Chapter 1: The Heir
Gotham always looked better from above.
From sixty stories up, you couldn’t smell the garbage rotting in alleyways. You couldn’t hear the gunshots echoing between apartment blocks or the sirens screaming through the Narrows.
You couldn’t see the people pretending not to notice the man bleeding on the pavement because stopping might make them next.
From up here, Gotham almost looked peaceful.
Almost.
I crouched on the edge of a stone gargoyle, rain sliding from the hood of my cape and dripping onto the street far below.
My lenses swept across the intersection.
Three vehicles.
Six armed men.
One terrified security guard.
And approximately twenty-seven seconds before someone made a mistake.
“Robin.”
Father’s voice crackled through my earpiece.
I ignored him.
“Robin. Report.”
I sighed.
“Six hostiles outside Gotham Federal Exchange. Two inside the loading bay. Suppressed weapons. Military formation.”
There was silence.
Then:
“Hold position.”
My jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Damian.”
“They are preparing to execute the guard.”
“I said hold.”
“And I heard you.”
I dropped from the gargoyle.
“Damian!”
The cape snapped open behind me.
Wind caught beneath the reinforced fabric as I descended through the rain.
One of the men looked up.
Too late.
My boots struck his chest.
He slammed onto the hood of a black SUV with enough force to dent the metal.
The others immediately raised their weapons.
Efficient.
Disciplined.
Not ordinary Gotham criminals.
Good.
I threw two birdarangs.
The first sliced through a rifle sling.
The second buried itself in the attacker’s shoulder armor.
Before either man recovered, I drove my staff into the first man’s ribs, spun, and kicked the second across the jaw.
Gunfire erupted.
I rolled beneath it.
Rounds sparked against the armored truck behind me.
“You’re making this unnecessarily difficult,” Father growled through the comms.
“Then stop talking.”
A man charged from my left.
I caught his wrist, twisted the pistol away and slammed my forehead into his nose.
Crunch.
He collapsed.
Another attacker came from behind.
I heard the blade before I saw it.
Not because blades make much noise.
Because I knew the movement.
The shift of weight.
The angle of the shoulder.
The controlled exhale immediately before the strike.
I turned.
Steel flashed past my throat.
My eyes narrowed.
Interesting.
The attacker wore black tactical armor like the others, but underneath his sleeve, something caught the light.
A leather bracer.
Green stitching.
I blocked another strike with my staff.
He attacked again.
High.
Low.
Throat.
Kidney.
Femoral artery.
Every movement designed to kill.
Not disable.
Not threaten.
Kill.
I knew this fighting style.
I had learned it before I knew long division.
My anger disappeared.
Something colder replaced it.
I trapped his arm between my staff and shoulder.
“You chose the wrong city.”
The man’s masked face tilted toward mine.
Then he spoke.
“Did we?”
Arabic.
Perfect pronunciation.
My grip tightened.
He drove his knee into my stomach.
I released him and slid backward across the rain-soaked pavement.
He attacked again.
This time I stopped defending.
Our strikes became faster.
His blade against my staff.
Steel cracked against reinforced carbon.
He was good.
Better than good.
But he wasn’t me.
I knocked the knife from his hand, stepped inside his guard and drove my elbow into his sternum.
He stumbled.
I swept his legs.
He hit the pavement.
My boot came down against his chest.
I pointed the end of my staff beneath his chin.
“Who sent you?”
He laughed.
Quietly.
I hated that laugh.
“Still impatient.”
My body went rigid.
“What did you say?”
He reached toward his belt.
I slammed my staff against his wrist.
A small metallic object fell from his fingers and rolled through the rain.
The man smiled beneath his mask.
“The blood remembers, Ibn al-Khafash.”
Son of the Bat.
Then he bit down.
I knew exactly what he’d done.
“No.”
I dropped beside him and grabbed his jaw.
His body convulsed.
Poison.
Fast acting.
His breathing stopped within seconds.
“Damn you.”
I ripped his mask away.
I didn’t recognize him.
But I recognized the scar burned beneath his left ear.
A small circular brand surrounding the head of a demon.
My stomach tightened.
League.
Sirens approached in the distance.
I looked toward the metallic object he’d dropped.
A ring.
Silver.
Ancient Arabic lettering circled its outer edge.
In the center was a familiar symbol.
The Demon’s Head.
I stared at it.
For years, that symbol had existed only in memories.
Stone corridors.
Sword lessons.
Blood on polished floors.
My mother’s voice.
Grandfather watching from the shadows.
The sound of my own younger voice saying things no child should have understood.
My fingers closed around the ring.
“Robin.”
Father again.
This time I answered.
“We have a problem.”
The Batcave had changed over the years.
New computers.
New vehicles.
New suits.
New security systems.
But somehow, Father had managed to preserve the cave’s most irritating feature.
Himself.
I stood in front of the Batcomputer while Bruce examined the ring beneath a forensic scanner.
His cowl sat on the console beside him.
Gray had begun appearing near his temples.
He hated when anyone mentioned it.
Naturally, I mentioned it frequently.
Tonight, however, neither of us was interested in jokes.
“The engraving is authentic,” Bruce said.
“I know.”
“Damian.”
“I spent the first decade of my life surrounded by their symbols. I don’t require a computer to identify one.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
There it was.
That look.
The one he had perfected over the years.
Half concern.
Half disapproval.
Entirely Batman.
“You disobeyed a direct instruction tonight.”
I stared at him.
“Six trained assassins entered Gotham carrying military weapons and League equipment, and you’re concerned that I didn’t wait on a rooftop?”
“I’m concerned that you saw an unknown tactical team and attacked without backup.”
“I stopped them.”
“One died.”
“He poisoned himself.”
“Because you didn’t control the situation.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Do not put his death on me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You implied it.”
Bruce turned from the scanner.
“You’re eighteen now, Damian. That doesn’t mean you’re invincible.”
“I never claimed to be.”
“You act like it.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“Interesting criticism coming from you.”
His eyes hardened.
“That’s enough.”
“No. It isn’t.”
The cave became silent except for the distant dripping of water.
I walked toward him.
“I have spent years proving myself to you.”
“This isn’t about proving yourself.”
“Everything with you is about proving myself.”
“Damian—”
“I stopped killing because you demanded it. I learned your rules. I wore your colors. I followed your missions. I stood beside your partners, your sons, your family—”
“Our family.”
“—and somehow you still speak to me as though I’m ten years old holding a sword for the first time.”
Bruce stared at me.
“You think I don’t trust you.”
“I know you don’t.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
I noticed.
I always noticed.
“You’re wrong.”
“Then why tell me to hold position?”
“Because I recognized the formation.”
I stopped.
Bruce turned toward the Batcomputer.
Security footage appeared across the screens.
The men from the exchange.
Their vehicles.
Their positions.
Their movements.
Bruce enlarged one frame.
The formation formed a nearly perfect crescent around the building.
My chest tightened.
I recognized it immediately.
“Al Ghul extraction formation,” I said.
Bruce nodded.
“They weren’t robbing the exchange.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“They wanted you there.”
The words settled heavily between us.
I looked back at the ring.
“They knew which sector I was patrolling.”
“Yes.”
“They knew our communication response time.”
“Probably.”
“And they knew exactly what would make me intervene.”
Bruce nodded once.
The frightened security guard.
A public threat.
Armed attackers.
Everything had been staged.
Not to steal money.
Not to hurt civilians.
To bring Robin down from the rooftops.
To bring me.
“Why?”
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
That irritated me more than an answer would have.
“Say it.”
“I’m still determining that.”
“Father.”
“The League has been fractured for years. Different cells. Different commanders. Some loyal to your mother. Some still loyal to Ra’s ideology. Others became mercenaries.”
“And now?”
Bruce looked directly at me.
“Now someone is organizing them.”
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
“And they came to Gotham.”
“For you.”
I looked away.
For me.
Not Batman.
Not Wayne Enterprises.
Not Gotham.
Me.
I picked up the silver ring.
Bruce stepped forward.
“Leave it.”
“I’ve already handled it.”
“It could contain a tracking mechanism.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Damian.”
I shoved the ring into a compartment on my utility belt.
“I’m keeping it.”
Bruce’s voice became quieter.
“That’s exactly what they want.”
I turned.
“What?”
“They want your attention.”
“They have it.”
“That’s the problem.”
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then Bruce reached toward the computer.
“You’re off patrol until we know more.”
I stared at him.
Surely I’d misheard.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“The League targeted you specifically.”
“Which is exactly why I should be investigating.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“I am not asking.”
“Neither am I.”
Something hot twisted inside my chest.
Not rage.
Something worse.
That familiar feeling I’d spent years trying to bury.
Being controlled.
Grandfather had controlled what I learned.
Mother had controlled what I believed.
Father controlled what I was allowed to become.
Different people.
Different methods.
Same cage.
“I am not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
My expression went cold.
Bruce realized it immediately.
“Damian—”
I turned away.
“Goodnight, Father.”
“We’re not finished.”
“I am.”
I walked toward the staircase.
“Damian.”
I stopped but didn’t turn around.
Bruce’s voice softened.
“They know who you are.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“So do I.”
Then I left.
Wayne Manor was silent.
It was nearly three in the morning when I entered my bedroom and locked the door behind me.
I removed my gloves.
Then my utility belt.
Then the cape.
I placed everything carefully across the desk.
The ring came last.
It sat in my palm, reflecting moonlight from the window.
The blood remembers.
I hated the words.
Because part of me understood them.
I had spent years pretending the League was simply something that happened to me.
A childhood I survived.
A philosophy I rejected.
A legacy I escaped.
But blood was more complicated than that.
Bruce Wayne was my father.
Talia al Ghul was my mother.
Ra’s al Ghul was my grandfather.
Batman was in my blood.
So was the Demon.
I placed the ring on my desk.
Something clicked.
I froze.
The ring shifted.
A microscopic compartment opened along its inner edge.
A tiny projection flickered into existence.
Green light illuminated my room.
Coordinates appeared.
Somewhere outside Gotham.
Below them was a message.
Arabic.
Four words.
I read them twice.
Then a third time.
My pulse slowed.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
Your inheritance is waiting.
The projection disappeared.
I stared at the ring.
Father wanted me to stay home.
The League wanted me to come to them.
Both sides already believed they knew what I would choose.
That was their first mistake.
I picked up my sword.
And opened the window.
