Archive of Our Own ^beta

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)

Chapter Text

Five Years Later

A city sprawled below like a jeweled carcass, glittering but rotting at the core. From a balcony high in a fortress of black stone, Damian stood, seventeen now, shoulders squared under the weight of command. Her green eyes no longer darted with youthful curiosity; every movement, every silence was purposeful.

“Status?” Her voice was clipped, honed like the blade sheathed at her side.

A lower-ranking assassin approached, bowing. “Our people are in place. The shipments are accounted for. The contractors will vanish before sunrise.”

Damian gave a single nod. Behind her, banners bearing the sigil of the Demon’s Head rippled in the warm wind.

From the shadows, Talia watched with quiet satisfaction. Her daughter. Her heir. The one who would finish what Ra’s had started.

~~~

Helicopters cut low across the skyline, their rotors stirring sand from construction sites where laborers toiled through the night. Damian’s voice crackled through the comms:

“Secure the workers. Provide them with transportation and funds to leave the country. Burn everything else.”

Flames bloomed across the waterfront like a second sunrise. The air was filled with the sound of sirens and the stench of melting steel. Damian’s orders were precise, evident not just from the destruction but also from the redistribution of power.

But there was something off about her commands—something the League whispered about in corners. Mercy, perhaps. The workers were spared, even rewarded. It was not Ra's' way, a philosophy of indiscriminate culling, nor something that Talia explicitly taught her, yet Damian made it doctrine, and none dared question her.

On the balcony, Talia’s boots clicked as she approached, her shadow long in the firelight. She watched the organized retreat of the workers, the buses filling with men who had just watched their livelihood turn to ash. 

“You temper the blade, my daughter. Why?” She asked, her voice low, a mix of intrigue and quiet disapproval.

Damian did not turn to look at her. The fire below painted her face in flickers of gold and red, making her look both angelic and infernal. Her gaze was fixed on the destruction, but her mind was already calculating the fallout, the long-term echoes of this night’s work. 

“Tools wear down, Mother. Fear is a powerful tool, but a weak foundation for an empire. Fear invites revolt and breeds resistance. Many wield it, but their power lasts a single lifetime.” Her gaze was fixed on the destruction, but her mind was already calculating the fallout, the long-term echoes of this night’s work. 

She continued looking at the scene below, minutely taking in how well her orders were being carried out. “Soldiers break. Workers grow weary, but all alike, they remember. In time, they will whisper my name with gratitude instead of fear.”

Talia’s lips curled, both amused and wary. “What you’re suggesting is not the League’s way. Ra’s al Ghul ruled through fear for five hundred years; that was the League’s way.”

“And it is why he failed to achieve his grand design, dying as a result of his selfishness and pride,” Damian countered. “Fear has a short shelf life. It fades with time. But gratitude is a debt that never expires.”

She finally turned, her eyes meeting her mother’s. There was no defiance in her gaze, only the profound conviction of a leader with a new vision. “As a result of work like this, there will be a network of informants, of loyalists. A thousand eyes and a thousand hands throughout the world, all built from the very chaos we wrought beginning tonight.”

Talia’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine concern passing over her features. She saw not just a different strategy, but a different soul. She was something new, something that would bend the League to her will, not the other way around.

“That is not the League’s way,” Talia stated, the words a final, unwavering argument.

Damian finally met her gaze, her expression serious. “No. It is mine.”

Talia took in the admission with a slight tilt of her head. She hummed, tabling the bulk of their conversation before nodding. “That is a good answer, يا قمر, sometimes you cannot force a better world simply through violence. Progress has also been known to stem simply because one remembers the kindness of another.” (My moon)

Far across the city, in a penthouse where foreign agents watched the firestorm from behind smoked glass, someone muttered a name like a curse. Not Ra’s. Not Talia.

“The Sword of the Demon.”

The Bat-family would hear it, too.

And for the first time in years, the shadow of the League’s heir would brush against the man who had once refused to take her in.

The fire raged for hours, a brutal bloom across the waterfront. In Gotham, news reports buzzed on muted screens in the Batcave. Unmarked helicopters. Hundreds of workers vanishing, only to reappear days later with full pockets, safe passage, and well-fed families.

Oracle’s voice sounded on the screen alongside the news of the latest League activity. Her voice cut through the cavern, sharp with unease.

“In the last year or so, there have been reports of a new figure rising within the League. Reports call her the Sword of the Demon.”

“Do we have any idea who this new player is?” Jason’s voice cut through, looking down at the file.

Oracle hesitated. “It took some digging, but yes.” The news screen minimized to make room for a picture of a figure alongside Talia’s. 

Bruce froze at the monitors, every muscle tight as if the word had struck him. He remembered the child with wide, green eyes—the one he refused and pushed back toward Talia. 

Bruce said nothing. His jaw tightened, shadowed by the glow of the monitors. Damian’s face filled the screen—green eyes burning like emerald fire, her stance too regal, too controlled for seventeen. She didn’t look like a child. She looked like a sovereign.

“Meet Damian al Ghul—” Before she could continue, Bruce finished the profile, looking uncertainly at the screen. 

“Daughter of Talia al Ghul and Bruce Wayne; approximately aged seventeen.”

The cave went silent.

Jason Todd was the first to break the stillness, his voice laced with venom. “So you knew this girl,” he spat, pointing a finger at Bruce. “You knew about her, and you didn't say a damn word.” The accusation hung in the air. 

“Let me guess: Talia shows up with your kid, you turn them away? How long ago did this happen, ‘cause and now she's a goddamn general leading an army of psychos. What did you think would happen, Bruce? That she'd just go back to a convent quietly and you wouldn’t here from either of them again?"

Oracle’s voice broke through the heavy silence. “I cross-referenced her operations with known League tactics. She’s not imitating Ra’s or Talia. She has moved far beyond them, reorganizing cells, streamlining distribution, and even manipulating governments to ensure minimal resistance. And yet…” Oracle’s tone faltered slightly, reluctantly sharing the information. “She’s sparing civilians, and damage where the League has been was always reduced to property instead of random casualties. She’s imposing her own moral code.”

Bruce crossed his arms, taking in the information critically. “She’s calculating and efficient, but with a streak of empathy.”

Jason snorted. “Empathy. Right. ‘Empathy’ for the people she controls while torching half a city in flames?”

Tim shook his head, his eyes narrowing at the screen as his hands moved deftly to scan the data. His brows furrowed in concentration as he examined the information gathered on the supposed new leader. 

“She’s smart, I’ll give her that. The places we can assume she was targeted were known sources of corruption, or later exposed as such, especially regarding environmental concerns and multi-level workplace abuse. That's why the tactics changed," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “The attacks on infrastructure, the sparing of the workers...it's a new kind of terror. Not meant to incite fear, but to build a hidden power base. The workers aren't just being set free; they're being bought. She's creating a network of loyalists out of the people Ra's would have just exterminated.” He looked up, his expression a mix of awe and dread.

Dick finally spoke, voice steady. “We need to be careful. This isn’t just some League operative, and with many thanks to Bruce ,” he gave a quick, harrowing sideeye to the older man, before continuing, “she’s not a kid we know. She’s the heir of an organization of assassins, possibly with a grudge for being cast out.”

A heavy silence fell over the cave. Even the flickering monitors seemed to dim in respect—or fear—for the name that had returned from the shadows.

Jason muttered under his breath, half-joking, half-serious, “Well then, guess we better hope she likes her father, huh?”

Bruce didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the screen, green eyes staring back at him like shards of a past he could never reclaim. The voices of his sons were a distant hum. 

He didn’t see the strategist, the reformed rebel, or the compassionate older brother. He saw only his own failure staring back at him. He had convinced himself that by turning her away, he was protecting his world from Talia’s influence. He had seen the child and feared the weapon. But by giving her back to the League, he had not neutralized a threat; he had perfected it. He had handed the most dangerous woman on the planet a blank slate and told her to write whatever she wanted. The results were now in burning display on every screen in his cave.

Finally, Bruce's jaw unclenched. He took a single, deliberate step toward the console, his voice a low, gravelly command that cut through the cavern.

“We need to find her.”

The Batcave, a sanctuary of control and order, had become a monument to a single, catastrophic mistake. Bruce had always prided himself on his foresight, on his ability to predict and counter his enemies' moves. Yet, in one moment of fear, he had created an enemy he could never have foreseen. 

Damian’s new, calculated benevolence was far more chilling than Ra’s al Ghul’s grand, genocidal gestures. What do you do against an enemy who gains power by helping people?

This new League, guided by this young adult’s mind, was not a monster in the shadows. It was a cancer, slowly spreading its roots of influence and loyalty into the very fabric of society. Every act of destruction was accompanied by a quiet act of “mercy,” laying the foundation for gratitude and obligation that would one day evolve into fealty. 

Bruce's command to find her was a desperate act, a race against time. He wasn't just looking for an adversary anymore; he was looking for a ghost of a daughter he never knew, hoping there was still a piece of her he could save. He knew, in the depths of his mind, that he was probably too late. The child he had briefly seen five years ago was gone, replaced by the Sword of the Demon , a force he had, in a way, trained himself.

Chapter Text

The League’s fortress was not built for comfort. First and foremost, it was built to resemble a palace. Stone walls climbed skyward from the desert plateau, carved with the sigil of the Demon’s Head, as eternal as the sand that lapped at its foundations. Torches guttered in iron sconces, smoke curling into vaulted ceilings. The air smelled faintly of steel, incense, and blood.

Among the hallways and beneath the desert surface lie many passageways, utilized for speed, transportation, and quick getaways if needed. Various personnel found themselves scurrying to and fro within the League’s headquarters, completing various tasks; at the heart of it, Damian al Ghul moved through it with practiced ease. Now seventeen, Damian was no longer a child. Her frame had grown taller, leaner, and every muscle was a testament to years of grueling discipline. She moved with a practiced, lethal grace that was a terrifying fusion of efficient brutality and fluid elegance.

As a testament to her mother’s training and her immeasurable progress of that brutality and elegance, one of Damian’s tasks was to break in and train their newest batch of recently graduated recruits. Here, the teenager was in the League’s open courtyard, pacing back and forth as she assessed the way they carried out their forms. 

She stood in the center of the pit, arms crossed as she looked at one of the men. The man, a seasoned operative from the Balkans, had heard the whispers of the Sword of the Demon, a protector for many, and sought to lend his body to the cause. However, nothing could have prepared him for the reality.

“Your form is sloppy,” Damian said, her voice carrying a cold, clinical precision. “It is like you want to telegraph your every move. Where you were, you may fight for show, but here we teach to protect our kin. If we are threatened, then we will kill. Stand up, you want to continue to be here, let me show you how that dedication pays off.”

The man lunged, aiming to land a flurry of strikes, but Damian was a ghost, evading him with ease. She ducked under his first punch, spun, and with a single movement, disarmed him and had her foot on his chest. The entire sequence took less than two seconds. He lay there, gasping for air, the stone floor a brutal reminder of his failure.

“You have trained in the old ways,” she said, looking down at him. “You are a warrior of fear. I do not require fear. I require obedience. Get up, we will run it again.”

~~~

The training hall stretched cavernously, lined with columns of obsidian. Rows of acolytes—children no older than ten, teenagers still growing into their scars—recruits that won’t see a lick of real-world conflict until they reach adulthood, stood in perfect formation. The air reeked of sweat and oil, of discipline and violence.

Damian stalked between the rows, a curved blade in hand. Her green eyes flicked from one initiate to the next, calculating, dissecting. She stopped before a boy, trembling slightly as he tried to maintain his stance.

“Hold your ground,” she commanded.

The boy’s knees buckled, his grip faltering. In an instant, Damian’s blade was at his throat. Gasps rippled down the rows.

“Do you think the world will show you mercy?” she said coldly. “If your hand shakes, you will falter, and by that point, you are already dead.”

The boy’s eyes brimmed with fear, but Damian did not cut him. She sheathed her sword and stepped back.

“It is illogical to believe you won’t fear when faced with real combat,” she declared, voice sharp enough to cut stone. “Everyone fears something; if someone claims they don’t, then they are a liar. And you will be a bigger liar for believing it. Your strength lies in the mastery of your fear. You will train until your fear serves you. Or you will not leave this hall, let alone this base alive.”

She turned, continuing to inspect other acolytes. The boy sagged with relief, but Damian did not look back. She had made her point. 

~~~

Later, Damian sat in her room before a bank of screens. Her room was spartan, decorated only with date palms, acacia, and desert roses; plants well-adapted to the desert environment. The screens, however, hummed with a different history. On them, she saw the latest intelligence from her network of "redeemed" workers—the people she had spared and paid during one of her missions.

A report on the recent waterfront operation blinked on a separate screen. Project Mumbai: Complete. Infrastructure damage, 97%. Human casualties, 0. Relocated assets, 867 personnel. Loyalty assessment, pending.

She hummed, not feeling any particular flicker of pride or remorse. It was a simple calculation that reflected the success of her carefully planned strategies. The statistics of success were a vast change from those of her grandfather’s. Ra's had sought to restore balance by indiscriminately culling humanity. He had viewed people as nothing more than numbers to be reduced. Damian saw them as resources. A frightened population was a liability. A grateful, indebted populace, however, was a weapon waiting to be activated.

A quiet rapping on the door, followed by a click, announced Talia's arrival. She moved with the same calm authority as always, but her gaze on Damian was different. It held a mix of admiration and apprehension.

“Your reports are efficient,” Talia said, her shadow falling over the screens. “The council is impressed, if not a little concerned. Your methods are unorthodox. It is not the way of my father, and they continually remind me of such.”

Damian didn't look up from the data. “Need I remind you, your father's way led to his death, Mother. He was a visionary, but a predictable one. He relied on grand gestures and fear. You taught me better than that; I am more subtle."

“And the workers you spare?” Talia pressed, curiosity evident in her tone and posture. “The money you distribute? My father would call that weakness.”

“Grandfather would not have seen the bigger picture,” Damian said, finally looking at her with bored contempt, as though making a known statement of fact. “When the time comes, those people will not whisper our names with terror. They will whisper with hope. They will be my army, working from within, and no one will see them coming.”

Talia’s expression was a mix of pride and a realization of the monster she had created. A new kind of demon. A leader who would use not only the blade but the heart as her weapon.

“You have surpassed me,” Talia said, smiling lightly, pride evident in her voice.

Damian simply turned back to her screens, the glowing data illuminating her face. “Yes, Mother,” she said, sitting up straighter but not letting her voice betray the emotions she felt. “It is thanks to your training after all.”

~~~~~

She descended the marble steps of the war chamber, her boots hitting the floor in sharp rhythm. Her presence alone parted the gathered assassins, warriors who had seen blood spill across continents, and now bowed their heads in reverence. Not just to the daughter of Talia, but to their commander. 

She arrived at the table, seated at the head, and before reaching for a tablet, began reviewing reports from previous missions and future plans.

“Report,” she said, voice clipped, precise.

An assassin knelt. “Interpol intercepted the Cairo shipment. We eliminated the agents involved and secured the weapons cache. Losses were minimal.”

Damian’s green eyes flicked toward the map glowing on the central table. With a motion, she signaled the assassin to rise. “Minimal is still too much. I want oversight doubled. Rotate handlers and restructure the routes for our next three shipments. If a single weapon or resource vanishes again, it is your head that follows it.”

The assassin bowed, swallowing hard, and departed quickly, nearly tripping over themself in the process.

The chamber fell silent. Damian stood before the world map, glittering constellations of League operations and connections spanning Asia, Africa, and Europe. The empire she and her mother built. Yet her gaze lingered on North America, Gotham, marked faintly in red.

She pressed her fingers to the table’s edge. Gotham was not part of the League’s dominion, not yet. 

From the mezzanine above, Talia’s voice drifted down, smooth as silk yet edged with command. “You hesitate.”

Damian tilted her head upward. Her mother stood in flowing black robes, looking at her expectantly. “I do not hesitate. I prepare.”

“Preparation is hesitation with finer clothing, طفلي ” (My child), Talia mused, descending the stairs with the grace of a queen. She circled Damian, examining her daughter the way one examines a weapon for flaws. “You are Ra’s’ heir, my blood, my steel. Yet you linger on Gotham.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Because Gotham is not simply a city or mere symbol; it is his .”

“And still you care what he thinks.” Talia’s lips curved faintly. “After all these years.”

“I care about what Gotham represents,” Damian corrected, snapping. “If I can take it, I can take anything. Including the Bat himself.”

The words hung in the chamber like a blade suspended above their heads. The assassins shifted uneasily, but Talia only smiled wider.

“It seems you are ready then,” she said, her voice low and reverent. She placed a hand beneath Damian’s chin, tilting her daughter’s face toward hers. Green eyes met green eyes. “You will not simply lead the League, Damian. You will redefine it. Ra’s ruled through fear. I have ruled through loyalty. But you…you rule with something far rarer.”

Damian arched a brow. “What is that, Mother?”

“ Vision ,” Talia whispered. “You see beyond destruction. You spare workers, you build alliances, you look to legacy. That is why I call you the Sword. Not because you kill, but because you protect, and cut the future into shape.”

For a moment, Damian said nothing. She had long since buried the girl who wanted a father’s attention, but some ember still glowed beneath the ash, whispering that her path might have been different.

The ember flickered as her gaze returned to Gotham on the map.

“Prepare a unit,” Damian ordered. “Within the month, we move west.”

The assassins bowed low, voices rising in unison like a single breath of fire:

“For the Demon’s Head.”

And Damian stood at the center of it all, her face carved from steel, her heart a battlefield.

Now in the evening, within the private chambers of her and her mother, among maps sprawled across a table, Damian stood over them, one hand braced against the edge. 

Her gaze continued to return to one city on the map: Gotham.

From behind her, the whisper of silk announced Talia’s arrival. She walked to their kitchen, opened a refridgerated cabinet, and grabbed a glass of wine. 

“You are brooding,” Talia assessed, pouring herself a glass. Her tone was amused, though her eyes, sharp and calculating, missed nothing.

Damian didn’t look up. “I am strategizing.”

“Strategizing is brooding with prettier words. Believe me, I am acquainted with it well enough to know there is no true difference.” Talia sipped her drink, circling the table until she stood across from her daughter. “Your vision stretches further than mine ever did. Tell me, شفرتي الخطيرة what is running through that vast mind of yours?” (My dangerous blade)

Damian’s jaw tightened, continuing to look between the map and a tablet next to her. “I keep thinking about our previous conversation. We know that Ra’s ruled by fear; you ruled by loyalty. However, both will crumble with time; it’s evident that by the doubt the council is too prideful to own up to unless it takes their life. I intend to build something that endures, so I continue to look over what we’ve built in the last year.”

Talia tilted her head, studying her daughter the way a jeweler studies a gem, searching for cracks. “And how does Gotham fit into this grand vision?”

Damian’s eyes finally rose to meet her mother’s. 

“Gotham is more than a city, أمي,” Damian said quietly. “It is the test. If I can bend it, I can bend the rest of the West; the waste and conglomerates there are some of our greatest enemies.” (Mother)

Talia’s lips curled into a slight frown; a warning was evident in her voice. “You speak as though you seek to challenge your father.”

Damian did not shy from the light accusation. “I do not seek him. But I will not avoid him either. He refused me. If he stands in my way, I will see to it that he falls like any other.”

The silence between them was taut, heavy with things unsaid.

Finally, Talia set down her glass, her smile returning. “You are sharper than my father ever was. It’s a fact that frightens the League more than all your victories. And yet, at every council meeting I attend, they all sing your praises, content to worship you.”

Damian inclined her head, humming, accepting the words without vanity. “It makes sense. As I’ve said before, fear fades, blind loyalty fractures; however, gratitude festers. Sometimes people can’t help but marvel at what they could have been a part of.”

Talia reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair from Damian’s face, a gesture of tenderness not often seen between the pair. “And that, my daughter, is why you will surpass us all.”

Late that night, Damian stood on the balcony of her room, the desert wind tugging at her cloak. Below, fires burned in the training yards, the League ever-restless.

Her eyes drifted again toward the west, toward Gotham.

She remembered faintly of the man her mother tried to let her follow, the imposing figure who turned away. That ember had long since cooled, buried beneath steel and purpose.

And yet, as the stars wheeled above the endless desert, Damian allowed herself the fleeting thoughts and ruminations regarding the man and the family he favored.

After a few moments, she shook her head and began to get ready for the night. There was work to be done in the morning.

Chapter Text

Talia watched a sparring session from a shadowed alcove, a faint smile on her lips. 

The chamber was cavernous, lit by braziers that spat and hissed with the heat of desert coals, their light crawling across ancient stone. Below, Damian moved across the sand-floored arena like a phantom given flesh.

Her daughter was a whirlwind of controlled violence. Four of the League’s finest surrounded her—men and women hardened by decades of killing and ruthless combat—but they might as well have been children swinging sticks. Damian slid between them with unearthly precision, her body low, coiled, and then exploding outward with blinding speed. She snatched a blade mid-strike, twisted the wrist that held it until bone cracked like kindling, then flowed seamlessly into a spinning kick that dropped another to the sand.

Every movement was calculated, every strike a mathematical inevitability—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Even her breathing was measured, a rhythm that kept her centered, as if she were part of some larger, invisible symphony.

One assassin lunged with a curved dagger, aiming to catch her flank. The teenager didn’t even glance. She pivoted on the ball of her foot, wrist snapping out to catch his throat with the back of her hand, leading to his airway collapsing with a wet choke. He fell writhing, already forgotten as she turned on the next.

The final opponent—taller, faster than the others—managed to parry two of her strikes. Sparks lit the air as their blades clashed, steel ringing against steel. She smirked, believing for half a heartbeat that she’d found her limit. Damian answered by stepping in close, so close her opponent’s weapon became useless, and drove her knee into her solar plexus. Her breath left in a spray of blood. A downward elbow to the spine sent her sprawling, paralyzed in the dust.

It had taken her less than a minute.

The chamber echoed with the heavy silence of defeat, punctuated only by the groans of the broken. 

Damian stood tall in the middle of the wreckage, shoulders squared, eyes closed, and slowing down hard breaths. Sheathing her blade in a single smooth motion, she returned to an area that held medical supplies and water, her gait casual, as if the fight had been no more demanding than a choreographed dance.

From the alcove, Talia’s lips curved into something between pride and melancholy. Damian was everything she had hoped for—everything Ra’s had dreamed. She had surpassed assassins twice her age. 

She clapped slowly, gloved hands echoing across the chamber. Damian did not startle at the sound; she only turned her head slightly, acknowledging it without a word.

“You are becoming more than a blade, قلبي,” she said, her voice filled with a familiar pride. “You are a force of nature.” (My heart)

Damian looked at her, wiping blood from her knuckles with clinical efficiency, before grabbing gauze bandages and wrapping them. 

“A force of nature that requires the right tools,” Damian replied, going back to her previous task, her voice lacking any emotional weight. “They were sloppy,” she continued, disdain slipping into her tone. 

A faint laugh left Talia’s lips. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you have outgrown them.” She circled her daughter slowly, predator inspecting predator. “Even my father, for all his brilliance, never honed a blade so keenly.”

Not expecting an answer from the praise, the older woman decided to address her daughter’s previous statement, her smile fading at the thought of it. 

“And is there any part of you that is not a tool?” she asked, her gaze searching for something she no longer saw. “Do you not feel…pride in a well-fought victory, or frustration in a near loss?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, though she said nothing, content on inspecting the handiwork she completed on one hand before going to the other. 

The silence between them stretched, filled with the hiss of torches and the faint groans of the defeated as they gathered themselves. 

Damian regarded her mother, an eyebrow raised at the unfamiliar question, before tilting her head briefly. “I feel the satisfaction of a goal achieved, and the necessity of correcting an error. Rampant emotions are a flaw, أمي. They make us weak.” (Mother)

“They make us human,” Talia said, eyes narrowing, a subtle warning in her tone. Her gaze lingered on the bent wrist of the assassin, still gasping on the ground. Her eyes flicked back to Damian. 

“They make us predictable,” Damian countered, her eyes hard. “They make us vulnerable to men like my father, who value faulty sentiment and flawed principles over logic or their moral compass.”

For a moment, Talia said nothing. She regarded her daughter—the masterpiece she had crafted, the heir she had shaped into perfection—and saw both victory and tragedy standing before her.

Finally, Talia’s lips curved again, though this smile was thinner, sadder, carrying the weight of a truth she would never speak aloud.

“Perhaps,” she murmured, “but even storms bow to the shape of the sky.”

Damian tilted her head, not understanding—or not caring to. 

Talia hummed, brushing a gloved hand along Damian’s shoulder, cleaning it of invisible dust, motherly in gesture though heavy with intent. 

Her fingers lingered there for a moment before withdrawing. She looked at her daughter—truly looked at her, green eyes burning brighter than the braziers—and something unspoken passed through Talia’s chest.

“You are everything I dreamed you would be,” she whispered, softly so only Damian could hear. “And everything I am afraid of.”

Damian met her gaze without blinking, unyielding, unknowable. The silence that hung between them was more intimate than any embrace.

The council chamber reeked of incense and smoke. Pillars rose like sentinels into vaulted darkness, their shadows broken by the circle of braziers at the center. Around them, the League’s commanders stood cloaked in black, their eyes glittering in the firelight.

At the head of the chamber sat Talia, regal and serene on the obsidian chair once belonging to Ra’s. At her right hand, Damian stood, not wearing a cloak, her sword sheathed proudly at her side, her hands clasped behind her back. 

“You have given her too much authority,” one of the elder commanders said, his voice rough with age. His scarred face caught the torchlight. “She is young. A child, no matter her skill. Regardless of what lower assassins or other members say, The League will not follow children .”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some nodding, others looking around hesitantly.

Damian’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

Talia lifted her chin, quiet anger evident in her voice. “She is no child. She is my heir and the Sword of the Demon, a title rightfully earned. You have seen the precision of her campaigns. You have seen the cities bend to our influence, and our organization's population has doubled . Would you call that the work of a child?”

Another commander stepped forward, bolder. “The League has always been ruled by strength. Not mercy. Not experiments. She spares workers. She buys loyalty with coins and the promise of safe passage. Yes, our ranks have doubled, but does that really mean anything if, the way I see it, we're no closer to your father’s goal? This is not our way. This is a weakness and a disgrace, spitting on the body of the great Ra’s al Ghul!”

Now Damian spoke, her voice cold and cutting through the chamber like a blade.

“I beg your finest pardon, Commander Qadir. Weakness is burning our resources to ash, straying far from my grandfather’s goal in favor of culling any whisper of opposition, not caring to see if it held any truth,” she said. “Weakness is leaving a trail of corpses so wide the world unites to destroy you. Fear dies with the man who wields it. Fear, rage, and the loss of our original purpose are what led to my grandfather’s violent demise by his own disciple’s hand! What I am doing is not a weakness. That is permanence, carefully measured steps to reach the greater outcome.”

The commander sneered. “And yet you speak of permanence while you have no throne to sit upon. I have yet to see the benefit of following your feeble goal.”

The chamber stirred—some in agreement, some watching Damian with wary curiosity.

Slowly, deliberately, Damian stepped forward into the firelight. 

“Then take it from me,” she said flatly, her green eyes locking on the commander. “If I am unworthy, if you deem me weak, then strike me down, claim my place, and guide my mother to lead the League as you see fit.”

The chamber fell silent.

For a moment, Qadir sneered, as if calling her bluff. But then he stepped forward, tearing off his cloak, revealing a frame crisscrossed with old scars. “So be it. Let us see if the Sword of the Demon is as sharp as she claims.”

He drew his blade, a heavy scimitar that had ended kings and generals. 

Assassins and council members alike circled, watching.

Damian unsheathed her sword with a single motion, the Damascus steel catching the glow and singing in the firelight. She did not posture; she did not flex her stance—she simply waited, as still as death, challenging her opponent to make the first move.

Qadir wasted no time in taking the bait; lunging, his blade arcing downward in a brutal cleave. Damian sidestepped, barely moving, and the steel shrieked against stone. She flicked her wrist, carving across his thigh in a shallow cut.

He snarled, pivoting, swinging again. Sparks burst as their blades clashed, ringing in the chamber like a bell tolling doom.

Damian’s movements were liquid and deathly precise, each parry a hair’s breadth from his jugular, each strike meant not to kill immediately but to dismantle him piece by piece. She drove him back with speed and precision, her green eyes locked on his every flaw.

Qadir stumbled as her blade sliced across his shoulder, his grip faltering. He bellowed, charging with a final desperate swing—

—and Damian slipped beneath it, pivoted, and drove her sword clean through his side.

The steel erupted crimson. Qadir’s breath rattled, his scimitar clattering to the floor. He staggered, collapsing to his knees, blood soaking the stone.

Damian wrenched her blade free, flicking the blood onto the floor. She stared down at him, unblinking.

“You call me a child,” she said, her voice low. “But you cannot even stand.”

Qadir tried to speak, but only blood spilled from his lips. He collapsed forward, lifeless.

Silence choked the chamber. The other commanders bowed their heads, not in mourning for the foolish commander, but in acknowledgment of the right hand of the Demon’s Head.

Talia’s smile was thin and sharp as a dagger. “The matter is settled,” she said smoothly. “The Sword of the Demon stands unchallenged, and we will continue with our latest mission.”

Damian wiped the blade on the cloth of the deceased commander before sheathing it, her face calm and expressionless. Inside, though, a cold fire burned. Not triumph. Not pride. Something heavier.

If this were what leadership demanded, then she would give it.

Even if it burned her inside.

~~~~~

The chamber was scrubbed clean by the time the last brazier guttered. Blood washed from the floor, Qadir’s body was carried into the catacombs to join the countless bones of those who had fallen in the League’s name. The assassins dispersed, whispering the story and actions of the Sword of the Demon like a prayer for protection, or a cursed reminder should they stray from the path.

Damian walked beside her mother in silence, her cloak brushing the marble as they ascended the fortress stairs. The desert night was cool beyond the archways, the stars sharp as glass scattered across the dark sky.

It wasn’t until they entered Talia’s private quarters, the doors closing on the hush of the fortress, that her mother finally spoke.

“You handled the council well,” Talia said, her voice smooth, approving. “They will not challenge you openly again.”

Damian did not look up, beginning to inspect her sword.

“You killed him cleanly,” Talia tried again, her voice almost casual, as she poured carob juice into two silver cups.

Damian looked at her mother impatiently. “He challenged me, he challenged the League’s progress, and he insulted the work many of our members have sacrificed for. As a result, he died. There is nothing more to say.”

Talia’s lips curved faintly as she handed her daughter a cup. “That is precisely what unsettles them.”

Damian raised a brow. “Unsettles them?”

“They expected you to posture and hold yourself in a way that proves Qadir’s point. To scream, to rage, to fight like a child proving herself. But you…” Talia stepped closer, her eyes glinting like emerald fire. “You postured and fought differently. As though his death was not a battle or coup, but an inevitability.”

Damian took a sip of juice, enjoying the taste of it on her tongue. She let the silence stretch before answering. “Because it was.”

Talia studied her then, just as she used to study weapons being forged—watching the temper of steel under the flame. “Do you feel nothing?”

Damian tilted her head slightly. “Should I?”

A pause. Talia’s smile flickered, pride tangled with something softer. “You remind me of myself at your age. But you are sharper still. Ra’s would have paraded your kill. I certainly would have turned it into a spectacle and dared anyone else to try and fight me.” 

She reached out, brushing a lock of Damian’s dark hair back from her face. “You challenged the threat immediately and made death an afterthought. That terrifies them. And it binds them to you.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want them bound by fear or some misplaced duty because they fear they could be next.”

“Then what?” Talia pressed, tilting her head. “Gratitude? Love? Do you think the League survives on love?”

Damian’s green eyes met hers, unflinching at the question. “No. But it will survive on vision. I did not kill someone because I feared my place in our ranks. I killed someone who, from a glance around the chamber, had been meeting with like-minded members to return us to the old ways, obviously not caring to see that we are removing ourselves from it. If we want to see the original goal of the League, then we shouldn’t be distracted by things like my age, gender, or the skilled workers we spared in our operations.”

For the first time, Talia laughed softly—a quiet, wistful sound. “My daughter, the philosophical tactician.” She reached for Damian’s chin, tilting her face upward. “I am quite proud to see the way you are leading and defending the League.”

Damian held her stare, smiling slightly, though saying nothing. Inside, though, a flicker stirred—a memory of staring up at a man who turned away, the pain something her mother worked tirelessly to redirect.

That ember still smoldered, though she buried it beneath steel.

She turned from her mother, setting her cup aside. Her gaze drifted to the war maps sprawled across the far wall, and her voice was calm when she spoke again.

“It’s time to move. Gotham will see us soon.”

Talia’s smile sharpened. “Then we prepare carefully. Gotham is a battlefield unlike any other. It breeds monsters; even your father could not break it, though I doubt he has seriously tried. If you can take Gotham, my daughter, nothing in this world will stand against you.”

Damian nodded once, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade. “Then I will take it. As Damian al Ghul. The Sword of the Demon.”

The air in the League’s command center was colder, more sterile than the rest of the ancient fortress. Damian stood before a massive holographic map of the world, her fingers dancing over the controls. She was in her element, a perfect blend of ancient training and modern command.

On the screen, a team of assassins was moving through the darkened streets of Geneva. Their movements were synchronized, though this was no ordinary assassination. They were not targeting a single man; they were hacking into the secure servers of a global financial institution, installing a Trojan virus that would, over time, quietly divert millions of dollars into a network of shell corporations for the League and the workers the company exploited. These funds would be used to build orphanages, schools, and hospitals in impoverished regions.

“This is a waste of resources,” a senior assassin grumbled, crossing his arms in a huff. He had been an integral part of Ra’s al Ghul’s inner circle for centuries. “Our honor is found in the kill, in a face-to-face confrontation, knowing we have killed someone who didn’t deserve their life, not in this digital cowardice.”

Damian turned, her eyes narrowed. “You think I am afraid of a confrontation?” she said, the question a razor’s edge. “Your honor is a relic of a dead philosophy. We are not barbaric warriors; we are surgeons. We use the most effective tools. My grandfather’s approach was loud and far too public for someone claiming to be part of a secret organization, and it attracted unwanted attention. The world does not need to hear of every one of our campaigns; it will simply feel the consequences. And in time, it will come to love us for them.”

The assassin’s face twisted in disgust, but he held his tongue. He had seen what happened to the last person who directly challenged the Sword of the Demon.

Chapter Text

A long table stretched across the room, its surface scarred with the grooves of countless maps and battle plans laid out over the decades. Tonight, Gotham was spread across it—rolled parchment maps, architectural blueprints, smuggled WayneTech schematics. 

Damian stood at the head of the table. The commanders watched her in silence. Some still doubted her youth. None dared voice it after what she had done to the last who challenged her.

“Wayne Industries is Gotham’s nervous system,” Damian began, eyes scanning the various papers and electronics on the table. “Its satellites, its research, its supply chains—they don’t just protect the city. They parade as an impenetrable force due to their extensive connections. Bruce Wayne has made his company the anchor for Gotham’s economy and the vault for his secrets. We test the city by striking there.”

One commander, grizzled and sharp-eyed, leaned forward. “And the Bat?” he asked, the word almost spat. “The city’s ghost will not ignore such a move.”

Damian’s lips flickered into something resembling amusement. “He will not stop it, either. He has blinded himself. He believes the world does not connect the billionaire to the vigilante. We will prove him wrong.”

Her gloved hand moved across the map, tapping locations swiftly and briefly explaining their relevance:

• The Midtown R&D tower: housing WayneTech’s experimental energy cells.
  
  
• The Narrows shipping depot: where prototype weapons shipments moved under the cover of humanitarian supplies.
  
  
• The financial district headquarters: glass walls and steel columns, housing the heart of Wayne’s economic empire.

“We strike at the Narrows first,” Damian said. “It is under-guarded, and its loss will ripple through the supply lines, creating a public failure.”

Another commander spoke, her voice skeptical: “And what of Bruce Wayne himself? His board? His men?”

Damian’s eyes hardened. “Collateral is irrelevant given the time of our attack. I have worked tirelessly with our team to determine the optimal time that will result in the least number of witnesses or bodies. Even then, the lesson is more valuable than their lives. Gotham must learn that Wayne is fragile. The Bat must learn his shield can shatter.”

A ripple of unease moved through the chamber. Not at the ruthlessness—blood was nothing to the League—but at the sheer audacity.

From the edge of the table, Lady Shura—a newly scarred commander Damian had defeated weeks before—rasped out: “You are playing with fire, child. Gotham is not like other cities. Its rot protects it. It will fight back.”

Damian fixed her with an icy stare. “If it burns slower, then let it. Either way, it will burn.”

She placed a black dagger down on the map, its tip stabbing into the Narrows. “Our operatives will begin with controlled chaos. Fires, sabotage, whispers in the underworld. And then, at their weakest, we take what we came for.”

“And what is that?” another pressed.

Damian’s lips curved slightly, though her eyes remained cold. “Proof. That the Bat bleeds like any other man.”

The room went silent. The commanders exchanged glances but said nothing further. They had seen Ra’s al Ghul dream of breaking empires. Now they saw his heir planning to break a man.

Talia entered then, she said nothing at first, simply letting her gaze travel over the table, the maps, the faces of her daughter’s lieutenants.

Finally, her eyes settled on Damian. “And when the Bat comes?” she asked.

Damian did not hesitate. Her voice was steady, almost serene.

“Then we will see if he is worth the mask he wears, and the reputation that precedes him.”

~~~~~

Damian stood perfectly still, hands folded behind her back, as the silence stretched. Then she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a measured cadence.

“Understand this: we are not waging war against Wayne Industries alone. We are dismantling an illusion. Bruce Wayne wants Gotham to see him as the benevolent titan of industry, and Batman as its dark guardian. They are one organism—mask and body. We crush the company, and the city will smell blood. And the Bat will be forced to break cover.”

She gestured at the Narrows depot, tapping its outline.

“Phase One: Disruption. Supply lines. Every shipment, every crate, every ledger. Strike the Narrows depot with speed and precision; I do not want prolonged battles, only sabotage. We burn the humanitarian façade and expose the weapons caches hidden inside the company. Gotham’s press will not ignore starving neighborhoods robbed of their aid, nor the chance to hold their favorite billionaire accountable.”

A second tap, this time on the Midtown R&D tower.

“Phase Two: Exposure. R&D is the nerve center of his secrets. WayneTech builds more than energy cells—it builds surveillance systems, drone prototypes, and the true purpose of this tech is too convenient to ignore. We infiltrate, extract files, and leak them. Let Gotham wonder why its ‘golden prince’ is funding and building weapons under the guise of philanthropy. Even his allies will hesitate to vouch for him. Doubt is sharper than a blade.”

Her finger slid to the shining glass block of the financial district HQ.

“Finally, Phase Three: Execution. Public humiliation. Not fire, not bombs, and certainly no gunfire—something a lot less deadlier; a lot of people on the ground can be hurt by this, and I want to centralize the outrage to the head of the company. Thus, I’m thinking of careful and strategic cyber-sabotage and financial bleeding. We collapse stock value, redirect capital, and force Wayne’s empire into freefall unless they agree to our terms. Let him scramble to save his empire while the Bat chokes on a different war.”

A commander furrowed his brow. “A three-pronged attack… it is ambitious, yet highly doable. But Gotham is a hydra. Cut off one head, another grows.”

Damian’s gaze cut to him, considering his words briefly. “Then we cut deeper. This is not about killing the beast. This is about making them fight themselves. Every blow we deal to Wayne is a blade twisted into Batman. He will be forced to choose between whom to support and whom to save. And in choosing, he will expose his weakness.”

Talia’s hand brushed the map, fingers pausing at the financial district. “You plan as though he is predictable.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, but her tone was ice-calm. “He is predictable. Because he is still human enough to care.”

That landed like a blade between them. Some of the commanders glanced at each other; the girl spoke of Bruce not as a stranger, but with the intimacy of a surgeon leading a dissection she knew well.

Damian turned her attention back to the table. “We divide our resources. Elite infiltration teams for R&D. Intermediate and recently graduated assets for the Narrows to stir chaos. A covert cyber-cell for finance. Each operation staggered, so we will be in Gotham a while, but timed close enough that Wayne cannot recover one wound before another is struck.”

She paused, letting her gaze sweep the chamber. “We will not bring Gotham to its knees in a single night. But we will make it crawl. And when it does, the Bat will kneel beside it.”

She pointed to the Narrows Depot, the warehouse marked in red ink.

“Commander Rafiq, you will lead Phase One. You and your men will strike the Narrows. Your task is not slaughter; that is wholly unnecessary. I am sending you there to cause chaos. Burn the shipments, scatter the food, but you will leave survivors, and I do not want anyone—from either side—injured.”

Rafiq bowed, his scarred hand pressed to his chest. “The streets will turn against Wayne.”

Damian’s gaze shifted to the glowing outline of WayneTech R&D.

“Commander Shura—Phase Two falls to you. Your infiltration unit has succeeded in labs before. Here, you will breach, extract, and erase. Your targets are files, prototypes, and schematics. Leave nothing unturned; download anything you see. I don’t care if it is a cat picture—operate as if everything is encoded. Gotham must see WayneTech’s benevolence for what it truly is—a weapons façade for Wayne’s allies.”

Shura smirked faintly, confidence radiating. “It will be done. Before his secrets bleed into the streets, I’ll send the originals to you.”

Nodding in approval, Damian’s finger lingered on the polished block of the Financial District HQ.

“Khalid. You command the cyber-cell. Your reach through the Eastern networks is unrivaled, and I’m rewarding you as a result; do not fail me. You will infiltrate his accounts—I want to know where every cent of his money, personal and corporate, is spent. After that, drain the stock value; those weapons and suspicious tech I mentioned earlier? That is your target. Lastly, I want a thorough audit and record of every department and high-ranking employee’s financial records under Wayne Industries. If we cannot find dirt on the head, turn your attention to the rest of his underlings; no one with a company that rich is squeaky clean. Like Commander Shura stated, send me originals, we’ll comb through them and decide what to release.”

Khalid inclined his head, the faintest smile playing on his lips. “I will gut his empire with a keystroke.”

Talia’s eyes narrowed at her daughter’s orchestration, but she said nothing. 

Damian stepped back from the table, her gaze raking across the room.

“These three phases are not independent—they are threads of the same weave. The Narrows riot weakens his public face. The R&D breach undermines his trust. The financial collapse strangles his empire. And when Wayne staggers under these blows, the Bat will be drawn into the light, forced to reveal himself in desperation.”

One of the younger assassins, bold enough to speak, asked, “And if Batman does not rise? What if Wayne remains silent?”

Damian’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then we will interpret it as a coward’s surrounder; Gotham burns, and the League inherits the ashes.”

The chamber fell silent. No one argued. No one doubted. For the first time, Damian wasn’t merely Ra’s al Ghul’s or Talia’s child or heir. She was a warlord, bending the League to her will.

Talia watched her daughter, a flicker of unease shadowing her pride.

Dismissing everyone and waiting until the chamber was quieter than usual left Talia and Damian among the heavy spread of parchment across the table. 

Unlike the Wayne Industries maps littered with infrastructure, this was personal—surveillance sketches, stolen photographs, lists of allies.

Damian stood with her arms folded behind her back, posture straight, her gaze clinical. Talia leaned forward, one hand brushing the edge of a black-and-white photograph: Nightwing , laughing with a child in Blüdhaven.

“Start with the elder,” Talia said. Her tone was casual, but the words dripped with calculation. “Grayson. He is the eldest son, a symbol in many forms. Break him, and the rest fracture.”

Damian’s eyes lingered on the photograph, then shifted to the Gotham precinct map pinned beside it. “According to observation, Grayson bleeds heart first. His city adores him. Thus, if we strike Blüdhaven, we have to make it personal.”

“Correct. To wound him, you must make him feel abandoned, unworthy.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “We must isolate him then; his faith in my father can be a weapon against him. I’m not sure of its strength since the two haven’t been seen together often. However, once it's shattered, I’m sure it will poison the rest.”

Talia’s lips curved faintly. “Good, continue.”

Next, she tapped the grim sketch of Jason Todd, caught in grainy surveillance under the Red Hood’s mask.

Damian’s gaze sharpened. “Todd seems to be rage incarnate. Unpredictable, likely from his Robin training, death, and resurrection. Sources say he had a brief stint as a crimelord in Gotham before straightening out. Given his behavior and the neighborhood he protects, his rage can be redirected.” She traced her finger across a weapons shipment route, smuggled arms flowing into the Narrows. “We bait him with blood and guns. A supposed massacre leaked and staged in his territory. He will rush in alone, then we drown him in his own fury until the city sees him as no more than a butcher.”

Talia nodded approvingly, arms crossed in thought, before giving another suggestion. “Another way is we remind him of his death, of how replaceable he was. Leave evidence that Bruce tried to forget him. That another was meant to wear his mantle before he clawed back from the grave.”

A faint smile touched Damian’s lips. “Good. And when his rage becomes wildfire, it will hopefully burn in Father’s direction.”

The following photograph showed Tim Drake, caught leaving a Wayne Enterprises satellite office. His face was sharp, too clever for his years.

Damian’s tone dipped into contempt. “Drake is the spine of my father’s network. His faith is not in Bruce’s myth of strength, but in his methods of success. He cannot be broken in the same way as Grayson. He must be discredited.”

“How?” Talia hummed, looking at her daughter expectantly.

Damian tapped a coded list of shell companies. “While I will wait on confirmation from Shura and Khalid, my team was thorough in their research. We’ll expose and frame him. Let the city believe he embezzled WayneTech funds. It will destroy his credibility. Once the world sees him as a fraud, he will waste his energy clawing back an identity while we strike elsewhere.”

Talia’s eyes gleamed, proud of the budding tactician. 

Finally, a photograph slid across the table: Cassandra Cain, her dark eyes caught mid-motion, silent, unreadable.

Damian’s voice cooled. “Cain is the blade my father wields most effectively. She will not falter. She will not break. She must be removed.”

“Removed,” Talia repeated skeptically, the word an execution order in disguise.

Damian did not flinch. “A direct confrontation. She is a formidable opponent, far better than the sons. Either we convince her to join our side, or we eliminate her and remind Bruce what he thinks of his daughters.”

Talia’s gaze lingered on the projection of Cassandra before sliding to the final image—Bruce Wayne, silhouetted like a titan over the city.

“And your father,” she said at last, her voice lower, threaded with something like reverence and hatred tangled together. “His family is his shield. Each one is a piece of his heart. When they crumble, when they shatter, he will see what we have always known: love is the greatest weakness.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then let us begin by tearing down his heart, one child at a time. The family will devour itself when its pillars are toppled. My father will watch his empire crumble beneath him—his dream of legacy exposed as a weakness.”

For a long moment, Talia said nothing. Then she looked at Damian, a proud smile on her face, her daughter mirroring it slightly.

“I am proud, my daughter,” she said, joy evident in her tone. “You are enacting perfect vengeance. This work is a realization of that pain and rejection we felt all those years ago.”

Damian’s eyes hardened, unblinking. “I am what Gotham will fear, and I will make my father grovel at my feet because of it.”