A dozen League assassins, clad in dark grey, had formed a tight, shifting ring around the intruders. Within it, the Batfamily moved like a single, furious organism. Batman’s cape was a whirl of black, deflecting thrown knives. Nightwing’s escrima sticks were a blue blur, disarming with precise strikes. Red Hood’s gunshots—rubber rounds, but loud—echoed off the ancient walls, making the guards flinch. Red Robin and Spoiler fought back-to-back, a flurry of calculated movement.

The Batfamily lowered their own weapons, confusion and wariness settling over them as they turned toward the voice.

You stood at the top of the short stone staircase leading to the inner sanctum, backlit by the warm glow of braziers. You were dressed not for battle, but for court: layered silks of deep emerald and gold that whispered with your every slight movement. Your posture was relaxed, hands folded before you, but your gaze was sharp, assessing, sweeping over the scene with an authority that required no explanation.

You looked from the frozen League guards to the panting, costumed figures in their center. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips. You knew every one of them. Damian had described them all, in his own sparing, fond way.

They, however, were staring at a complete stranger who commanded the League of Assassins with a word.