Chapter Text
“Here is your legacy, Damian. Here is your inheritance. The League of Assassins, they will be yours to command. To make certain the Earth abides in natural contentment… without the abuse of man.”
“After 500 years, the world has had quite enough of you, old man. The Lazarus Pit will not bring you back this time.”
“So you're Talia's little bastard. Not bad for a child.”
“Grandfather? Grandfather? Grandfather! We have to get him into the Lazarus Pit! We have to try. We can't just leave him.”
“We can't think about that now. We have to move. Come.”
“Damian. Now!”
“Where are we going?”
“Gotham City. It's time to meet your father.”
—“Son of Batman” animated movie
亲爱的，
如果你收到这封信，那么可怕的情况已经发生了，这意味着我的达米安不再安全。我相信您会照顾我的孩子，直到我能够返回并取回或可以安全地探视很长时间。Damian 不挑剔，在家里、在商业上和你的课外活动中都会证明自己非常有用。
不要让我失望，否则你将面临这位母亲的愤怒。
塔里亚
Beloved,
If you are receiving this letter, then dire circumstances have occurred, meaning my Damian is no longer safe. I am trusting you to watch over my child until I am able to return or can safely visit for a prolonged time. Damian is not picky and will prove very useful around the house, in the business, and in your extracurricular activities.
Do not disappoint me, or you will face this mother’s wrath.
Talia
The flight from the League’s base to Gotham City was long and uneventful to say the least.
The hum of the jet was a constant, low vibration beneath Damian’s boots, the steady thrum of engines a poor substitute for the heartbeat of home. She sat upright, shoulders squared, the very image of League discipline, even though her world had shifted in the space of three harrowing days. Her mother’s hand rested lightly on the armrest between them—close, but not quite touching.
Talia al Ghul, ever composed, gazed out the window at the endless black. A tall, bronze-skinned woman whose beauty is in her sharp features and gaze. She bore the unflinching poise of someone who had been raised to command armies, yet even in the dim cabin light, she radiated an ageless, regal quality.
Damian was her mirror and her contrast. Twelve years old and already carrying herself like a weapon. She sat without fidgeting, her chin slightly lifted, green eyes watching the shadowed cabin as if memorizing every corner.
“You will not speak unless spoken to,” Talia said, breaking the silence in the jet, her voice smooth but with that undercurrent of command Damian had known since birth. “You will observe. You will learn. And you will remember that your father’s ways are different.”
Damian bowed her head, a silent acknowledgement of the orders. “And will he know he has a daughter?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Talia’s eyes. “I have sent ahead a letter informing him of the impromptu visit. I kept the details discreet; he will know when I tell him. ”
The jet descended into the outskirts of Gotham's night silently, like a predator, its lights cutting through the fog. The city unfolded below them, steel and glass jagged against the low clouds, the streets lit in a patchwork of gold and shadow.
By the time they reached the gates of Wayne Manor, Damian’s small duffel bag was feeling heavy on her shoulder, and the mist clung to her coat. The sprawling estate loomed above, its gothic arches and weathered stone just as foreboding as any fortress in the League’s domain.
A weathered older man opened the door, his years of service etched into the calm lines of his face. His eyes flickered first to Talia, then to the child at her side.
“Miss al Ghul,” he greeted smoothly, though there was the faintest trace of surprise. “We weren’t expecting you so soon—”
“Where is Bruce?” Talia’s tone cut cleanly through his words.
Before Alfred could answer, Bruce Wayne appeared in the grand hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp edges of his appearance softened only slightly by the civilian guise he wore. His gaze landed on Talia first, wary, and then on the child beside her.
“Talia,” he said slowly. “What is this?”
“My daughter,” Talia replied without hesitation, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder.
There was a beat of silence. Bruce’s eyes sharpened, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Your… daughter?”
“Our daughter,” she corrected smoothly, and the words landed like a thrown blade.
Alfred, for all his practiced composure, stiffened slightly, eyes darting between the two adults before settling on Damian with a subtle but thorough assessment.
Damian met Bruce’s gaze without flinching, chin lifted just as her mother’s had been on the flight. “Father.”
The word was perfectly even, yet it carried a weight that filled the space between them.
Bruce stared, a hundred different emotions flickering across his face. Confusion, shock, and the dawning realization of a truth he never considered possible. He looked from Damian's green eyes—a shade darker, but undeniably her mother's—to her defiant posture, then back to Talia. The resemblance was striking, not just in the features, but in the coiled, dangerous energy that radiated from the small figure. He had seen that same intensity in Talia and, to his dismay, in himself.
"Talia, it’s been a decade since I’ve seen you last. What happened?" he finally said, his voice low and laced with a disbelief that bordered on anger.
"I may have embellished the truth when I told you of my miscarriage, Beloved," Talia replied, her voice soft but firm. "I can’t go into the details, because this is no time to dwell on the past; what’s done is done. Ra's is dead. The League is in turmoil, and my daughter is now my heir. She is your heir as well."
Alfred stepped forward, his expression a careful mask. "Miss Damian, if I may," he said, his tone gentle as he addressed the child directly. "Perhaps you would like to come with me to the kitchen? I've just brewed some tea."
Damian turned her head slightly, her gaze flicking to Alfred before returning to Bruce. "I do not require refreshments, thank you," she said, her voice clear and moderately deep for a girl her age. "I am here to meet my father."
Bruce watched her, a knot tightening in his chest. He saw a child raised to be a weapon, her youth replaced with a cold, calculating resolve. It was the antithesis of everything he stood for. He looked at Talia, at the woman who had once captivated him, the love they shared apparent even if a romantic relationship had fizzled out long ago. Things must be dire if the woman has no other place to turn for a safe place for her child.
"I will not have her here, Talia," Bruce stated, his voice firm and unwavering. "This is not her home."
"Bruce, you cannot be serious," Talia began, her face hardening. "She is your daughter. She is a part of you."
"A part of me you have taken without me knowing and allowed others to twist into something unrecognizable," he countered, gesturing to Damian. "She is a warrior, Talia, not a child."
Damian took a step forward, her head held high. "I am both," she declared, her green eyes boring into his. "I am a child of the Demon, and now, I am here. You cannot deny me my birthright."
Bruce looked away from her, his gaze falling on the letter Talia had sent. It was still unopened, a stark white envelope on the mahogany table. It was a perfect metaphor for the chasm that now existed between them. He had a son, multiple boys whom he had taken in and molded into heroes.
And yet, beneath that, he saw what she represented: danger. Not just to him, but to the family he had already built. The brothers she would be dropped among like a hawk into a nest. The training she carried, the violence stitched into her bones, she was a living weapon, one he wasn’t ready to gamble with.
"I am sorry, Talia," Bruce said, his voice softer now, the anger replaced with a deep sense of sadness. "I cannot accept this. I cannot accept her.”
Damian’s face remained impassive, but her eyes, those striking green eyes, seemed to dim slightly. She turned and looked at Talia, who simply placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a slight shake of her head.
“This is not a negotiation, Bruce,” Talia said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You will accept her, or you will lose me, and your daughter, forever."
Alfred, sensing the growing tension, stepped forward again. "Sir, Miss Talia, perhaps we should all sit down and discuss this calmly. I’m sure a great deal has happened, and it is a lot for anyone to process."
Bruce, however, was past the point of calm discussion. He looked at Damian, and for the first time, saw not just a warrior, but a child, a girl who, despite her training, had been denied the one thing every child deserves: a loving father. He looked at her and saw the life she had been forced to live, and his heart ached for the innocence she had lost.
But he also saw the dangerous future she represented. He had a family to protect, and he could not, would not, allow this new danger to enter their lives.
“I have made my decision, Talia,” Bruce said, his voice final. “And it will not change.”
Damian’s eyes, which had been fixed on him with a fierce intensity, now hardened into a cold, dead stare. She turned away from him, her back now to the man she had called her father. The weight of his rejection hung in the air, a silent, damning indictment of them all.
“Fine.” Talia’s voice was stripped of all warmth now, nothing but frost and iron. “If this is how you choose to play this game, so be it.”
She took Damian’s hand, not in a possessive grip he would believe her capable of, but tenderly, and led her toward the great double doors. The sound of them closing behind her was a gunshot in the silence.
Bruce stood there in the vast, empty hall, the shadows stretching long across the floor. He glanced once more at the letter, the unbroken seal catching the light. For a moment—a long, dangerous moment—he almost reached for it. He considered reading the words his ex had written, but he knew what they would say. He knew what she wanted. He had made his choice.
He had chosen to protect the family he had—the sons who slept under this roof.
And yet as he stood in the dark, the image of those green eyes clung to him like a ghost. He could not shake the feeling that he hadn’t just defended his family tonight. He had betrayed them, too.
Bruce stood alone in the vast, silent hall, the echoing thump of the closing door a final, definitive period on a conversation he had refused to have. He walked over to the mahogany table, his hand hovering over the letter. His gut, honed by years of patrols and battles, told him he had made the right call. He had a family to protect, a legacy to uphold. Damian, a girl raised by assassins, a child of the Demon's Head, had no place in their world. But as he stood there, a small voice in his head, the same voice that had pushed him into a bat costume all those years ago, whispered a doubt.
He picked up the letter, the paper cool beneath his fingers. He opened it, and as he read the Mandarin characters, his mind went back to Talia. To their time together, to the promises made and broken. To the part of him that had always been drawn to her darkness, her strength. He read her words, her plea, and a picture formed in his mind of a small girl, alone, with nothing but a mother's fierce, protective love.
He looked around the grand hall, the place he had called home for so long, and it suddenly felt empty. The paintings on the walls, the suits of armor, the grand fireplace—they were all just things. They weren't a family. Not really. His family was in the Batcave, in the manor, in the city. But it wasn't here. Not anymore. He looked at the letter again, and a new thought began to form. He had sent away a part of himself. A part he hadn't known existed. A part that was now, more than ever, a threat to his family.
What if, in pushing her away, he hadn’t closed the door? What if he had simply set her on a different path—one that would lead her straight back here, only with a reason to hate him?
The memory of her eyes wouldn’t leave him. They had been her mother’s eyes in color, but not in shape. No, those sharp green eyes had been his. And in them, he had seen something he didn’t want to name.
Not yet.
The night air outside was damp, Gotham’s perpetual fog curling along the drive like smoke from an extinguished fire. The car Talia had brought—sleek, black, and tinted beyond legality —waited at the base of the manor steps, engine purring low.
Neither spoke as they walked down the gravel path. Talia’s grip on Damian’s hand was firm, her stride unhurried, as if refusing to acknowledge the rejection they’d just endured. Damian matched her pace, jaw tight, eyes forward. She would not look back.
Once inside, the doors shut with a muffled thump, sealing them in leather and shadow. The city’s lights glimmered faintly through the glass as the driver pulled them away from the manor gates.
For a time, only the sound of the road filled the space between them.
Talia finally spoke. “Do not take his weakness as your own.”
Damian kept her gaze on the blur of trees passing the window. “I didn’t expect him to be weak.”
“I admit, I didn’t expect him to have grown so hypocritically soft,” Talia sighed, her eyebrows drawn together in minute frustration. “He lives in a house of orphans and broken things. He collects the damaged and tells himself he is saving them. But you—” she glanced at her daughter, eyes sharp in the dim light, “—you are not something to be collected.”
Damian’s fingers curled against her knee, nails pressing faint crescents into her skin. “I didn’t ask for him.”
“No,” Talia said softly, almost gently, “but you deserved him.”
That last sentence hung heavy between them, a truth too raw for either to touch.
“You will not see him again,” Talia continued, her tone shifting back to command. “Not unless it is on my terms. And when that day comes, you will not stand before him as a child.”
Damian turned to meet her mother’s gaze, green eyes hard again. “Then how will I stand before him?”
Talia’s mouth curved into a slight, excited smile. “As his equal. Or as his better.”
The car slipped into the arterial veins of the city, swallowed by neon and darkness.
~~~~~
The car ride and walk back to the jet were a silent procession to one’s tomb. Once they arrived, Damian sat with her head bowed and hands resting in her lap. She was a statue, a perfect example of discipline. But inside, a hurricane raged. Her father, the great Batman, the man her mother had described as a legend, had rejected her. He had called her a weapon; might as well look at her like she was a monster. She was not a monster. She was a child of the Demon, a child of the Bat. She was both, and neither.
Talia sat across from her, her face a mask of stone. She had expected this. Bruce, for all his strength and intelligence, was a man of principles. And those principles, she knew, would ultimately be his downfall. He would never accept a child of the League.
But she had hoped.
She had hoped that the man she had loved, the man who had given her a daughter, would see the good in her, the potential for greatness.
Talia sighed, the sound a whisper in the stillness of the jet. She reached out and placed a hand on Damian’s knee. The girl didn’t flinch, didn't move a muscle. She was indeed a mirror of her mother, and it broke Talia’s heart.
“He is a fool,” Talia said, her voice a low murmur. “He is a fool who has forgotten what it means to be a father. He will regret this, قلبي.. I promise you, he will regret this.” (My heart)
Damian didn’t answer. She simply sat there, staring out the window at the city below, a city that was supposed to be her home. But it wasn't. It was just a city, a place she had been rejected from.
~~~
Damian sat motionless, her small duffel bag at her feet. She had come to Gotham with a purpose: to meet her father, the great Batman. She had left with a new purpose: to forget him. The pain of rejection, a sharp, unfamiliar emotion, was already being compartmentalized, filed away in the deepest recesses of her mind. It was a weakness she could not afford, a chink in the armor she had spent her life building.
A few minutes into their trek, a single tear traced a path down Damian’s cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, a gesture so swift one would imagine it to be a trick of the mind. Her mother hadn't seen it, but Damian felt the sting of its warmth. It was a foreign feeling; this vulnerability. It was a weakness, a flaw in the perfect weapon she had been forged to be. She was the Daughter of the Demon, the heir to the League of Assassins. She had been trained since birth to be the best of the best, to be a tool of her grandfather’s will. And yet, here she was, crying for a father she had never known.
Talia, for her part, was not fooled. She had raised Damian. She knew every flicker of emotion, every subtle shift in posture. She had seen the tear and had chosen to ignore it. A mother's love, she knew, was a weakness in her line of work. It was a sentiment that had no place in the League. But as she watched her daughter, a part of her, a part that had been buried for years—a part that had once loved a man named Bruce Wayne—ached.
Talia watched her daughter, her heart a complex mixture of pride and sorrow. Pride in the stoicism Damian displayed was a testament to her training. Sorrow for the innocence that had been so brutally taken from her, not only by the League, but by the one man who should have protected it. She had hoped Bruce would see past the training, past the facade, to the child within. But he hadn't. He had seen a weapon, a threat, and he had rejected her. He had rejected them.
“You will learn from this,” she said at last, her tone cool, unyielding. “Every rejection, every loss, is an opening to sharpen your blade.”
Damian’s voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. “I will not forget tonight.”
“Good,” Talia replied, a faint curl of approval in her tone. “We will return to Headquarters immediately," Talia said. "You will continue your training. You will become the leader you were meant to be. And one day, you will take your rightful place at my side."
Damian nodded, her face once again a mask of stone. The storm inside her had been quelled. The tear had been a momentary lapse, a weakness she would not allow herself to repeat. She was a weapon, and weapons did not feel. They did not cry. They did not mourn. They did not have fathers who rejected them.
The jet, a silent predator in the night, turned and began its long flight back to the land of shadows and secrets, leaving behind a city of gold and shadow, a city of steel and glass, and a father who had chosen his principles over his daughter.
The jet landed in a remote corner of Saudi Arabia's Najd region, where the League's hidden sanctuary is hidden, thanks to the three deserts that surround the area. The League finds its home in the southern part of the Al-Dahnā desert. Damian stepped out of the jet, the wind whipping at her hair. This was her home; it was her world. She was the Daughter of the Demon, and she would not be rejected here.
~~~~
Back in Gotham, Alfred Pennyworth watched the news, his face a mask of worry. He had been with the Wayne family for years, having seen Bruce through every heartbreak and every tragedy, but his was different. His child, a girl who, by all accounts, was Bruce's daughter. He had seen the way Bruce had looked at her —a mixture of shock and fear —and he had seen the way the girl had looked at Bruce, hope evident as she gazed at the man. The older man had known, in that moment, that a terrible mistake had been made.
He walked into the Batcave, the familiar scent of ozone and metal filling his lungs. Bruce was there, standing in front of the giant computer screen, his back to the door.
"Sir," Alfred began, his voice a gentle hum in the cavernous space. "Perhaps we should discuss this."
Bruce didn't move. "There's nothing to discuss, Alfred. I made my decision."
"And a terrible one it was, if I may be so bold," Alfred said, his tone firm but not disrespectful. "That girl, that child, is your daughter. You cannot simply cast her aside."
"She is a weapon, Alfred. Talia raised her to be a killer—a tool of the League. I cannot allow that into our world. Into my family."
"And what of her feelings, sir? What of the pain you have caused her? She is a child , Bruce. A child whose own father turned away."
Bruce finally turned, his face a grim mask of resolve. "She is the grandchild of one of my worst enemies, Alfred. A child I never knew because I was forced to grieve her infancy. I don’t know what Talia was planning, but she raised a child I will not accept. My decision is final."
Alfred sighed, a deep, weary sound that echoed in the silent cave. He had known this conversation was pointless. He had known that once Bruce made up his mind, there was no changing it. But as he walked away, he couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. He had seen the look in that girl's eyes. It was not the look of a child who had been hurt. It was the look of a storm gathering. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that the storm was coming for Gotham.
They gathered in a dimly lit chamber within the League of Assassins' mountain stronghold, mere weeks after Ra's al Ghul's death. Figures in dark robes murmur in hushed tones, a palpable tension filling the air.
The Council Chamber of the League of Assassins was a place of solemnity and silence, but today, it was a crucible of dissent. The stone walls, carved with the history of the al Ghul line, seemed to press in on Talia as she stood before the assembled leaders. Ra’s al Ghul’s death had left a vacuum, and the most senior members—veterans who had served her father for centuries or countless decades—did not believe a woman who had spent as much time away as she did in the League was fit to lead.
Talia stands before them, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across her determined face. Several senior members of the League, their faces etched with years of loyalty to Ra's, regard her with skepticism.
"The Demon's Head is fallen," one of them, a hulking man with a scarred visage, rumbles. "His will was law. Now what law shall we follow?"
"The law he ultimately intended," Talia replies, her voice resonating with authority. "The preservation of this planet. My father's methods grew protracted. Distracted and inefficient. The time for measured reduction is over. We must be decisive."
Murmurs ripple through the assembled assassins. Some nod in agreement, recalling Ra's increasing reliance on the Lazarus Pit and what some perceived as a weakening of his resolve. Others remain wary of Talia, viewing her as untested and too influenced by her time away from the League.
"The council long concluded that his heir was to be a son ," another voice calls out.
Talia's gaze hardens. "True strength lies not merely in blood or gender, but in conviction. I have that conviction. I have the will to do what is necessary. And I have brought with me the future of the League."
“The blood of Ra’s al Ghul runs in your veins, yes,” said a grizzled warrior named Kage, his voice as rough as his scarred face. “But you chose a different path. You chose to venture a life in the West, in the shadows of the one he called the Detective. Our loyalty is to the Demon’s Head. Who is he, now, if not you?”
Talia’s eyes, as cold and sharp as obsidian, met his. “My father’s wisdom was absolute. He understood that a leader must be forged, not merely born. He groomed me for this role, just as I have groomed the true inheritor of his vision.”
She gestured, and Damian stepped forward from the shadows, her small form perfectly still and radiating an unshakeable poise. The whispers began immediately. The assassins, accustomed to a world of violence and death, were unnerved by the sight of a twelve-year-old girl.
“This is your heir?” Kage scoffed. “A child?”
A tense silence hangs in the air, broken only by the crackling torches. The old guard studies the child, searching for a sign of weakness. But they find only a miniature version of Talia's own formidable presence.
“A child forged by my hand. She possesses the skill and the conviction to complete my father’s work where he faltered.”
As if on cue, a sudden, blinding flash of steel erupted from Damian's hand. Kage, a master of ancient arts, barely had time to react. The shuriken, a blur of motion, embedded itself in the stone wall just inches from his ear. A collective intake of breath filled the chamber. It was a clear, lethal demonstration of precision, a move that only a few masters in the League could replicate.
Talia’s gaze swept over the council, a silent challenge in her eyes. “My father grew sentimental. The Lazarus Pit was a crutch, a distraction from his ultimate goal. I will not make that mistake. The Earth is dying. Its salvation is our purpose. And this child,” she placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, “is more worthy of seeing it happen than any of you.”
The message was clear. Her rule would be absolute. The old guard could fall in line, or they could fall. One by one, they knelt.
~~~
Over the next few weeks, Talia moves swiftly and decisively. She leverages her deep understanding of the League's intricate network, her charisma, and her undeniable lineage. She confronts dissenters, offering them a choice: pledge allegiance to her vision or face the consequences. Some resist, clinging to the old ways or harboring their own ambitions. These are dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly, lessons that solidify Talia's authority.
She showcases Damian's prodigious skills, honed from birth in the most rigorous of environments. Sparring matches against seasoned assassins, demonstrations of ancient combat techniques, displays of strategic thinking far beyond her years – each performance chips away at the remaining doubts. They see in Damian not just a child, but a prodigy, a living embodiment of the League's deadly artistry.
Damian, now bearing the attire of a seasoned warrior despite her youth, engages in a fierce sparring match with a masked instructor. Her movements are fluid and lethal, each strike precise and powerful. Talia watches from the side, her expression critical but with a hint of pride.
The instructor, a master swordsman who has trained generations of assassins, is forced onto the defensive. Damian presses her advantage, a whirlwind of steel culminating in a strike that disarms her opponent.
The instructor bows in acknowledgment. "Your skill grows sharper with each passing day, Young Demon."
Damian merely nods, her breath coming in measured gasps. She turns to Talia, her green eyes seeking her mother's approval.
"Your technique is impeccable, Damian," Talia says, her voice measured. "But remember, skill alone is not enough. You must also possess ruthlessness. Hesitation can be fatal."
"I do not hesitate, Mother," Damian replies, her voice firm.
"Prove it," Talia commands.
She gestures to a live target dummy, weighted and designed to simulate a human opponent. Without a moment's pause, Damian draws a concealed blade and throws it with deadly accuracy, piercing the dummy's simulated heart.
"Good," Talia says, a rare flicker of a smile touching her lips. "But ruthlessness must be tempered with strategy. The League is not a blind instrument of extraction. We are a scalpel, precise and deliberate."
Their training continues relentlessly. Talia imparts her vast knowledge of tactics, espionage, and the League's extensive history. She teaches Damian how to manipulate, how to command, how to inspire fear and loyalty. Damian proves to be a quick and eager learner, absorbing every lesson with an almost unnerving intensity.
Talia also instills in Damian an unwavering belief in the League's purpose: to save the Earth from humanity's destructive nature. She recounts tales of ecological disasters, of species driven to extinction, of the delicate balance of nature teetering on the brink of collapse. She paints a vivid picture of Ra's al Ghul's vision, emphasizing the necessity of their drastic measures.
Damian listens intently, her youthful idealism gradually being molded by her mother's pragmatism and the harsh realities of the League's mission.
~~~
The training grounds were a symphony of violence, but for Damian, it was a familiar cadence. She moved through a gauntlet of opponents, her movements a blur of controlled aggression. Her mother watched, a silent sentinel, her eyes missing nothing.
After she had dispatched the last of her opponents, Talia stepped into the ring. She wasn’t there to spar. She held a small, intricate dagger in her hand. “You have mastered the art of the kill, Damian,” she said, her voice low and steady. “You have proven you can defeat your enemy. Now, I will teach you to defeat your emotions.”
She gestured to a cage where two scorpions were fighting. One was clearly dominant, its stinger poised to strike. “Look at them, Damian. They act on instinct, on purpose. They do not feel remorse or doubt. They exist to ensure their survival and fulfill their role in the world.”
Talia then held out a small, fluffy rabbit. Damian’s eyes, for a split second, softened. It was an instinctual, childish reaction. Talia saw it, and her lips tightened.
“The world is full of things that pull at your heart, that make you weak,” Talia said, her voice unyielding. “The Detective would teach you to save this. He would see its ‘innocence.’ But its life, and its death, are irrelevant in the grand scheme. The League serves a higher purpose. Do you understand?”
Damian met her mother’s gaze. She took the dagger and, without a moment of hesitation, completed the task. The soft twitch of her face was barely perceptible. A single, silent tear, a final ghost of the little girl she had been, was a sacrifice to the woman she was becoming.
“Good,” Talia said, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Now, we will review the geo-data on the Amazon basin. We will find a suitable target for our new philosophy of decisive action.”
~~~
Talia walked the lines of recruits, her hawk’s gaze searching for weakness. “Your bodies are the bow. Your will is the arrow. Both must be unbreakable.”
Damian sparred with two veteran assassins at once. Sweat glistened on her brow, but her footwork was precise, her strikes merciless. She swept one man to the ground, pivoted, and drove the other back with a flurry of blows.
“Again,” Talia said.
By noon, Damian had disarmed every fighter in the courtyard. Talia’s approval was quiet — just the barest incline of her head — but Damian stood taller for it.
“You are not simply my daughter,” Talia told her later, as they watched the mountains burn crimson with sunset. “You are my right hand. When I am not here, the League will obey you as they obey me.”
Damian stood beside the long table, its surface scattered with maps, dossiers, and coded reports. The faint smell of oil from oiled blades mixed with the parchment’s dust, a scent he’d grown up with.
Talia traced her gloved fingertip across the world map, bypassing smaller red circles until she stopped at the largest one — a crimson mark bleeding over the United Arab Emirates.
“Dubai,” she said, her voice crisp and unsentimental. “The crown jewel of excess. It dazzles the world with glass towers and gold markets, but its foundation is rotting. Migrant workers trapped under false contracts. Wages withheld for months. Labor camps with no sanitation. They built that skyline and are left to rot in the shadows of it.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “And the rest of the world turns away because the lights are too bright.”
Talia’s lips curved in approval. “Exactly. They call it innovation, progress. Most call it modern-day slavery. Festivals, luxury car dealerships, every penthouse suite is greased with the blood of the powerless. We will expose the rot and tear away its mask.”
Damian stepped closer to the map, his voice even. “What’s the first strike?”
“The financiers,” Talia answered without hesitation. “The men who keep the system alive. When they fall, the architects of cruelty will have nowhere to hide. We’ll dismantle Dubai piece by piece—until the city that sells itself as a paradise is remembered as a warning.”
Damian didn’t flinch. “Then let’s begin.”
Dubai at night was a contradiction; glass towers glittering like stars brought to earth, while in the shadows between them, laborers slept in sweltering rooms the size of closets. Damian crouched on the roof of a high-rise still under construction, the scent of hot metal and concrete dust in the air.
Below, the League moved like water, silent, precise, untraceable. A corrupt developer’s penthouse suite was their mark tonight, one of the city’s untouchable elite. His empire had been built on wage theft, unsafe working conditions, and disposable lives.
Talia’s voice was a steady current in Damian’s ear.
“Remember, we don’t strike to punish. We strike to sever the rot.”
Damian dropped into the elevator shaft, landing silently. The guards didn’t even register movement before their comms went dead.
By the time Damian reached the suite, the developer was cornered — pale, sweating, clutching his silk robe like armor. Damian leveled a blade at his throat.
“The city will forget your name by sunrise.”
Talia stepped forward, graceful as a guillotine.
“No, they will remember it as a warning.”
~~~
The next morning, the penthouse windows reflected smoke. The League hadn’t burned the building; they’d exposed it. Thousands of leaked documents were dumped online. Worker testimonies broadcast in nearly two dozen languages. Bank accounts frozen. Contracts voided.
The developer wasn’t dead. But his empire was.
Talia watched the news feed in their safehouse.
“This is the difference between chaos and balance. You don’t burn the forest. You remove the poison tree and work to ensure it doesn’t grow again.”
Damian didn’t answer. She understood the tactic, but her mind replayed the faces of the migrant workers who had watched the fall from the street below, some hopeful, some afraid.
Their next training mission wasn’t in the city. It was out in the desert, at a luxury resort where another target, an arms dealer, hosted private gatherings for oil magnates and war profiteers.
The League’s approach was surgical. No bombs, no noise. Guests were quietly escorted out under false pretenses. The arms dealer found himself alone with Damian, a dagger at his sternum.
“Your supply lines keep bloody civil wars alive,” Damian said coldly.
“It’s business—” The blade pressed harder.
“It’s slaughter.”
When it was over, the dealer’s weapons caches were empty, his personal accounts drained, his influence in the Gulf reduced to dust.
That night, Damian and Talia stood on a dune overlooking the city lights.
“The League has been feared for centuries,” she said. “But fear is fleeting. What we build now will endure in its place.”
Damian didn’t flinch, but her gaze lingered on the glowing city, beautiful, corrupt, and vulnerable.
Atop the rooftop of the League's mountain fortress, overlooking a breathtaking vista of snow-capped peaks under a starlit sky, Talia and Damian stand side-by-side, the cold wind whipping around them.
"Do you understand now, Damian?" Talia asks, her voice carrying over the wind. "The burden we carry? The necessity of our actions?"
Damian gazes out at the vast, untamed wilderness. "The world is dying, Mother. Humanity consumes and destroys without thought for the consequences."
"Precisely," Talia replies, placing a hand on Damian's shoulder. "Others will call us villains. They will not understand the sacrifices we must make. But we know the truth. We are the saviors of this planet, however brutal our methods may seem."
Damian turns to face her mother, her green eyes reflecting the distant stars. "I understand, Mother. I will do whatever is necessary."
"I know you will, يا قلبي," (my heart) Talia says, her voice filled with a fierce love and unwavering conviction. "You are my daughter. You are the future of the League. And together, we will cleanse this world and restore the balance that my father sought."
~~~~~
“My father saw the cure,” Talia explained one evening as they stood on a balcony overlooking the stars. “He understood that for the world to thrive, the worst of humanity must be pruned. He chose a slow burn, a gradual reduction. I believe in a clean cut, swift, and final.”
Damian, her posture as straight as a soldier’s, absorbed every word. She saw a sick planet, and the League was its only hope. The rejection she had felt in Gotham was no longer a personal slight. It was proof of her father's fundamental blindness. His refusal to accept her was his refusal to accept the truth of the world.
“He is a fool,” Damian said, her voice a low murmur. “He is a fool who has forgotten his true purpose.”
Talia smiled, a rare, genuine expression of pride. “He will come to see it. He will understand that a man cannot choose between a family and a legacy. A true heir chooses both.”
She placed a hand on Damian's shoulder, her touch a mix of maternal warmth and cold resolve. "You are more than my daughter, يا عيوني . You are the Sword of the Demon. You are the future. And together, we will see my father’s vision to its bloody, beautiful end.” (My eyes)