky—somewhere between a threat and a confession of desire.

The space between them had nearly vanished. Sara waited for a reaction, refusing to take another step unless Nyssa gave her something.

“Stop it, Taer al Sahfer,” she said, breaking eye contact again. Sara’s breath was unsteady. Nyssa’s tone was firm—undoubtedly the same voice she had used to command for years.

Sara laughed, pulling her arms tighter around the woman, who seemed to soften for a moment, her voice betraying her.

“Stop it…”

“The name you gave me always sounded so good coming from your lips. When others said it, it felt like a threat. But when you said it, it made me feel like I was yours. Even after all this time… it still sounds like poetry in my ears.”

Nyssa’s body betrayed her again. She wrapped her arms around Sara, pulling her closer than should’ve been physically possible. Sara closed her eyes, resting her head between the other woman’s shoulder and exposed neck, which smelled maddeningly good.

“You’re tickling me. Stop it—step back,” the Demon’s Head muttered.

“Say it when you actually mean it. For now… let me stay in your arms and enjoy this peace. Just for a couple of seconds.”

Nyssa said nothing. They stood together in the center of a room that felt too big, too empty. The cold air, filled with memories, reminded them both of Nyssa’s role in history—and stirred a flicker of fear in Sara.

She held her a bit tighter. She didn’t want Nyssa to become like her father. She didn’t want that ring on her finger to corrupt her with the same cruelty.

Sara was sure Nyssa sensed it. She gently brushed aside a lock of blonde hair and leaned down, as if to kiss her, her gaze still watchful.

Sara didn’t move, but she closed her eyes and gripped Nyssa’s hips tightly. One of Nyssa’s hands rested at the back of her neck. Their lips didn’t touch—something held her back.

She pulled away, and Sara felt the distance return. She was curious, but understood this was just one of Nyssa’s many ways of keeping control, so she let her.

“What are you waiting for? Kiss me already.”

Nyssa took her hand and began walking toward the door, slowly, allowing Sara to follow. A smile finally spread across the blonde’s lips.

“I’m sure you can wait a couple more minutes. Let’s go somewhere I can give you all my attention… where no one will disturb us. Follow me, and I promise—you’ll be mine.”

And so Nyssa let go of Sara’s hand, though the blonde followed peacefully just behind her, barely a few steps back. But walking briskly, the distance between them barely showed.

Ra’s al Ghul entered one of the rooms that led to the fortress towers.

“I recognize these halls,” Sara said.

“It’s where I realized I was falling in love with you… just a few years ago,” Nyssa replied with a smile, opening the door and letting her pass first.

A breeze rushed through, tousling their hair in messy waves. Even Nyssa seemed human for a moment, despite the rigid composure she usually carried.

“Getting romantic with the years?” Sara asked, leaning casually against a low wall—just as she used to do back in the day when she smoked. She tried to fix her hair with one hand, but failed.

The scent of jasmine filled the air. Sara smiled. Nyssa was watching her with that feline look again—ready to pounce, though something was holding her back.

“Does it bother you that even after all these years, I still have the same effect on you as when we were twenty?”

“I was a little older,” she murmured softly.

The moon was high above. Neither of them was fully visible in its glow. Nyssa sat beside the younger woman, who turned, pushing her chest slightly toward Nyssa’s. She licked her lower lip, never breaking eye contact.

“I haven’t changed, Taer al Sahfer. If anything, I’m even more dangerous now. Don’t challenge me.”

“You were never dangerous to me. I was just fuel for your fire—and I think that part hasn’t changed either.”

Nyssa’s knee brushed against Sara’s—an accidental touch, perhaps—but it sent an electric jolt between them, lighting up something deeper. Sara, no longer the little girl she once was, seemed completely transformed.

Impatient as always, she spun around swiftly, took Nyssa’s face between her hands—it was already so close—and parted her lips slightly, as if to taste the woman’s intoxicating scent. A lover rediscovered, after a lifetime… and a daughter in between.

“You’re not playing by my rules anymore?” Nyssa asked, uncertain—was that hesitation?

Then Sara’s full lips pressed against hers, silencing any protest.

The position on the low wall was uncomfortable, so Sara slid her hands over Nyssa’s collarbones and straddled her, but not so close as to seem desperate.

“We might need to revise those rules. I’m not the scared little girl anymore.”

She said this once the kiss turned languid and their breathing had grown uneven. Nyssa’s hands clung to Sara’s hips as if to anchor her in place—afraid she might vanish.

“You never were.”

Nyssa replied, pulling back just a little, as if trying to breathe air untouched by Sara’s presence—wind carrying away the strands of both their hair.

Chapter Text

Sara was in control of the moment—of the situation, of her own emotions. She was dictating the rhythm they were to follow, like a conductor with a baton. Nyssa didn’t feel at ease; this kind of submission to another was foreign to her. Then she felt a cold hand slide under her tunic, resting on her hip. Her eyes flew open in surprise.

“Sorry,” Sara said, quickly pulling her hand back—but the brunette stopped her, gently placing her own hand over the cold one.

“Go ahead,” she replied with a timid smile, as if trying to hide or dismiss her uncharacteristic reaction.

“What happened to you?” Sara asked, concerned. The Nyssa before her was so different from the one she used to know.

Her Nyssa would never have allowed Sara to take control. Her Nyssa had never reacted to her like this.

“I didn’t use to react like that, did I, Taer al-Sahfer?”

She asked, and the woman shook her head in reply.

“Nah, the Nyssa I knew would’ve had one hand at my throat and the other already somewhere else—just to remind me who was in charge.”

Nyssa laughed heartily, loudly, for the first time in years—just like she used to. She grabbed Sara by the hips and pulled her close, into an embrace more intimate than the kiss they had shared earlier.

“Welcome home, my Little Bird.”

Sara pressed even closer. Nyssa’s arms held her tight and steady—a sincere embrace that said a thousand things: you’re safe, let go, here you’re free, you don’t have to be in control.

The blonde rested her forehead on Nyssa’s shoulder and chuckled. Nyssa knew that laugh well. Whatever was about to come out of Sara’s mouth, she could already guess, so she rolled her eyes preemptively.

“If I’m not mistaken—and I’m not—this house has a lot of rules.”

She didn’t move her head, but her gaze met Nyssa’s.

“You’ve really grown,” Nyssa replied. “I never thought I’d see you willingly follow the rules. But I like this version of you—free, wild… this new confidence suits you.”

Nyssa had always held the reins in their relationship. She had always been the dominant one. But now, she didn’t feel the need to reclaim that role. She saw clearly that Sara didn’t need to be dominated—she needed support, comfort.

She said this while one hand gently cradled the back of Sara’s head, fingers in her hair just above her neck.

Sara wrapped her arms around Nyssa’s neck. They were so close now, their noses brushing, their eyes sharp and dangerous.

“Careful,” the blonde whispered, “if you let me get too free, you might never tame me again, Ra’s.”

Nyssa laughed once more, grazed her cheek with the tip of her nose, then closed her eyes and sighed.

“It almost sounds like you’re begging me to set limits you’ll end up crossing.”

“I would never…” Sara said in a mock-offended tone, dripping with irony. Nyssa raised an eyebrow.

“I never beg, Ra’s. You should remember—I used to get punished for that,” she said proudly. Then she tilted her head, letting her gaze hover just above Nyssa’s. She was amused by this new, compliant version of Nyssa. She could tell she was holding back. And she was tired, too—Sara could see it. She would’ve sworn it.

“Do you want us to follow the old rules?”

Nyssa asked, shifting her hands from Sara’s hips to the edge of the low wall where the blonde was sitting, physically giving her space. She needed to be sure of what Sara wanted from her.

“Only if you can prove you still know how to make me obey.”

The blonde replied boldly, pressing herself even closer—if that was even physically possible—with her hips against Nyssa’s stomach. Her legs tightened around the brunette’s thighs.

Nyssa silently prayed no one would come out at that moment.

“You’re playing with fire again,” Nyssa warned. She was tired—happy to be spending time with the woman she loved more than anyone in the world, except for her daughter, who always came first.

“Playing? Who’s playing?” Sara feigned innocence.

There she is, thought Nyssa. In her purest, most primal nature.

“Tell me you want me to stop. Tell me to put you back in your place, Taer al-Sahfer.”

Nyssa challenged her again—still without touching her.

“You don’t order me around like a puppet anymore?”

The blonde asked in a low voice, pushing the Arab woman’s buttons.

“No. I prefer a new approach.”

Nyssa was tired. She was Ra’s, a leader in every aspect of her life. The last thing she wanted was to play the dominatrix in bed or with Sara. The weight of command followed her everywhere—here, she craved something else.

“What kind?”

“I wouldn’t be a good strategist if I revealed my tactics to the enemy.”

Sara laughed and stood up, offering her hand to help Nyssa to her feet. Then she took Nyssa’s face between her hands, stood on tiptoe, and kissed her with a rediscovered tenderness.

“Take me to your chambers, Ra’s. I want to be your worst enemy until you find me worthy of sleeping in your bed.”

They had entered Nyssa’s chambers, dimly lit only by candles. The air was warm, thick with incense, and the floor lined with Persian rugs.

The bed was enormous—its size almost intimidating.

Sara felt a pang of insecurity and couldn’t help but imagine how many lovers had shared that bed with Nyssa.

She sat at the edge of it while Nyssa disappeared into the bathroom—surely to freshen up and change out of her less practical clothes. When she came back, she wore only a silky green robe.

Sara’s expression had changed from earlier. Nyssa immediately walked over and sat beside her once again.

“Look, if you’re not sure about this, you don’t have to do anything. We can just sleep, Sara.”

“That’s not the problem, Nyssa. It’s just that…”

Sara tried to finish her thought, but the brunette interrupted.

“If it’s about the room, that’s not a proble—”

Sara turned quickly and placed a hand over her mouth—firm, but still gentle.

“Let me finish, for once. I’m overwhelmed by jealousy and regret—for all the years we lost, the ones we could’ve spent in this bed, but instead spent apart. Because of pride. You, with who knows how many lovers… and me, with a woman so insecure she left me alone with a baby girl.”

Nyssa took Sara’s hand—the one still covering her mouth—and gently lowered it. Sara noticed she had smudged her lipstick, even though it was barely tinted.

Nyssa didn’t say a word. She held the hand between her fingers and kissed it slowly—then kissed Sara’s lips with all the emotion she had, and whispered:

“We’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Sara nodded and tried to wipe the lipstick smudge from Nyssa’s face with her thumb—but failed.

“Oops. I guess it was doomed anyway.”

“I claim every night we spent apart, Ra’s,” Sara said boldly, kicking off her shoes and letting them fall carelessly at the foot of the bed. Then she lay down in the center of the mattress, still fully clothed.

She knew it would normally bother Nyssa—she had always hated sitting on the bed with their day clothes—but Nyssa’s face showed no trace of that usual irritation.

“Don’t you disarm your enemies, Ra’s?”

Sara teased. Nyssa didn’t move. She stayed at the edge of the bed, her expression tired but content. She didn’t look at her directly—only threw occasional glances, never fully turning.

With arrogant ease, Nyssa waited a few moments—just to make her wait—then placed her hands on Sara's knees.

“Last chance to back out,” Nyssa said in a low, hoarse voice. She kept some distance between them. Their closeness had always been toxic, in the sense that together, they couldn’t make rational choices.

“I miss the battle. From a master like you, all I can do is learn—especially in defeat.”

Nyssa chuckled silently and began to undress her, but before she could unzip the jeans, Sara pulled her close by the belt of her robe.

Nyssa’s long hair—now even curlier than in her youth—tickled Sara’s face, making her laugh. With newfound determination, Sara decided to reinvent the rules of their dynamic—this time by being the one on top.

“Taer al-Sahfer?” Nyssa asked, surprised.

“Milady, you seem tired. I believe I must find a way to properly thank you for your generous hospitality,” Sara replied with mock courtesy.

“I’m only allowing it because we haven’t discussed the new rules yet,” Nyssa said, lying back and keeping Sara close, while the blonde wrapped her legs tightly around her torso. From underneath, the brunette tucked a rebellious blond strand behind Sara’s ear.

“You’re so different… and yet you still smell like you. You fill my heart,” Nyssa said softly—a rare tenderness in a moment like that. Sara loosened the silk belt around her robe.

“You, on the other hand, have become even more elegant and refined. But you’re the same—your scent hasn’t changed, and your gaze still overwhelms me.”

The belt slid off onto the mattress, and the robe opened, revealing Nyssa’s bare body under Sara’s gaze. She paused to take her in—awestruck.

Some new scars had joined the older ones, now long healed.

A soft sigh escaped Nyssa’s lips as her hand slid under Sara’s shirt. The blonde raised her arms, letting her undress her.

Soon, the only sounds in the room were slow breaths and the occasional moan. Sara was soon naked, and Nyssa’s robe forgotten somewhere on the floor.

They exchanged positions over and over—neither taking full control, neither dominating.

For the first time, it was truly mutual. A first, in every sense.

Chapter Text

It was late at night. The room was silent; only the soft crackle of candles could be heard, and the occasional flutter of a bat’s wings outside.

Every now and then, one of them shifted a limb on the sheets, sliding delicately across them.

Their fingers were intertwined, after a night of slow, tired love — not passionate, but returning. A kind of love that said, “We’re still here. Different, but still here.”

“We’re not young anymore,” Nyssa said to Sara, who was lying in front of her, on her side, wrapped in the green robe the brunette had worn earlier. She chuckled softly, hinting at a smile.

“How did we even make love all night back then?” Sara said, laughing louder, eyes closed at last, relaxed in the comforting arms of the older woman — who had always been a fortress for her. Even when she was younger, Nyssa’s presence had made her stay in that dark house feel less tragic.

“Maybe because we were always angry at each other, or afraid we’d die,” Sara answered herself, her voice now laced with irony, still without turning around.

They giggled, then silence returned — a warm silence, like a blanket over the room. Sara sat up in the center of the bed, covering herself with the ends of the brunette’s robe she’d picked up from the floor. It was far too big for her, but wearing Nyssa’s clothes had always been her favorite thing. Then, she made a motion to stand.

“Where are you going?” Nyssa asked, worried — though she pretended not to be.

“I was going to have a smoke, instinctively. But maybe I don’t need it anymore,” Sara said, clearing her throat. Instead, she began folding the clothes they had tossed all around the room, leaving her lost cigarette pack behind in a purse in her distant room.

“Come back here, Little Bird.” Nyssa said in a low voice — it sounded almost like an order, after a night without giving any.

“You’re tired too, Nyssa. You should rest,” Sara replied while pouring herself a drink into one of the elegant glasses. Nyssa drank a lot, and the servants would leave bottles and ornate glasses everywhere. Sara walked with confidence, occasionally casting an inquisitive look at the naked, bold woman in the sheets, who looked back with calm, weariness, and satisfaction in her eyes (because let’s be honest — their love had always been superb. Sara had learned how to make love thanks to Nyssa).

“I need to make sure you fall asleep first,” she said, sitting in the center of the massive bed, covered only by a soft silk sheet that whispered around her.

“Come on, I don’t want to get in your way. I can go back to my room,” Sara said, still standing beside the bed, pulling the brunette’s robe tighter around her. She looked so grown up — it was strange for Nyssa to see her like this. She had seen her as a woman once, at Oliver’s funeral, but they had exchanged only a few words. This was different.

“Taer al Sahfer, it’s my turn now,” Nyssa said, commanding with that old, rediscovered tone — firm and intimidating. But Sara moved easily within that part of Nyssa; she always had. She had been wondering when it would resurface.

“What happened to the ‘new method’?” she teased, already having predicted that this tone would reappear.

“It doesn’t seem to be working right now, so I’m using the old one,” Nyssa said, straightening slightly, her hand brushing the sheet beside her to indicate where Sara should be. Before obeying — just like she would have in another life — Sara hesitated. So Nyssa brushed two fingers along her bare thigh, where the robe no longer covered her.

And so she obeyed. With feline grace, she crawled across the bed toward her, until Nyssa had Sara — with her legs folded — sitting on her lap, just the way she liked. The brunette pushed all her dark hair over one shoulder, seeming to ignore the bold move despite it being right there in front of her.

As soon as Sara settled fully on her, Nyssa kissed her softly, dissolving all trace of the predator. Then she gently guided her to the pillow next to hers — so soft, so fragrant.

Sara melted onto the mattress, and Nyssa followed soon after. But soon Sara chose to rest her head on Nyssa’s exposed collarbone, her closeness like a natural sedative.

She didn’t seem to mind at all, but she didn’t close her eyes. They remained in silence for a while, but Sara seemed heavy with thought. Nyssa gently ran her hand through her hair.

“You don’t have to worry, habibti. We’ll take care of you and your daughter.”

Sara turned her gaze and nodded.

“I’m sorry I dragged her into this. She’s the better version of me. She didn’t deserve any of this,” she whispered, almost afraid to say it aloud.

“You are also the best version of yourself. But I won’t deny she’s wonderful,” Nyssa said, gently turning the blonde onto her side so she could fully lie down. Her hand continued caressing Sara’s soft hair, now brushing her ear, and finally, Sara closed her eyes — even if just for a moment.

Then Nyssa turned to her side as well, drawing closer, slipping one lean, muscular leg between Sara’s, who welcomed it immediately. Soon, she slid an arm under the blonde’s, pulling her into an embrace and nestling her nose into her fragrant hair.

“I know this isn’t the right time to question your choices, but do you truly see the time we spent together as so terrible that you never mentioned it to your daughter?”

“I could never see the time spent with you as terrible. I just wanted to avoid showing her my darkness. I’ve never liked the version of myself that existed here. But I would’ve never hidden you.”

“My daughter knows exactly who you are,” she said — not with accusation, just as a fact. Sara curled up in pain for not having done the same with her own.

Nyssa didn’t blame her, and she wasn’t offended either. Of course she would’ve preferred things to be different, but she knew she’d make up for it. She was sure of it.

The wind blew in through the window, and Sara shivered under Nyssa’s skin. So Nyssa pulled the sheet over her to keep her warm.

“Now sleep, Little Bird. I’m sure my daughter is doing the same with yours — I gave them the order.”

“I just hope they’re not doing exactly what we did,” she said with a chuckle, eyes closed, bringing Nyssa’s delicate hand to her lips and kissing the tips of her fingers.

Nyssa burst out laughing and pulled her tighter. Then, with her other hand, she began to caress Sara’s neck in that steady, rhythmic way — bold in its slowness — that only worked on her. Even in her youth, she had grown used to Nyssa’s paradoxical touch.

Nyssa had always been able to embody strength and pride, sweetness and violence, care and protection — all at once, effortlessly.

Sara never could. Her life had always swung between moments of darkness and others of light, with no harmony. Her inner divide had never suited the League — in any timeline.

She had regretted having to flee to Starling City, leaving Nyssa behind. But it had been necessary for her soul. And now, she was grateful to love once again this place that had welcomed her when no other place felt like home.

“What can I do to convince you to sleep, Sara?”

“I need to sleep,” Layla said curtly, shutting the door to her room as Laurel followed her in.

“Wanna have a sleepover?” the blonde asked excitedly, throwing herself onto the other girl’s bed.

“Definitely not. You might not have duties to the League yet, but both of us have to wake up early tomorrow. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re on vacation.”

Meanwhile, Laurel was mimicking her as she spoke, earning herself a sharp glance.

“If discipline bothers you so much, you’re not required to follow me around every second. We even gave you your own room — not exactly a privilege granted to everyone.”

Layla’s tone was laced with boredom at the blonde’s immature behavior.

“And yet, you don’t kick me out. So if you don’t mind, I want to sleep with you. This place gives me the creeps.”

“You’re not sleeping with me,” Layla said, clearly annoyed, disappearing into the bathroom and returning moments later in pajamas, the dragon-head necklace still around her neck.

“That’s going to be super comfortable to sleep in,” Laurel remarked, now sitting in the middle of the bed without a care. She had left her shoes on the other side of the room, taken off her hoodie, and was wearing just a t-shirt.

“I’m the second woman to wear this since the League of Assassins was founded — the first not to carry the blood of the original Ra’s al Ghul. I’ll never take it off,” she said as she closed the window.

“In the League, the bed is shared by spouses or lovers. I know it’s not in line with your Western morals, but that’s how things work for us.”

“Can siblings share a bed?” Laurel asked cheekily, lying down on the mattress — far too big for one person.

“Yes, but we—” she was cut off abruptly by the blonde.

“Pretend our mothers never broke up and put a pillow between us. I’m sleeping on the left,” she said casually.

“Don’t you dare get under my sheets in those filthy clothes,” Layla said, raising her voice and pointing a finger accusingly, grabbing a nearby pillow and throwing it at her.

“Well, while I was running away from home, I didn’t exactly grab my best pajamas. Lend me something and I’ll change.”

Layla huffed but complied, stepping out to give her space. When she returned, Laurel had already changed into clean clothes and placed the pillow barrier.

Then, Layla unrolled a small Persian rug on the floor, under the curious gaze of the American girl.

“What are you staring at?” she asked in a mock-stern tone, tying her low ponytail and draping a light veil over her head.

“Are you Muslim?” Laurel asked, intrigued by the ritual gestures.

“Yes. Do you have any prejudices you’d like to voice before I start praying?”

Laurel chuckled and shook her head.

When Layla finished — still under Laurel’s quiet gaze — she climbed into bed, not before blowing out the candles.

“Do you want an autograph? Or maybe a goodnight kiss? A lullaby?” she asked, irritated, sensing the blonde staring at the ceiling, perhaps nervously.

Laurel looked annoyed — or pretended to be — and adjusted her pillow, which, by her standards, was terribly uncomfortable.

“Do you people like sleeping on rocks?” she quipped, referring to the pillow’s hardness.

“No, we like throwing them at our enemies.”

“A pillow fight. I like it.”

“Goodnight to you too.”

“You’re ruthless. This morning I was on the other side of the globe, and now I’m here, with you all…” she said with her nose pointed upward, not even glancing at the girl beside her.

“I’m surprised you even know the US is far away, considering your knowledge of geography,” Layla replied.

Moments later, the blonde began to snore, much to Layla’s annoyance.

Chapter Text

The women were sleeping peacefully under the luxurious sheets. A soft orange light filtered through the blinds. A servant entered the room to bring breakfast in bed to Nyssa. He wasn’t surprised to find another woman in her bed. Surely, he might have hesitated at finding her still in the woman’s arms—again.

Women had come and gone from Ra’s al Ghul’s chambers regularly, but they always left—usually before dawn.

Before he could leave the room, Nyssa sensed his presence.

“Salim, could you bring a coffee as well? My guest doesn’t appreciate tea as much as I do.”

Her tone was polite but firm, her voice deep with sleep yet tinged with the affectionate care of someone who knew the blonde deeply.

Nyssa didn’t move an inch, afraid any motion might wake the blonde. Their legs were still tangled, though each had her own pillow—Sara had pushed hers up against Nyssa’s.

“Morning,” Sara mumbled, half-asleep, adjusting her pillow and curling up to be embraced by Nyssa.

She complied, no words needed—they understood each other. They always had.

“Sabah al nuur, ḥabībti,” Nyssa whispered, wrapping her in the same robe now serving as the American’s improvised pajamas.

Before they could be interrupted again, Nyssa turned to the blonde and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. Sara took her fingers and laced them with Nyssa’s, who then kissed the back of her hand.

Soon, the servant brought Sara her coffee as well. They drank without speaking, exchanging sleepy, chilled glances in the early morning light.

Sara sat up in the center of the bed, retrieved the comforter that had ended up somewhere near the doors, and wrapped it around herself, despite already wearing Nyssa’s oversized robe.

“Are you warmer now, ḥabībti?” Nyssa asked with a chuckle, sipping her drink.

“Not yet,” Sara replied, accepting the steaming cup from Nyssa’s hands and starting to drink.

“I don’t remember all these privileges back when you were Erde.”

Nyssa chuckled and leaned back against the headboard, covering herself with the light sheet.

“I didn’t have them—hence why you don’t remember. It’s one of the few indulgences I allow myself.”

Sara gave her a mischievous look, recalling the first time she’d seen her again after years—how she was dressed, the luxury car.

“Besides the clothes and the car, you mean,” she said, while playfully trying to get her long blonde hair out of the “igloo” she had built with the comforter.

“You’re mistaken there. I had those even when my father was in charge.”

Sara smiled again, this time tenderly, watching her. She remained silent for a moment, then spoke, meeting Nyssa’s inquisitive gaze.

“Command suits you. You were born to wear the mantle—you deserve it.”

“It does take time away from other… forms… of command,” Nyssa said, flustered by her own innuendo.

“I’m sure you still manage just fine,” the American laughed heartily.

“By the way… you don’t mind I brought my old uniform, do you?”

“Only if you feel comfortable wearing it. You could just go with the formal dress.”

“Let’s go with the formal one, then. But I still have the old red stripe. If I’m not mistaken, it should be green now.”

Sara was referring to how the formal uniforms of the League displayed ranks and honors earned in battle. Her first title had been that of Nyssa al Ghul’s beloved—back when Nyssa was heir, that was marked by red. Now the color would need to change.

“Green it shall be. Wear it to breakfast as it is—we’ll change it in time,” Nyssa said, rising to set down the empty cups. She left a kiss on Sara’s forehead before heading to her bathroom to change.

Meanwhile, things were going very differently in Layla’s room.

The young Arab girl had already been out training. She’d run through the courtyards of Nanda Parbat and completed her first swim session in the private pool.

“You need to get up, American!” she said, finding her roommate still snoring under the covers, curled up from the cold.

“Are you kidding me? We have breakfast with my mother—get moving.”

It was more of a monologue; Laurel kept sleeping undisturbed.

Laurel showed no signs of consciousness. If it weren’t for the sounds coming from her mouth, Layla might have doubted she was even alive.

Layla grabbed the pillow they had used as a barrier and threw it over her head.

“You need to wake up now. I’m out of patience with you.”

“Easy, come on… I just woke up,” said Laurel, wiping drool off her cheek—prompting a look of disgust from Layla.

“Easy? Easy my ass! Do you even know what time it is?” she snapped, raising her voice.

“No, enlighten me,” Laurel replied, sitting up on the bed.

“It’s 5:30. We have breakfast with my mother at 5:45,” Layla said, furious, fearing they’d be late.

“Alright, Princess, I’m coming, I’m coming. I’ll rinse off and be right there.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of showing up to breakfast dressed like that, I hope. You need to wear our clothes.”

“At home, I eat breakfast dressed like this,” Laurel said as she got up and headed for Layla’s bathroom—maybe to brush her teeth, maybe just to splash water on her face. Layla definitely didn’t want to know.

“Forget it. Get dressed.”

She rummaged through the drawer and managed to find a black T-shirt and beige linen pants that could work.

“At least they look comfortable,” the blonde grumbled as she saw them.

Then she noticed Layla was wearing special ribbons on her chest and a red sash around her waist. Her hair was neat—unlike hers—and she even had some makeup on. Nothing dramatic, just a subtle touch.

“Are you going to a gala or something?”

“I sincerely hope someone introduces you to our traditions soon, because you’re impossible.”

Chapter Text

The girls hurried into the fortress’s dining hall and were the first to arrive, finding a table already set and about four servants standing behind the chairs. When they saw the smaller dark-haired girl enter, one of the servants—perhaps already knowing where she usually sat—pulled out her chair for her.

“Aren’t you going to sit?” she asked Laurel.

“I’m not used to all this,” Laurel replied in a faint voice, choosing a chair next to Layla’s.

“Neither was I, but humans can adapt to anything,” she said, sitting down with poise, subtly criticizing the lack of good manners. Nyssa had trained her from the beginning; for her, it was a mantra: elegance must be present at all times.

“We arrived too early. I could’ve slept more,” Layla grumbled as a servant moved her chair for her to sit.

“You’ve definitely slept more than eno—”

Layla didn’t get to finish her sentence, nor Laurel to sit down, before Nyssa was the first to cross the threshold of the door. Right behind her, Sara seemed to have blended in perfectly. She wore what was clearly a uniform from a distant past, adorned with colored ribbons—clearly representing ranks or commendations.

A long red sash with elaborate golden embroidery crossed from her left shoulder to her hip. Just after Nyssa entered the luxurious dining hall, Sara followed. Layla visibly tensed at the sight, though Laurel couldn’t understand why. She’d ask later—she was too busy being disturbed by her mother’s courteous and composed demeanor.

“Good morning to all. I hope you slept well,” Nyssa said as a servant seated her at the head of the table. Sara sat opposite her. Layla immediately stood up, and Laurel copied her a second later, bowing her head in reverence. As Nyssa passed behind her, she planted a kiss on the back of her head, on her fragrant hair—a gesture so maternal and spontaneous that Sara couldn’t help but smile.

Laurel stared at her mother with a clear expression of annoyance. She wasn’t pleased to see how easily she was fitting in. Sara understood quickly, as the girl didn’t return her affectionate greeting. They sat down only once they were sure Nyssa had done so too—a reflexive behavior for women trained by the League. Despite the many years that had passed, Sara still remembered the etiquette of Nanda Parbat.

Laurel huffed.

“Mother, the reports from Cambodia have arrived,” Layla said hastily, as if trying to distract from the younger girl’s improper behavior.

“Leave them in my study, dear. Let’s have breakfast for now,” Nyssa replied, wanting to include the other two in the conversation as she waved her hand dismissively.

“I hope the fortress was quiet last night,” Nyssa added, sipping water as she began to eat with ephemeral elegance. She had noticed the battle of glances between the two blondes and sought to interrupt it—or at least declare a temporary truce.

Layla noticed a few moments later and cleared her throat before saying,

“Laurel certainly didn’t have trouble falling asleep, given her consistent snoring.”

“You two slept together?” Sara asked in a low voice, disturbed by the statement.

“Your daughter introduced me to your traditional version of a sleepover—with a solid wall of pillows separating us,” Layla responded calmly and quickly, to clarify for both of them that there was nothing to worry about.

Sara felt reassured, and Nyssa said nothing—she was certain her daughter was mainly attracted to men. She likely saw Laurel more as a sister figure; Layla had never been one to make friends easily.

Then Layla began to eye Sara’s uniform suspiciously. Unable to hold back any longer, she said:

“Mother, I don’t want to overstep, but the sash on Taer al-Sahfer’s chest—” the young Arab began but was quickly cut off by her mother raising a hand.

“No need to go further. The sash will change color. Sara found her old uniform and decided to wear it, but she hasn’t taken the oath again, and she hasn’t resumed her old name.”

She stopped her firmly. She understood that red had always represented her daughter, but Sara had every right to have their relationship acknowledged—at least in front of the League. The title of Beloved in the League, which she had taken on when she was young, wasn’t easily cast aside. It was a brand, something that surpassed ordinary understanding for non-members. It was an eternal promise of acceptance, regardless of circumstances.

Anyone in the League was bound to treat the Heir’s beloved—as Ra’s’ heir now—as if she were the Heir herself.

The sash would soon change color—green and gold—as Layla had always dreamed. It mattered little if Sara decided to leave the League again; the recognition was due to her. A mere formality, yes, but a welcome one.

Not making Sara resume her old name granted her freedom—she wouldn’t be subject to the League’s obligations.

“Laurel, given your budding friendship, why don’t you follow my daughter throughout her day? Learning the art of combat could be useful to you.”

“Fighting with swords and bows? Doesn’t seem very appropriate for our time,” she replied without looking at her, clearly angry at her mother—and therefore tense in her response, despite the generous offer.

“You might be surprised how useful it can be to overpower enemies with unconventional weapons. You’re under no obligation, of course, but you’ll soon grow bored within these walls. Might as well give it a try, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” the younger blonde replied indifferently, fiddling with her cutlery.

Meanwhile, they continued eating. Layla paused for a moment.

“She could learn our traditions, maybe even our language. We should find a brilliant teacher—someone who can capture her attention.”

Sara preferred her daughter to engage in mental activities rather than physical ones, but she had no objection to this suggestion either.

Nyssa soon chimed in, wearing a familiar smirk.

“Certainly—and who better than a new friend?”

Checkmate. Layla was screwed.

“Mother? I’m full of responsibilities as your Heir. I can’t waste time.”

She sounded both startled and offended.

“My father, the last Ra’s al Ghul, once punished me long ago for bringing a young girl, a foreigner, within our welcoming walls. He forced me to oversee her healing, made me teach her our language. This girl was so defiant she preferred his punishments rather than submitting. The ancient Latin saying goes: frangar, non flectar. She embodied it completely.

I never understood the reason for such resistance. Slowly, she chose to open herself to our world, one so foreign to her. My father then allowed her to take part in the early watch duties. She hated all of it—the burden of duty that came with it. She made it clear. And even though she was granted more freedom, I was the one punished.”

Sara was watching Nyssa intently. The passion in her voice as she told her daughter the story drew in even Laurel, who up until now had repeatedly resisted listening to this powerful woman who frightened her so.

“So I was assigned as her ‘shadow.’ I hated that choice. It was the first time I clashed with my father. How could he do that to me? I had done everything to help bring her into our world—why slow me down with her? She didn’t care about us. She saw us as medieval.”

Nyssa mocked her old words with biting irony, stressing the phrases that had once stung the most.

Then she turned to look at Sara, a few meters away. She smiled faintly. Sara mirrored it, sitting upright, confident, drawing curiosity from the two girls, now even more attentive to the story.

“That’s when I realized—it wasn’t her who needed to conform to me, to us. I had to understand what kept her tethered to her world. Compromise after compromise, fight after fight, discovery after discovery… she became the best apprentice I ever had, a fine fighter, a wonderful life partner, and one of the women I’ve loved most in this life—besides you, my daughter,” she said sweetly, then gently brushed her fingers against the blonde’s—an act that did not go unnoticed by the two observant girls.

Layla had suspected it was Sara, but this gesture confirmed it. Laurel rolled her eyes.

“So what, I’m supposed to follow the princess around until I fall madly in love with her?” Laurel asked smugly.

“Absolutely not,” Nyssa replied at once, gently.

“Try to understand how your worlds can become the result of compromise and mutual understanding. Maybe only then you’ll grasp what binds your mother and me. My father thought he was punishing me. Unknowingly, he rewarded me.”

Chapter Text

They finished breakfast, and Nyssa was soon called into her study, leaving her meal unfinished. She apologized and disappeared. Layla did the same as soon as she set down the napkin she had used with graceful precision, thus leaving the two blondes alone for the first time since their journey to Nanda Parbat.

Maybe, deep down, Layla had started to sense something — first the brushing of fingers between the two former lovers, then those wise, too-considered words directed at the new… acquaintance? Friend? Definitely not a friend. Not yet.

What was she feeling? Why did it bother her so much that her mother was giving attention to the blonde? To both blondes, actually. That didn’t take away the primacy of her mother’s love for her — she had even said it, clearly.

And yet, that strange feeling in her chest left her uneasy. Even more so were the subtle jabs the two Americans kept throwing at each other. Better to go sort out her gear and help her mother with the paperwork.

“I think we need to talk, Laur,” said Sara, taking her daughter’s hand gently — but Laurel quickly pulled away.

“You think so, Taer al-Sahfer? Is that what they call you here?” snapped the younger blonde, not lifting her gaze from her plate.

“I’m still your mother,” Sara reproached her.

“That’s hard to believe, seeing you in that Halloween costume,” Laurel replied, sounding more hurt than mocking.

“You can’t talk like that, Laurel. It’s a uniform — and it’s much more than a costume.”

The mature woman answered, trying to keep her anger in check.

“I’m not in the mood, Ma.” Then she looked her in the eyes, letting her see the redness in them. She was tired. She had slept poorly. And despite Layla’s peaceful presence, she was struggling to process everything happening in her life.

“I don’t care for some monologue in Layla’s-mom style. I really don’t. I don’t get how you can be so composed, in uniform, with ribbons and all quiet, when I’ve always known a different version of you. You seem fake. You don’t feel like my mom.”

She stood abruptly from the table. Sara followed soon after.

Sara understood what Laurel was trying to say, but she didn’t accept it — couldn’t accept it. She had come back to all this for her, to protect her, to protect them.

But maybe… it wasn’t the whole truth. And even to herself, she was only telling half of it.

“This is who I became to survive, sweetheart. I know it clashes with your image of me — and that’s partly my fault. But a soldier stays a soldier. I dusted off the old uniform when our family was threatened.”

“Along with the uniform, you dusted off an attitude that doesn’t seem to belong to you,” she paused, then added as if she’d thought it over,

“I don’t like that woman.” She gestured with her thumb toward the door Nyssa had left through.

Sara’s face turned melancholy.

“That woman is hosting you in her home. And she has a name — which you happen to know.”

Sara replied defensively, then softened, realizing Nyssa certainly didn’t radiate comfort or peace. It was different for her — she had known her forever — but her daughter was seeing her for the first time.

“Nyssa is a good person. She’s tough and has a complicated past — but that doesn’t give you the right to judge her before you even know her. Spend time with her. You’ll see — you’ll find common ground.”

“You’re defending her like your life depends on it,” the girl noted bitterly.

“Spend time with her, Laurel. Then you’ll learn to trust her.” Sara insisted.

“I don’t want to trust her! I already have a mother — even if it feels like I’ve lost her too in these crazy days!”

She shouted before slamming the door and storming off. She was only just beginning to process it all — and she didn’t like it.

To stand by her daughter, Sara might have had to make a deal with the devil. Laurel wouldn’t accept certain choices easily. And maybe, Sara would have to reconsider a few things.

It was already lunchtime. Layla and Nyssa had spent the morning together in her study. Sara had vanished — and so had Laurel.

Curious about where her new friend might be — though pretending to be annoyed by her presence — Layla asked her mother.

“Mother, any idea where our guests might be?” she asked as casually as she could, though she knew perfectly well her mother had probably already activated one of her infinite super-leader senses.

Nyssa was momentarily disturbed by this irrelevant question amidst the papers scattered on her mahogany desk. Her glasses slid down her nose, and the dark Arabic calligraphy lent an extra touch of elegance.

She looked at her daughter with an expression Layla had never seen before.

“Knowing Sara, she’s probably training with some group. As for our young Laurel — I have no idea.”

Then she studied her again, in that twisted way, somewhere between affection and curiosity, before declaring,

“You’re distracted, daughter.”

Layla nodded and set down the scroll she had been holding between her fingers.

“Yes. I feel sorry for her. I think she’s suffering because of her mother’s omissions. She’s too much of an outsider to our world.”

Nyssa nodded too, setting down the red-and-gold fountain pen she had been holding.

“Let this be a lesson: better a harsh truth than a lie that doesn’t last.

That’s one of Sara’s recurring mistakes. She has a track record,” she muttered the last part almost to herself, then added with an authoritative tone:

“Go find Laurel. See if she needs help adapting. I’ll finish the Cambodian reports.”

She dismissed her from the room, and with a smile, Layla went to find her.

Laurel was crying with her feet in a pool. No one was around, and she felt like she could finally let her anger out in that place. It was calm, the gravel reflected the sun’s rays, and some palms cast soft shadows.

“There you are. I was starting to wonder if you’d run away.”

Layla found her quickly, startling Laurel, who stood up and wiped her tears with her sleeve — though her red eyes gave her away.

“What’s wrong, American?” Layla asked, visibly concerned but gently.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I’ll go,” Laurel said quickly, grabbing the sneakers she had left nearby.

“You’re not leaving before you tell me what happened.”

She reached her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s stupid, Layla. Really.”

She shrugged, and Layla gestured for her to sit back down.

She did — and Layla also took off her shoes, dipping her calves into the water.

“Anyway, this is my pool. You can stay as long as you want.”

The Arab girl made it clear that she could feel safe — no one would bother her there.

“I fought with my mom.” She said without thinking much about it.

The other girl remained silent, ready to support her friend — though Laurel didn’t continue the conversation.

“I don’t want you to spend your entire stay here fighting with your mom. Come with me — blow off steam on the dojo mats. I’ll show you something.”

Laurel nodded and easily followed her through the mossy walls.

In Nyssa’s silent study, two thuds preceded the arrival of a guard armored to the eyes.

“Madam, your guest requests entry. I already explained she has no right to—”

The fragile voice was cut off immediately.

“Sara Lance was once known within these walls as Taer al-Sahfer, and as you can see by the medals on her uniform, she is my Beloved. She has the right to enter wherever she wishes. Let her in. Now,” the dark-haired woman said curtly.

The guard lowered her gaze and let the woman in.

“Something tells me I need to get a sash that won’t confuse your younger guards,” Sara said as she entered, laughing.

Nyssa smiled, lifting her gaze from the various geographical maps laid out on a raised counter.

“I believe so too. I’ll have one of the guards commission it as soon as I’m done here. Come, I’ll show you what I’m working on.”

Sara approached slowly, her steps measured toward the other woman, who welcomed her by soon placing a hand on her hips.

“I have to lead a mission to this island in Canada. Seems some of our informants will only speak to me,” she said hesitantly, tracing sea routes with a black pencil.

“And you’ll indulge them?”

“I think I will. Though we won’t be able to take our fast ships — we’ll have to cross the ocean with another kind of vessel. It’ll be a good excuse to give Layla a few lessons.”

Sara nodded. She thought of her daughter — and of their fight. A sad expression crossed her face.

“I know you and Laurel are having trouble communicating,” Nyssa stated.

“Always omniscient,” Sara replied sharply, reminding the Arab woman of her younger self.

“If I didn’t know every whisper that passes through these walls, my father would turn in his grave.”

The older woman held her by the hips, then hugged her from behind — just for a few seconds.

“I think he turns in his grave quite often, Nyssa,” Sara said, blending seriousness with irony.

Nyssa chuckled softly before going to sit on a leather couch — one Sara remembered well. It was the same as the one in her old office, where she had taken the best naps of her life.

She joined her immediately.

“Can I ask you a favor, by the way?”

“You don’t even have to ask. Nothing will ever be asked of you in return.”

“Could you try explaining to Laurel how things work around here? I know you asked Layla, and she’s amazing — but I’d rather you explained certain things yourself. I know how you think. I know how you approach things. I’d feel more at ease.”

Nyssa placed a hand behind her ear and gently tightened a lock of the blonde’s hair between her fingers, just to feel it close — then brushed her lips against Sara’s.

It lasted only a few seconds. Then Sara lay across Nyssa’s lap, while the other remained seated in composed posture, her cloak carefully draped so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

“My daughter sees things the way I do — on almost everything. I’m not arrogant enough to claim it’s on everything, but certainly on what matters.

But if this helps you feel more at peace, I’ll do my best,” she said calmly.

Sara whispered a quiet “Thank you,” then closed her eyes for a couple of minutes.

“I feel at home, Nys. Finally home.”

“I’m glad, Sara,” Nyssa replied.

But that wasn’t what she wanted to say — she wanted to scream at her.

She wanted to say that she’d always do the craziest things for her, that she would break any League law, that she would do absolutely anything just to make her smile.

She would do anything to make their daughters act like sisters — to make each one see the other as a support.

She wanted to scream that she didn’t want her to leave again once the Thanatos Guild crisis was over — but she knew Sara would leave.

And she knew it would hurt.

Instead, she chose to say nothing.

Chapter Text

Late in the morning, Sara had gone to Nyssa’s tailor to have her uniform adjusted—the same one she had kept jealously over the years, carrying it everywhere with her: from the Waverider, to the ’60s when she chose to cross the doors of what she once considered home for the second time, and even when she tried to live a civilian life.

Besides the red sash—soon to be turned green to symbolize her bond with Ra’s al Ghul rather than the Demon’s Heir—she planned to upgrade the materials, now more modern and resistant.

In the training hall, Layla was showing Laurel how to dodge blows and escape an attack, quickly discovering she had great athletic abilities, despite her initial clumsiness.

“Not bad for an American!” teased a boy nearby, about their age, good-looking—Laurel noticed him right away. He had messy hair, the kind you get after training, and a faint, unshaven mustache. Unlike her, he didn’t seem tired. She was drenched in sweat and begging for mercy. Her thoughts drifted briefly to her boy toy she’d left without a word. She wondered what he was thinking about her.

“Samir, stay in your place,” the Heir replied quickly, shutting him down with a reserved, protective tone.

Laurel didn’t pay much attention to the little bickering between the two; she decided she’d ask about it later. Instead, she was deeply intrigued by a duel happening nearby—two figures fighting with curved, razor-sharp swords she had never seen before. They were incredibly precise. Black turbans kept their identities hidden.

“Do you like watching those two fighters? They’re good, but they can still improve,” Layla said calmly, approaching her with a water bottle, from which she drank before handing it to Laurel. She accepted it without hesitation, then used her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead before collapsing to the ground, exhausted.

“How can you tell if they’re men or women?” Laurel asked, still fixated on the duel. One of the two had just been knocked down, and she gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“Don’t worry. No one can kill anyone here. Only my mother holds the power of life and death over us all. And as for your question—they’re women. You can tell by their agility and body type. You’ll learn to recognize the preferred techniques of women versus those of men.” Layla said it smugly, earning a grimace from Laurel.

Seeing that the standing fighter offered her hand to the one on the ground, Laurel allowed herself to relax and observed the scene carefully, trying to hide her heavy breathing.

Shortly after, Layla gestured for the two fighters to come closer. They removed their turbans and revealed long hair—one black, the other red. Layla gave them some advice in Arabic and dismissed them.

Then the training hall doors opened, and Nyssa appeared in her long green cloak. Her presence filled the room, and everyone knelt before her. Briefly, though—she allowed everyone to resume what they were doing. She made her way directly toward Laurel and Layla, the only two who hadn’t altered their behavior.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Laurel,” Nyssa admitted, straying from her usual detached composure, noting that the blonde was still distracted by the duel.

“I see you’re fascinated by scimitar combat. It’s a noble weapon.” She paused, smiled, then continued.

“Your mother always refused to use it—she considered it too artistic and ineffective. She prefers the bō. I, on the other hand, have always favored the arts.”

She unsheathed a magnificent scimitar. The blade was made of a precious metal, with red and yellow stones set into the hilt and Arabic inscriptions carved along the blade.

Nyssa stared at it for a few seconds, then handed it silently to a stunned and speechless Laurel.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, afraid to even touch it.

“Yes, very. It’s centuries old—it has protected these walls for hundreds and hundreds of years. Now it’s mine, and I’ll continue to protect them until the end of my reign.”

Laurel couldn’t hold back her disdain for all this formality and grandiose tone, though she still carefully and uncertainly handed the sword back.

“You’re always so legendary… You speak in such exaggerated ways all the time… Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Nyssa laughed heartily, sheathed the sword again, then gestured for Layla to return to her training. She gently placed a hand on Laurel’s shoulder and led her toward the door with a maternal gesture.

“Come with me. I’m sure you have questions—I’ll answer all of them.”

Laurel hesitated for a second, then nodded and followed her, almost keeping pace as they walked through the corridors of Nanda Parbat.

“How do you not get lost in this place? It’s like a maze,” Laurel said.

Nyssa didn’t answer right away, but eventually replied,

“I was born here. I know every corner.”

Her tone was brisk—perhaps too brisk—but maybe it was just a silly question. Laurel had only meant to break the ice.

“For your information, you shouldn’t be walking beside me. You should stay a couple of steps behind. But you’re allowed to, by virtue of the relationship I have with your mother.”

“And what relationship is that?”

There it was—something unmistakably Sara in her. Nyssa smiled.

“A beautiful one.”

Checkmate. Laurel smirked too, and neither of them budged from their position.

The rules of Nanda Parbat? Too strict for Laurel, too inconvenient to care about.

“This is my study. Come in. Sit wherever you’d like,”

Nyssa said, holding the door open and letting her enter first.

“Wow, must be hard to get bored around here,” Laurel commented, eyes scanning the towering bookshelves crammed to the ceiling. A cat brushed up against her calf.

“He’s not easy to please,” Nyssa said, nodding toward the blue-eyed Persian cat. “Curious—your mother, the first time she stepped in here, exactly thirty-two years ago, said the opposite.”

Nyssa took a seat in one of the armchairs, choosing not to sit behind her desk—it gave too much of a formal, authoritative air. That wasn’t the right mood if she wanted to earn the favor of the daughter of the woman she had loved most in her life.

“What’s his name?” Laurel asked as she stroked the cat, settling into the soft leather couch.

“Amon. The Egyptian god of strength and victory. But tell me—clever as you are, I’m sure you have more provocative questions for me. Not everyone has the privilege of asking me questions.”

Her tone was its usual confident, precise one.

“Why do people worship you? The bows, the cloak—who are you, what are you? And most of all—why does my mother change when she sees you?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Nyssa said, chuckling softly. She was so much like her mother.

Laurel didn’t seem offended. She just looked at her and shrugged as if to say, So what?

“They revere me like a goddess, but I am not one. I hold the power of life and death over everyone who lives in this place—or visits it, as far as I’m concerned. I am the Head of the Demon. I was born to wear this ring.”

She held up her hand, showing the massive ring, and paused dramatically. Of course you did, Laurel thought.

“The League of Assassins was founded a thousand years ago. Since then, we’ve protected the world’s balance. And to be honest, we offer excellent services to the highest bidder. Go back in history—you’ll find traces of us in every major crisis, though never traceable.”

“So you’re a cult,” Laurel said flatly, cutting her off before she could finish her monologue.

“Never jump to conclusions. It doesn’t suit you. But yes, you could say we’re a cult too. Any more questions?”

“You didn’t answer the one about my mom,” Laurel said with a smug smile, like she’d caught her out.

“I didn’t dodge it. Wipe that grin off your face,” Nyssa said, prepared for the retort, then added:

“Your mother and I are bound by an ancient vow—a sacred one. It’s not a marriage, but it’s something similar. It ties our souls in the same way. I swore to protect your mother for life, until death separates us.”

She paused, wondering if the girl knew about her mother’s journey beyond life. She doubted it, so she didn’t go further.

“And so?” Laurel pushed.

“And so, I’m keeping my promise,” Nyssa said, standing and pacing with her hands behind her back.

“You protect my mother and me, but we’re trapped in a gilded cage,”

Laurel said, standing as well, her tone now accusing.

“It’s true. I won’t deny it. But you could make the most of it. You liked watching the combat sessions. Learn. Become a fighter yourself.”

“Oh, so I can live for your cult? No thanks. Maybe next time,” she replied, crossing her arms in adolescent defiance, her irony sharp and her voice serious now.

“Because of the bond I share with your mother, I won’t ask for your loyalty. But know this—my soldiers don’t live for the League. They die for me,”

Nyssa said, echoing the same words her father once used to persuade Oliver Queen to stay.

“How sweet. No wonder my mother fell for you,” Laurel said sarcastically, turning her back and staring at the towering shelves.

“She didn’t fall for me. I fell for her. Hopelessly,”

Nyssa replied with a paradoxical smile, so different from the stern expression she’d had moments before.

“I’m sure it was your infinite tenderness that won her over,” Laurel quipped with the same smug tone.

“I might just surprise you,” Nyssa teased, before grabbing a document, putting on her reading glasses, and completely ignoring the girl’s presence.

Soon Laurel ignored Nyssa too, pulling one of the dustier tomes from a nearby shelf. She lay back on the couch with the book, white powder from the dust coating her fingers.

Nyssa occasionally glanced at her, but noticed that she was genuinely engrossed in her reading.

So they remained in harmonious silence.

Chapter Text

Lunchtime had arrived in Nanda Parbat.

Laurel was still in Nyssa’s study, lying on the soft couch with the tome nearby, resting on a small table just within reach. Nyssa watched her, and the two were engaged in an animated conversation. The blonde was doing nothing but bombarding her with questions about what she was reading.

“I don’t understand how he can say that diplomacy isn’t the answer to everything,” Laurel said, her voice heated both by the firmness of the author’s opinion and by the fact that Nyssa didn’t seem as shaken by it as she was.

“I don’t think it’s entirely wrong. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. You shouldn’t make it a precedent,” Nyssa replied calmly, removing her glasses and setting them on the desk.

“That makes no sense! Come on, Nyssa—if you could choose between sending an army or sending a little letter, I’m sure you’d pick the latter.”

“It depends on the situation.”

“Oh, come on, that’s absurd. How can you even say that?”

“What if your counterpart turns out to be unstable, or refuses to respect the agreement?”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by a mature blonde woman stepping in.

“Sorry to interrupt, but the servants say lunch is ready,” she said, not fully registering who was in the room or who Nyssa was speaking to—until she noticed Laurel, with a now-cold cup of tea beside her and a book resting across her legs.

“What’s going on here?” she asked in surprise. She certainly hadn’t expected this kind of interaction between the two. She had asked Nyssa to involve her, not to let her take up residence in her study.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Laurel replied, before absentmindedly setting the book down on the couch and leaving the room quickly, without ceremony—leaving the blonde surprised, and the brunette chuckling.

“She’s a good study partner—more theoretical than you ever were. She could become a fine diplomat.”

“This,” she said, pointing from Nyssa to the doorway where her daughter had just left in irritation at her presence, “is completely unexpected.”

“You don’t trust my empathic skills?” Nyssa asked with a chuckle, rising from her grand desk and moving closer to the woman with a smile.

The blonde laughed as well and leaned in fully, before they exchanged a chaste kiss.

“You’ve always had a way of winning over the hearts of young American girls fleeing from some danger.”

“That’s true,” Nyssa replied, laughing warmly.

Lunchtime came quickly, and the four of them were once again gathered around the same table that had hosted them that morning.

Now, despite Laurel’s continued reluctance toward her mother, she was in good spirits and hungry. She didn’t ask questions about what was on the table—she simply tried everything, cheerful and playful with Layla, who laughed at the other’s jokes.

“I’m happy to see so much joy in this room—it’s probably something that’s been missing for a while,” Nyssa said with a relaxed smile.

Layla, too, smiled spontaneously, even as the girl next to her kept stealing food off her plate in secret.

“Cut it out, you’re annoying,” she said, laughing and returning the favor by stealing from the other’s plate in turn.

“Your cuisine isn’t bad at all— I could almost get used to it,” Laurel said with a smile, looking straight at Nyssa, who answered with composure.

“I’m glad you’ve got your appetite back. You’ll always have a home within these walls.”

Laurel nodded in agreement. Was this a surrender, perhaps? Even Sara smiled, seeing how her daughter seemed to be accepting everything more easily.

“Do you like what you’re eating, Laur?” Sara asked gently, pointing with her fork toward a particular type of meat seasoned with aromatic spices—her tone almost that of a truce.

“Yes, very much,” Laurel offered as a sign of peace, avoiding sarcastic remarks or curt replies.

“I tried cooking it once—where were we?” she asked, laughing and glancing at Nyssa.

“Beirut, if I’m not mistaken. I still remember the stench that clung to my beautiful Gucci coat—it never went away,” the brunette said dramatically.

“Did you burn it?” Layla asked with interest—perhaps even she was offering a sign of peace to the blonde she had treated so poorly. She would find out later; even Layla wasn’t entirely sure how to act toward Sara.

“It went everywhere—oil splattered over every wall of the safe house. From then on, Nyssa never let me near the stove again,” Sara continued, laughing wholeheartedly.

“Talibah wasn’t happy either,” Nyssa added, looking regretful as she spoke the name.

“I won’t ask where she is,” the blonde replied, picking up on the implication and continuing to chew what was on her plate.

Nyssa shook her head and said nothing more. The woman who had grown up alongside both of them had died heroically in battle at her side—her most loyal guard. It hadn’t been long ago, and she was still searching for someone who could take her place.

“Changing the subject—for tomorrow’s gala dinner, Mother, I wanted to ask who will be attending,” Layla asked, regaining her composure.

“The usual, darling—no new faces,” Nyssa replied easily, leaving the two blondes surprised by this unexpected turn of events. Neither asked any further questions, postponing them to a later moment.

That afternoon, Layurel was rummaging through her own room while Layla read a book absentmindedly, sitting cross-legged on a huge floor cushion as if she were meditating.

“Could you at least pretend to care that I’m trying to read?” the brunette asked, wanting her to make less noise in her search for—whatever it was.

“Come on, I’m bored. You must have something to do in your free time other than being a nerd,” the blonde said, closing the drawer and flopping onto a pouf near where the brunette was sitting.

“I have an MP3 player,” the girl with Arab features replied casually.

“My grandma used MP3 players,” the blonde said playfully.

“As you Americans would say—vintage. Appreciate it,” Layla said, getting up and grabbing it from a high shelf.

“It’s not my Spotify playlist, but at least it’ll do the job,” the blonde said in mock resignation, taking the old device—only for the other to snatch it quickly back into her own hands.

“Listen to this song,” Layla said, playing her an Arabic rap track.

“How can you like this? You can’t understand a word!” the American exclaimed after a few seconds.

“If you could speak our language, you wouldn’t have that problem,” Layla replied, annoyed.

“If I’d ever felt the need, I would have learned it,” the blonde answered with an air of superiority.

“Come to class tomorrow morning—my friend teaches lessons for the village children.”

“Do I look like a child to you?”

“Do you speak even a little Arabic?” the older girl asked with a challenge in her tone.

Laurel shook her head, and Layla made a knowing face as if to confirm her point.

“Then you have to.”

“Give me your vintage piece of tech and I’ll play you some modern music.”

The other girl sighed and handed over the device she was holding. Laurel played a song by an American singer she liked.

“Not bad, American, not bad. But I know your music—I travel a lot.”

“I could tell from your accent—you have excellent English.”

The two smiled and relaxed again, returning to their previous seats.

“What were you talking about at lunch?”

“The gala?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s a small event we reserve for our overseas partners, so they can reconnect and feel involved—it’s nothing special,” the Demon’s heir replied distractedly.

“I think it’s time my mother told me about her past life,” Laurel thought, ignoring the double meaning such a phrase might have—knowing only part of her mother’s life, unaware that she had, in truth, lived more than one.

Chapter Text

Laurel wandered through the long, cold corridors of Nanda Parbat in search of her mother, but when she didn’t find her in her room, she decided to look for Nyssa instead—Nyssa would know where her mother was.

So she went to her study, the same place where they had spent the morning with that highly authoritative woman.

When she tried to step into the room, a sword blocked her way, and a man said something to her in Arabic that she didn’t understand.

“I didn’t get that,” the blonde replied, unfazed by the sharp blades, exhaling in mild annoyance.

“You can’t come in. Ra’s al Ghul isn’t here,” the man said, translating what his colleague had just suggested, but in a softer tone.

“Where is she?” Laurel asked again, taking a few steps back from the door.

“Try the training hall. If she’s not there, stop looking for her,” he said, winking at her and giving her a look that was clearly meant to impress—but instead of reacting the way he’d hoped, Laurel just looked at him and smiled wryly.

“You haven’t seen my mother, have you? She’s blonde, short, drools over this Nyssa, turns tame whenever she’s around…?” she said, making the guard’s eyes widen, while the one next to him let out a chuckle.

“Taer al Sahfer—or the woman who once bore that name—is with her… Waqah,” he replied in English, though with a strong Arabic accent, leaving the last word untranslated.

“What does that last word mean?” she asked the other guard, the one who had translated earlier.

“He just called you shameless. Suits you perfectly,” the guard at the door said seriously this time, though laughing as he stepped closer to her.

She scoffed and walked away to continue searching, but, realizing she didn’t know the way, she stopped and came back, flashing one of the most fake and smug smiles in history.

“And would you happen to point me to this place? Or am I Waqah again?”

Both guards laughed, though they tried to keep it subdued.

With that, the young girl got the directions she needed and set off to explore areas that were still unfamiliar to her.

She arrived before a red double door, one side already open, almost as if a voice from inside were calling her. She stepped over the threshold, entering the strangely captivating space.

A strong scent of incense drowned out every other smell; it felt as though her senses were nearly muted. The heat of the room blurred her vision, and the air seemed thicker, as if her movements were slowed or weighed down by something unseen.

She walked forward, uncertain of where exactly she was going, but no guards had stopped her—in fact, there were few guards stationed here at all. This wing was clearly restricted.

Her heartbeat quickened as she moved deeper into the room. Symbols were etched into the walls, faintly visible, though their meaning remained a mystery to the young blonde. A shiver ran down her spine.

She felt connected to something… or someone, though she couldn’t explain why. Her anxiety was building—more and more with each step.

At the far end of the room stood a kind of altar, bathed in a soft pink glow that surrounded a hooded figure—a woman, Laurel was certain. Then the figure spoke in an enigmatic tone, without turning, her back still to her.

Laurel swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and silently prayed her mother or Nyssa would come save her at any moment.

“Stranger, this place does not belong to you… not yet,” said the voice, confirming that it was indeed a woman.

“I’m looking for Nyssa. Or my mother,” Laurel replied, her voice trembling with fear.

“You are one of the few chosen who can dare to address our Ra’s al Ghul that way.”

“She had a thing with my mother when they were young—at least, I think so.”

The hooded figure laughed—a low, sensual laugh. Why am I even thinking that? Help me, the blonde thought to herself. Still, she somehow felt comforted by this woman’s presence.

“Much, much more than that. Do you know where you’ve ended up, young one?”

“At Nanda Parbat… since the last time I checked my GPS, but then they confiscated my iPhone, so I wouldn’t know,” Laurel said sarcastically, her tone dismissive as she tried to regain her confidence.

“You use sarcasm as armor. I know that trick—it’s yours,” the figure said with a soft laugh, though she still seemed very much in control.

“Perhaps one day you’ll call the Demon’s Head… ‘Mother’ as well.” She looked at her, furrowing her brows as if to make a point.

The young woman lifted her cheekbones, ready to fire back with her sharpest retort—but instead, she opted for something more restrained.

“Like hell. I’m leaving now.”

“Sit beside me. I’ll answer your doubts,” said the mysterious figure, tapping twice on a floor cushion in front of her.

“I’m not really comfortable… I’ll pass,” Laurel said, turning to leave the room.

“Sit,” the older woman repeated, her voice more serious now, resting a hand on Laurel’s shoulder and applying only the weight of her palm.

Laurel obeyed—frightened.

“You have three questions. In return, you owe me a truth,” she said, as if making a deal.

“I don’t think I have any truths to offer you.”

“That will be for me to decide. For now… drink this tea.”

Laurel sat down and reluctantly accepted the cup the woman—likely Black, judging from her dark-skinned hands—was offering her with false hospitality.

If this woman is in Nanda Parbat, Nyssa must have approved her, she thought, finding a small measure of reassurance in that idea.

“Fine. What kind of questions can I ask you?”

“About your present, your past, and your future. And no, I won’t count this as one of them.”

“All right, here’s the first: who are you, and where am I?”

“I am the last priestess of Nanda Parbat. I interpret the signs of the Divinities, advise Ra’s, see the past, and read the future. You are in a magical chamber, young one. Here, those who seek… find. What? Whatever they most deeply desire.”

“I’m not a fan of answers that sound like traps.”

“They’re not traps. Truth lies in interpretation—it’s up to you to decipher what I say.”

“Nanda Parbat is not a place for everyone. You must begin to understand that deeply. Here, the line between life and death is thin, relationships grow intense, revenge comes swiftly, and pain is magnified. People’s character hardens quickly, and there is no place for the weak.” She paused, took a sip from the same cup she had offered the girl earlier, and then continued.

“Blood ties here are often meaningless. The worthy can climb the ranks quickly, and those who are willing learn many secrets. A certain well once granted long life to the previous Ra’s al Ghul; his bond with this land will remain strong. Proceed with your next question.”

“You mentioned my mother’s relationship with Nyssa. Why has my mother never told me about it?”

Laurel had thought carefully before asking, weighing whether to save this for her final question.

“A shrewd question—you’ve asked one about the present and now one about the past. You’re sharp,” the figure said, laughing softly again, still controlled.

“Taer al Sahfer and Nyssa al Ghul share a long history. They met because our Ra’s al Ghul once saved her life long ago. It’s not my place to go into detail. Back then, Ra’s was the Heir to the Demon, and she fell hopelessly in love with the cause of her own weakness—an undisciplined, resentful, wild girl who brought much trouble to our Demon’s Head. Her father punished her severely for that relationship.”

Laurel stared intensely. What was she talking about? She’d never known her mother to have lived such a dangerous life—let alone one in which a woman from the other side of the world had had to save her.

“The current Ra’s al Ghul managed to tame the girl who had once entered this fortress hungry for life—and not for virtue. She granted her the title that allows you to walk safely within these walls today. Taer al Sahfer proved herself a skilled warrior, an excellent partner. She even won the favor of Nyssa al Ghul’s father.”

The hooded figure nodded.

“They were years apart in age—not so visible now, but at the time your mother’s immaturity was obvious. And yet, she adapted. That is why you see her so assertive and disciplined today. You have no idea what Nyssa al Ghul had to give up for her. The rest is history—your mother ran away, even though Ra’s loved her with all her being. She forgave her every time.”

Laurel felt struck to the core. How could she have been so blind? It was all so clear now. Her mother had been burdened with guilt for treating so poorly a Princess of Death—now a Queen—who had once given up her kingdom for her.

So that was why… But what did it mean that she had saved her? And how had she ended up in such a faraway place?

Now she understood the lowered gaze, the lost but loving look, and perhaps even the faint hint of resentment in Nyssa’s eyes.

“Ask your final question,” the priestess said seriously, dropping the more empathetic tone she’d used before. She listened to Laurel’s question a few seconds later, and her expression shifted briefly—just enough for a trace of sadness to be heard, if one listened with care.

“Me? What can you tell me about my future? Will I be able to go home soon, or will I stay here?”

“It’s never easy to speak of the future. Your family has learned that lesson early—but this, too, is not mine to tell. As for you, my dear pupil, you will have to face your mother’s past. You will embrace the arts of Nanda Parbat. You will understand what it means to belong here. It will be up to you whether or not to choose a name—but I am certain that, in some way, you will find a family here.”

She then rose to her feet, as if she had no intention of continuing, but added:

“I believe the Moirai—the Fates—have already drawn a path for you, and it was necessary for you to encounter the League of Assassins in your present.”

Laurel now felt slightly lighter—not because of the priestess’s revelations, but perhaps due to the tea. What was in that?

The blonde stood as well, her senses heightened, her balance a little unsteady. The woman removed the large hood she had been wearing and locked eyes with her, her gaze piercing into Laurel’s soul—even though she could only see her faintly in the dim light.

“The pact was clear—you asked me three questions, now it’s my turn.” She placed her hands on Laurel’s shoulders, guiding her back down onto the cushions behind the altar.

“If you could stay within this fortress, what would you try to do? Would you rise to power by exploiting your connections? Would you try to bring your Western world in here, or would you slowly work your way up by redefining your identity and embracing our traditions?”

“I’d just want to finally be seen. To have the power that’s mine by right.”

Her answer startled even herself. She wanted her mother to truly see her—not as a child anymore, but with the respect she craved.

To hell with her mother Ava, to hell with her mother Sara and her past. She would pry every secret from Layla to become like her. She would do exactly what Nyssa had once suggested—learn as much as she possibly could.

“To be seen has a price, like everything in this life. What are you willing to pay?”

“I don’t know. I think I still need to figure that out.”

Then she paused. She realized she was speaking too much, too openly. She normally wouldn’t answer this way. And yet, something compelled her to be this honest.

“Kneel, Laurel Lance. This is another small reward for your sincerity. You will see three memories of the people dearest to you—each one will teach you something.”

“I’m not sure I want to—”

Before she could finish the sentence, and despite not kneeling, the priestess sprayed a strange liquid onto her face. Laurel fell backward, but the woman caught her and laid her down.

And so, her dreamlike journey began.

Chapter Text

The first memory felt so strange for poor Laurel to experience. She was in a room similar to Layla’s, but different—its scent was not the same. Then she passed in front of a mirror and realized she was translucent. At that moment, the door to the room opened, and she instinctively tried to hide, afraid someone might see her.

She let out a loud sigh, running a hand over her face and wondering what she had done in life to deserve all this.

“Love, I still can’t believe your father didn’t try to poison me at dinner.”

It was her mother—young, tired but strangely relaxed and happy—almost skipping into the room. Behind her came an elegant, older woman holding her hand by a single finger. She looked so soft.

“He likes you, just as I like you, habibti.”

The younger version of Nyssa smiled at her, then grabbed Sara by the belt of her uniform—similar to the one Laurel was wearing now—and laid her down on the bed that looked exactly like Layla’s. Laurel feared the scene was about to turn into something explicit and coughed nervously, hoping they would mistake her for a servant or something. But neither woman turned toward her. Instead, Nyssa straddled Sara and kissed her slowly.

Gross. Why do I have to see this? thought the poor girl, moving around the room to make absolutely sure no one could actually see her.

“Taer al-Sahfer, what happened to your side?” Nyssa asked, worried, brushing her hand against Sara’s body, realizing something was wrong. She stood up abruptly.

“How did you notice? I’m still dressed,” Sara tried to stop her by holding her arms. But the older woman was already in full protection mode, unstoppable.

“You mustn’t hide anything from me, habibti. Who did this?”

“It was a mistake, he didn’t mean to…” the blonde tried to patch things up, failing miserably.

“Samira?” Nyssa guessed, while pulling off her tight shirt, realizing Sara had already tried to stitch herself up and failed.

“Yes,” Sara admitted softly and in pain, not taking the shirt off completely—the only source of warmth on what felt like a cold night.

“Let me fix the stitches. Take it off,” Nyssa said coldly now, almost professional, leaving her seated on the bed.

“You’re always so assertive, it turns me on. My love,” Sara chuckled, though she grimaced as she lifted the shirt from under her uniform jacket, peeling away the heavy layers.

The invisible young blonde let out a frustrated scream, certain now they couldn’t hear her, before sitting down on an armchair in front of them, resigned.

“Did you hear that too?” Sara asked, turning around nervously as if someone had been nearby.

“It must have come from the other room. I brought fresh bandages and a new needle. It will hurt—but less than an infected wound,” Nyssa replied, emerging from the bathroom in a clean red linen robe. She looked stunning, elegant, her movements precise, graceful, refined. Laurel hadn’t noticed it before, but she truly was a princess.

Laurel realized that if she screamed again, they would hear her. So she stopped and began noticing the little details, ignoring the obvious sexual tension between the two women. She noticed how Nyssa looked at her mother with a gaze overflowing with love, how carefully she treated her during the medicating, how she blew gently on the disinfectant so it would sting less once the foam formed.

Laurel found herself smiling. Seeing her mother so young, exhausted, and yet so deeply loved warmed her heart.

She soon realized that Nyssa had just treated a wound that still left a scar shining under the sun on her mother’s body, a scar visible even today. Maybe Nyssa had healed more than just physical wounds over the years.

As soon as she finished bandaging her, Nyssa placed a delicate kiss on the freshly covered wound, taking Sara’s hand in her own.

Then, holding her in her arms, she waited until she fell completely asleep before picking up a book. While the blonde rested, Nyssa caressed her hair gently.

Laurel smiled again, realizing that her mother had been profoundly loved by this strange woman, who knew so well how to balance strength and tenderness. Then she recalled the words of the priestess—they were so many years apart. Sara seemed so small and helpless in comparison.

The second memory came so quickly that she didn’t even have time to process where she was this time.

Was it a ship? Maybe not, it looked too electronic.

She started pacing back and forth and found her mother talking to some kind of artificial intelligence. The familiar voice of her mother called it Gideon.

“Gideon, you know… I love Ava, but she keeps hurting me. She does nothing but depend on me and on my choices, and I feel too much pressure on me.”

“Miss Sharpe loves you, but perhaps you are comparing her with someone else, Miss Lance?”

They were talking about her mother Ava. She hadn’t been born yet, she was sure of it. Her mother looked younger, closer to her childhood memories, though clearly later in time compared to the previous memory.

“Yes, maybe you’re right, Gid. I can’t help but compare everyone to her, but I can’t go back to the League of Assassins, not again. I’ve left it more times than anyone else alive, I don’t want to tempt fate. Not another time.”

She heard her mother speaking inside a small cabin. The sign said Wave Rider. It didn’t look like anyone else was there.

“She’s speaking of Miss al Ghul, isn’t she?” The robotic voice asked. It sounded human, but still far behind the technology of her generation.

“Yes.” Sara answered nervously, sitting down with a box of tissues and blowing her nose now and then, while speaking openly to the hologram.

“You and Miss al Ghul had a… particular relationship, from what I can see in your memories… and in your dreams especially,” the AI teased, in a mischievous tone that made the young hidden listener smirk silently.

“Yes, Gideon. I think there’s not a single aspect of my life in which Nyssa didn’t play some role. She taught me how to love, how to let go… completely. How to trust blindly.” Then a tear slid down her cheek, maybe more than one, and she wiped them away.

Laurel, watching from behind a column, was intrigued. She had already seen how much her mother was protected by the woman’s presence, but she hadn’t realized just how deeply she had meant to her.

“She was so… herself. She taught me everything, to surrender with honor, to rely on her. Only with her could I overcome my blocks. Only with her did I manage to make love.” Her voice was tight, whispered, as if Gideon had drawn out a confession she had never spoken aloud.

Laurel faked a gag at hearing that confession, though she understood its depth.

“From the way you speak, it seems you had a dependency on Miss al Ghul. Perhaps distance has been good for you, don’t you think?”

Laurel nodded and clapped silently; she thought so too. But her mother’s reply caught her off guard.

“Oh no, believe me. We could fight over anything. We’d go entire months without seeing each other during missions—it was absolute freedom with her, under her guidance. It’s like holding the keys to a car, and when you don’t like how the friend you let drive is handling it, or it feels dangerous, or boring, you take the keys back—because you’re the only one who has them.”

Then she smiled faintly, clearly thinking of something, but said no more. She stopped and looked around. Then she pulled out a small green pendant from her pocket. Laurel had seen that necklace around the halls of the League on some of its members. She suddenly wished she could go up and hug her mother.

“Miss al Ghul has quite a negative reputation. She’s said to be sharp, intimidating, possessive, ruthless. Yet you speak of her as though she were wonderful.”

Laurel herself didn’t think she was that bad after all. She hadn’t yet glimpsed all that magnificence, but surely Nyssa was the kind of person difficult to open up to, though always available. Maybe because she was her mother’s daughter, but even with Layla she seemed very tender. She didn’t like that Gideon had described her so harshly.

“She’s magnificent. You just need the right eyes to see her. That woman is a masterpiece. I’m afraid I’ll never love anyone the way I loved her. I don’t think anyone could ever love me the way she did. She gave up her father’s throne for me, and I treated her like that, like… me.”

Laurel was struck by this confession. She hadn’t realized how much her mother’s old flame had given up for her. She had always thought it was nothing more than a youthful fling. But it wasn’t—it was something far deeper.

“And Miss Sharpe?” Gideon asked, changing tone, noticing the blonde was sobbing.

“With her I laugh, I build a future, I travel. But with Nyssa? With her I got lost.”

Then she blew her nose again, even gagging slightly. Finally, with a broken, desperate voice, she added:

“Now I’m carrying this wonderful human being growing inside me, and all I can think of is that I have two people to care for. I can’t take on the weight of a wife on top of that. I’m not sure she’s the right person to raise this child with me. But it’s her child.”

She rubbed a small visible bump on her stomach. Laurel hadn’t noticed before, but she realized her mother had been touching it since she first saw her sitting down. Those fingers weren’t stroking a bit of fat—it was her… as a fetus.

“Miss Lance, you’ll be a wonderful mother. Whoever stands by your side, you love this little human more than anything else. That’s all that matters.”

“I could never love anyone as I love Laurel. She’s not even born yet, and she’s already lit up my life. I just hope I won’t betray her.”

“You shouldn’t, Miss Lance. I’ve seen the future. You and your daughter will be very close. She’ll grow well, and you’ll always be there—in your own way. But I warn you: it won’t be easy. She has a fiery character.”

“I wouldn’t expect less. She’s my daughter.” Sara smiled softly, wiping her face with her hand.

Laurel, hearing those words, felt a blow to her stomach. She covered her mouth and wondered why her mother had thought so late that she hadn’t wanted to raise her with Ava. And what unsettled her even more was that she would have rather raised her with Nyssa.

Then she heard, from afar, someone calling her. A familiar voice? Uncle Ray?

Chapter Text

She was once again catapulted without much warning into a room in Nanda Parbat—she was sure of it, even if she had not yet seen which one. She felt herself torn away from the warm presence of her uncle Ray Palmer, but she understood she had to move forward.

It was regal; she supposed it belonged to someone high up in the hierarchy.

The door to her right opened slightly. A little girl with very long black hair and an olive complexion, no older than eight, appeared. She was laughing, and it was clear she was missing some baby teeth.

“Nyssa?” she called in a shrill little voice, laughing and running toward the balcony of the room. The child passed straight through her, so fast that the plants nearby rustled at her passage.

“My darling!” said the woman, who soon revealed herself to be just as smiling as the carefree little girl. Turning toward her, she opened her arms wide to welcome her.

The image of the two warmed her heart and brought a huge smile to her face, just as the child leapt into the arms of the curly-haired woman.

“How much have you grown in my absence?” she asked sweetly, running her hand through the child’s long straight hair.

“I missed you so much, Mam—!” she said, hiding her chubby little face against her shoulder, buried in her curly, fragrant hair. That unspoken word confirmed Laurel’s suspicion: that tender figure was indeed Layla. She chuckled at the sight of her—gap-toothed, cuddly, and so innocent.

“I’ve told you many times, you can call me Mama if you wish. Don’t be shy, my love,” she reassured her, kissing her forehead. The girl then wriggled excitedly and, smiling again, cupped her mother’s cheeks with both tiny hands.

“Where have you been?” she asked in a trembling little voice, almost afraid to ask.

“I was in a faraway place, but I always felt you so close, my love. I was in Tunisia—I’ll take you there one day. I promise.” She brushed a lock of hair away from the girl’s mouth. The child clung tightly to her mother’s neck with both arms.

Then Nyssa stepped back out onto the small balcony, brushing past the light curtains and letting the breeze drift in. Laurel followed. From the pocket of her black linen pants, Nyssa pulled out a small present for the girl.

“What is it?” the little one asked, curiosity sparked by the unexpected gesture.

“A gift for you. But before you open it, there’s a story you need to hear,” she said, pulling her hand back.

The child nodded, and Laurel too found herself growing more curious, even as guilt pricked at her for invading so many personal memories of those close to her. But her hunger for knowledge grew stronger still. She began to wonder how such a thing was even possible—if these were real memories, she would have to investigate when it was over. And then, she asked herself, how would she explain any of this—or would she at all?

“Inside here is something that, before belonging to you, belonged to me, and before me to many others. They carried it with honor and respect for what it represents.”

With Nyssa’s help, the girl opened the small dark leather pouch, revealing a necklace that looked heavy—one Laurel had already seen around her peer’s neck.

“It represents that you are my daughter, and that all this will one day be yours. It is a great reward, but also a great burden. You must carry yourself in a way that honors it every moment. It is a pact—between you and me. Do you accept?”

The powerful woman’s words carried weight, her hand gesturing as she spoke. Laurel smiled; the scene reminded her of The Lion King, when Simba is shown what will one day be his.

The girl nodded, and Nyssa placed the medallion symbolically around her neck. Seeing how heavy it was, she laughed.

“Perhaps you’ll wear it in a few years. For now, you’ll guard it carefully, won’t you?”

The child’s expression shifted, as though she understood the seriousness of it all. And yet, it was overwhelming to see how much love Nyssa radiated toward her.

“Nyssa?” the little girl said, as the mature woman kissed her forehead before tucking her into the big bed, pulling the blankets up around her and smoothing the quilt.

“Yes?” Nyssa replied, blowing out the candles to create a comforting atmosphere for the child who had waited for her return so late into the night.

“You’re not really my mama,” the girl said, as if reasoning it out.

“I chose you. Do you choose me?” Nyssa replied, caressing her face gently, understanding that the little one could not yet find better words to describe her bond with her biological family.

“Like Mama?”

Nyssa nodded, and the child nodded too.

“Then I am your mama. It doesn’t mean you have to forget your mother—she did what she could for you. You will carry her in your heart, always.”

The little girl nodded and then shed a few tears, hiding once more in Nyssa’s hair, ignoring the warm blankets as she climbed up her torso like a small monkey.

“I’ll tell you a story about this necklace, but you must promise to try to fall asleep.”

The girl gave a tiny nod, and so the dark-haired woman continued. She, too, sat down in the middle of the bed, letting the child nestle into her arms—warm, safe, and shielded from the storms of life she had already endured at such a young age.

Laurel stopped before that sight. She wished Ava had been able to fulfill that maternal role. Of course, Sara had been a super present mother, but she had never been one for cuddles. She had always been affectionate, but from a distance. She resented Ava for that attitude; despite the occasional calls for greetings or updates, Laurel could hardly stand it. She had often wondered why Ava had ignored her mother’s needs.

Then she recalled her mother’s own memories—perhaps the answer was there.

A strange thought struck her. What if, in another life, she had been in Layla’s place, receiving Nyssa’s tender care? Or maybe she could have been raised as Layla’s sister. But she quickly pushed the thought away.

“One of the ancient bearers was ruthless—cold and calculating. Her father, one of the longest-reigning Ra’s, did nothing but push her to be just that. She lived in his shadow for almost thirty years, until her heavy, hardened heart was shattered by the arrival of someone unexpected, who showed her what love was.”

The little girl now seemed attentive, though her eyes were closing in drowsiness as she listened—just like Laurel, who would have given anything to know what had cracked the armor of the once-ruthless Nyssa al Ghul.

“When you wear this necklace, remember—no one can be only a Leader, no one can be only strength. Everything must be balanced by humanity and love.”

The child fell asleep a few seconds later.

Laurel sat on a nearby ottoman and watched the scene—Nyssa still stroking the girl’s hair, the girl sleeping peacefully—and yet, it felt as if something were missing.

“I sense a presence that should not be here,” Nyssa said into the air, and Laurel grew worried.

“Reveal yourself before Ra’s al Ghul,” Nyssa commanded formally and frighteningly, rising from the bed as she covered her daughter.

What was the girl supposed to do? She didn’t know whether she was visible or not, so she tried to speak.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She decided to answer aloud, moving her hands nervously, but noticed that Nyssa could faintly see her. She quickly stood up as if searching for some kind of formality, which Nyssa carried with elegance.

“You are not a ghost. You come from the future,” Nyssa said, as though studying her.

“We’ll meet again, I suppose,” Laurel replied, unsure if saying too much would cause problems.

“I believe so as well… Waqah. Until fate leads us down the same path.”

And just like that, Laurel slipped once more out of the brunette’s memory, back into her sphere, back into her own time.

“How do you know they use that nickname?”

But the question would remain unanswered.