𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 幽墨★

Rahim-Khar – Imperial Palace….

Damian woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and low voices. His head throbbed mercilessly from the previous night’s indulgence — an act so unlike him that even the servants seemed scandalized. Two lower-ranked eunuchs tried to help him rise and dress, but he pushed them away roughly, voice hoarse.

“Enough. I can manage.”

The Head Eunuch, an elderly man of impeccable dignity named Master Zhu, stood at the threshold, expression carefully neutral. “His Imperial Majesty summons you, Your Highness. He awaits you in the Garden of Eternal Reflection.”

Damian dressed quickly in simpler emerald robes and made his way to the garden. Ancient ginkgo trees and lotus ponds created a serene landscape under the midday sun. Emperor Ra’s al Ghul stood beside a carved stone pavilion, hands clasped behind his back.

“You wished to see me, Grandfather?”

Ra’s turned, studying his grandson with those piercing, ancient eyes. “Walk with me.”

They strolled along the winding stone path in silence for a time, the only sounds being the soft trickle of water and distant bird calls.

“I have heard rumors,” Ra’s said eventually, voice calm but cutting. “That in your sleep, you call out a name. Y/N. Repeatedly. And that you keep a hidden portrait of a foreign girl with roses in her hair.” He glanced sideways. “Is this true?”

Damian’s steps faltered for half a second. The hangover and emotional exhaustion made his defenses brittle. “It is… unimportant.”

“Unimportant enough to make a prince of the empire drink himself into disgrace?” Ra’s stopped walking and faced him fully. “Speak plainly, grandson. Who is this girl who haunts you so fiercely that even an ocean cannot silence her?”

Damian stared at the lotus pond, chest tight. The words he had buried for eight months finally broke free in a raw, jumbled torrent.

“She is… everything I tried to leave behind. Quiet strength. Defiance wrapped in softness. She saw through every wall I built. I tried to warn her, protect her, push her away — and in the end I only hurt her. I kissed her before I left like a thief stealing something I had no right to take.” His voice cracked. “I cannot stay here, Grandfather. Not while she is there. I need to return to Gothmere.”

Ra’s was silent for a long moment, the weight of empires in his gaze. Then, surprisingly gentle, he spoke. “I once loved a woman with such force that I nearly burned the world for her. My late Empress.” He placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Go. Return to her. Face what you left unfinished. When you come back — if you come back — you will do so more completely in your identity than when you left.”

Damian bowed deeply, relief and fear warring inside him. Preparations for his journey would begin immediately.

Gothmere – Royal Palace….

The announcement swept through society like wildfire.

At a private tea in the royal conservatory, Princess Seraphine publicly named you as one of her new Ladies-in-Waiting. The news spread within hours. By evening, a formal letter bearing the royal seal arrived at the Sterling townhouse.

Your mother read it with wide eyes, then looked at you with a mixture of shock, resentment, and opportunistic calculation. Your father simply nodded with quiet approval. Your sisters said nothing — they had long since lost the right to comment on your life.

You stood taller than you ever had, the weight of independence finally within reach. The position offered everything you had dreamed of: prestige, protection, financial stability through court allowances, powerful connections, and most importantly — freedom from your family’s suffocating control.

Yet as you accepted congratulations from well-wishers and envious debutantes alike, one thought refused to leave your mind.

Damian.

Wherever he was in the world, you wondered if he had heard. If he still thought of you the way you — despite every effort — still thought of him.

That same night, under a sky full of unfamiliar stars, Damian al Ghul stood on the balcony of the Hall of Verdant Shadows, staring toward the distant horizon.

Home was calling.

And for the first time in eight months, he was ready to answer.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

“I reject any arranged marriage,” he said, voice low and edged. “I have no desire for a political wife. Not now. Not ever.”

Talia rose as well, circling him slowly like a predator assessing prey. “Why? You have embraced everything else — the training, the duties, the title. Why resist this?”

Damian remained silent, jaw locked.

Talia stopped in front of him, eyes narrowing. Then, softly, almost tenderly, she spoke the name that had haunted these halls in whispers:

“Y/N.”

Damian froze, every muscle going rigid.

Talia’s smile was knowing and faintly pitying. “You speak her name in your sleep, Damian. The servants hear it. And that painting you keep hidden behind silk in your chambers… the one you uncover only when you think no one is watching. A girl with soft eyes and pink roses in her hair. Did you truly believe such things would remain secret in this palace?”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The carefully constructed walls he had built over eight months cracked violently.

— — — — — 

Gothmere

You walked arm-in-arm with Princess Seraphine through the royal conservatory, winter sunlight filtering through glass panes onto blooming orchids and exotic ferns. The Princess had become a true confidante in recent months.

“I cannot stay under my parents’ roof much longer,” you admitted quietly, voice thick with exhaustion. “The way they — especially my mother and sisters — have treated me… I have borne it long enough. I want my own life. My own home. Even if it is small.”

Seraphine was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “A young woman of your station living completely alone would cause a terrible scandal, my dear. Society would tear you apart.” She stopped beside a flowering camellia bush and turned to face you fully. “However… there is another path.”

You looked at her hopefully.

“Become one of my Ladies-in-Waiting,” the Princess said with a warm, conspiratorial smile. “It is a prestigious position. You would have apartments within the palace complex, assigned specifically to my household. Your days would revolve around court duties, my schedule, and royal events — far from your family’s control. It would grant you genuine independence while shielding you with royal favor. Your marriage prospects would improve dramatically. You would gain powerful connections. And most importantly… you would finally be seen on your own terms.”

Your heart raced. The idea was perfect — freedom wrapped in respectability. For a moment, an unbidden image of Damian flashed in your mind — his intense eyes, the heat of his kiss, the way he had looked at you before leaving. An old ache bloomed in your chest. You pushed it down ruthlessly.

“I… would be honored, Your Highness,” you said softly, voice thick with gratitude. “Truly.”

Seraphine squeezed your hand. “Then it is settled. We shall make the announcement soon.”

— — — — — — 

Late that night, in the privacy of his chambers, Damian al Ghul did something entirely out of character.

He drank.

Deeply.

The strong rice wine burned down his throat as he paced the moonlit room, silk robes loosened, hair unbound. The lanterns flickered low. Eventually, the alcohol loosened the iron chains he had wrapped around his heart.

With a sudden, violent motion, he crossed to the corner of the room and snatched the heavy silk cloth from the large portrait.

There she was.

You.

Painted in traditional style but with his own precise, passionate hand — soft eyes looking back at him, the faint curve of a smile, pink roses woven into your hair and scattered at your feet. The painting was unfinished, yet heartbreakingly alive.

Damian stared at it for a long, agonizing moment.

Then he sank to his knees on the cool marble floor, pulling the large sheet of traditional paper close to his chest. The painting crumpled slightly against him as he clutched it desperately, forehead pressing against the painted surface.

A broken sound — half growl, half sob — escaped his throat.

“Damn you,” he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking. “Eight months. Eight months of distance, of duty, of trying to forget… and still you haunt me.”

His fingers tightened on the edges of the portrait, creasing the delicate paper further.

“I should have stayed,” he breathed, eyes burning. “Or I should have taken you with me. But I was a coward. And now…”

He closed his eyes, pressing the painting even closer, as though he could somehow pull you through the canvas and into his arms.

In the moonlit silence of the imperial palace, the once-unbreakable Prince Damian al Ghul finally allowed himself to feel the full weight of his longing — raw, fierce, and unrelenting.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

Damian approached, dropping to one knee in perfect imperial form, right fist pressed over his heart. “ Royal Grandfather. Mother. I have returned from the western ridges.”

“Rise, my grandson,” Ra’s commanded, voice deep and resonant. “How was the ride?”

“Exhilarating,” Damian replied, standing with straight posture. “The new patrols are well-disciplined. We discovered and neutralized a small band of raiders threatening the silk route.”

Talia’s eyes gleamed with pride. “As expected of you.”

Ra’s studied him closely. “And how are you adjusting, Damian? Truly? This court, this blood… does it sit well with you yet?”

Damian met his grandfather’s gaze without flinching. “It suits me well, Your Imperial Majesty. I am learning much. Contributing. This is where I belong.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. In truth, he had been drowning himself in duty, training, and endless activity — riding until exhaustion, studying imperial strategy until dawn, overseeing reforms with merciless focus. Anything to silence the quiet, persistent ache that refused to fade.

Ra’s smiled faintly, as though he saw through the words but chose not to press. “Good. You carry both your father’s steel and al Ghul fire. Soon, we will discuss your formal title and future responsibilities here.”

Damian bowed once more before being dismissed.

— — — — 

He returned to his personal residence — The Hall of Verdant Shadows — a beautiful, smaller palace within the imperial complex, surrounded by lotus ponds and shaded walkways. Maids and eunuchs bowed low as he crossed the marble courtyard, their whispers of “His Highness” following him like a shadow.

Inside his private chambers, a low kang table sat near the window, covered with brushes, ink stones, colored pigments, and half-finished calligraphy. Behind a heavy silk screen in the corner stood a large easel, the painting upon it completely hidden beneath layers of protective cloth.

Damian removed his outer robe, rolling his shoulders. For a brief, treacherous moment, a memory surfaced — soft eyes, a hellebore in pristine hair, the sharp sting of a slap followed by the taste of desperate lips.

He forced the thought down viciously, jaw clenching until it ached. No. He had chosen distance for a reason. Distraction was safer. Duty was safer.

He sat at the kang table and reached for a fresh sheet of paper, losing himself once more in imperial strategy maps.

— — — — 

Back in Gothmere, Bruce Wayne’s study had become a war room of quiet obsession.

He and Dick Grayson pored over auction records, stylistic analyses, and scattered clues. Three of Dick’s children played happily on the carpet nearby, occasionally crawling over discarded papers.

“I’m close,” Bruce murmured, eyes narrowed. “Lady G is young — a debutante, no more than twenty. The emotional maturity in the work suggests someone who has felt deeply but remains somewhat sheltered. And the roses… always those specific pink roses. They’re not generic. They carry personal symbolism.”

Dick picked up one of the smaller studies. “Look at the brushwork here — delicate but confident. This isn’t formal academy training. It’s self-taught or privately tutored. And notice how the shadows fall? Almost melancholic. Like someone who understands being overlooked.”

Bruce leaned back, fingers steepled. “A Sterling daughter, perhaps? The overlooked one. The timing aligns with when she began appearing more in society.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, a slow grin forming. “You really think it’s her? Y/N Sterling?”

“I don’t think,” Bruce said quietly. “I’m nearly certain.”

— — — — 

In your room that same evening, you sat at your desk finishing another small poem when your fingers brushed against the hidden handkerchief once more. You pulled it out and held it to the lamplight, tracing the embroidered “W.”

Memories flooded you again — sharper this time. The kiss. The way he had looked at you before turning away. The long silence since.

You pressed the linen briefly to your lips, then tucked it away with a soft sigh.

“Wherever you are, Damian Wayne,” you whispered to the quiet room, “I hope you’re as unsettled as I am.”

The wheels of fate, though turning slowly, were beginning to align once more.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

Eight Months Later…

Gothmere had slipped back into its familiar rhythms of balls, scandals, and social climbing, but much had shifted beneath the surface.

You had thrown yourself into secret work with renewed determination. Under the name “Lady G,” your paintings continued to fetch increasingly impressive sums at anonymous auctions. More recently, you had begun writing as well — delicate poems and short, emotionally charged novels circulated through discreet channels under yet another pseudonym. The earnings had grown substantial. You were now perilously close to your goal: enough money to secure a modest but independent household of your own.

You had not yet spoken to your father about your plans, but the conversation loomed closer with every passing week.

Your sisters had fared far worse. Their punishment at the hands of your mother had been swift and severe — social exile within their own home, curtailed allowances, and the permanent stain of their disgrace once whispers of their role in your near-fatal accident had circulated. They had become a quiet laughingstock among the ton. You spoke to them only when absolutely necessary, the betrayal still too raw.

One quiet afternoon, while sorting through your desk drawers in preparation for your eventual departure, your fingers brushed against a small, folded piece of fine linen.

You froze.

It was his handkerchief — the one Damian had offered you in the circulating library so many months ago. The fabric was still faintly creased, the embroidered “W” slightly worn from being clutched in moments of distress.

Memories flooded you without mercy.

The charged silence in the library. The snow-covered argument. His raw, clumsy confession of care. The desperate heat of his kiss in that side room before he walked away.

Your chest tightened. It had been eight long months, and though you had tried to bury it beneath work and newfound independence, you still missed him. Quietly. Achingly. You had heard only vague rumors — that Lord Wayne had left Gothmere on an extended journey to distant lands, something about family heritage and obligations no one fully understood.

You ran your thumb over the embroidered initial, heart heavy with complicated longing.

— — — 

At Wayne Estate, the afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of Bruce’s private study. Papers, auction catalogues, and several of Lady G’s paintings were spread across the massive oak desk.

Bruce Wayne stood with arms crossed, studying the latest acquired piece with narrowed eyes. Beside him, Richard Grayson — Duke of Blüdhaven — bounced his youngest child on his hip while the older two played with wooden soldiers on the carpet.

“She’s good,” Dick said, tilting his head at the newest painting. “Very good. The emotion in the brushwork is remarkable.”

Bruce grunted. “I’m close to identifying her. The anonymity is deliberate and well-protected, but patterns are emerging.”

Dick leaned in, shifting his daughter to his other arm. “Look here,” he pointed. “Pink roses again. Not always the focus, but they appear in nearly every major piece — sometimes blooming, sometimes wilting, sometimes caught mid-fall. It’s consistent. Almost… personal.”

Bruce’s eyes sharpened. “Pink roses,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the delighted laughter of Dick’s children playing at their feet. The mystery of Lady G had become something of a shared project between father and eldest son — one that grew more intriguing with every new discovery.

Neither of them yet realized just how close they were to uncovering the truth.

— — — 

Back in your room, you carefully folded the handkerchief and tucked it into the inner pocket of your writing desk, fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Eight months had passed.

But some embers, it seemed, refused to die.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

You stepped into the main courtyard.

And paused.

Your rifle snapped up instantly, barrel aimed at the rooftop of the burning eastern hall.

There she was.

Jia.

Casually perched on the edge of a collapsing roof like she was watching a street performance. One eye still covered by that sleek black patch, the other gleaming with unhinged delight. She whistled—sharp, mocking—then slow-clapped, the sound cutting through the roar of flames.

“Bravo,” she called down, voice dripping with venomous glee. “Look at you. All grown up and ripping throats like the good old days. Lady Dracula’s back in the house.”

You didn’t lower the rifle.

“Get down here and say that to my face.”

Jia grinned wider, legs swinging like a child on a swing.

“Oh, I would. But this view is just too good. All that fire… all that blood… it suits you.”

Jason shifted beside you, shotgun trained.

“Jason,” you said without looking at him, voice low and deadly. “Go. Help the others.”

He hesitated, grip tightening on his weapon.

“I’m not leaving you with her.”

You finally glanced at him—eyes glowing faint green at the edges.

“I have her. Go.”

He searched your face for half a second, jaw clenched. Then he nodded once—reluctant—and melted into the smoke toward the lower levels.

Jia laughed.

“Sending your little guard dog away? How sweet.”

The second Jason disappeared, you moved.

Like lightning.

You switched weapons mid-stride—dropping the rifle for the suppressed SMG slung across your chest—and opened fire. Rounds stitched across the rooftop where Jia had been. She was already moving, flipping off the edge with reckless grace, landing in a roll that carried her into the smoke.

You pursued.

The fight was savage.

Jia was chaos—fast, unpredictable, laughing even as you clipped her shoulder and blood sprayed. She threw knives from hidden sleeves, one grazing your cheek. You closed the distance in a blur, slamming her into a burning pillar. Embers rained down as you drove your knee into her stomach. She gasped but still grinned.

“You know what the best part is?” she wheezed, blood on her teeth. “Your mother screamed so pretty when we dragged her out. And that little sister of yours… Blaire, right? Her cries were like music. High and sweet. I bet she begged just like you did when you burned—”

You snapped.

No warning. No thought.

Your claws extended fully—long, razor-sharp—and you drove your entire hand straight through her chest.

Jia’s eyes widened in shock. A wet, choking gasp escaped her as you twisted, feeling ribs crack and organs tear. Blood poured hot over your wrist, down your arm, splattering across your face and chest.

You ripped your hand free in one brutal pull.

Jia dropped like a broken doll, eyes glassy, mouth still open in a final, silent scream.

For a moment you stood over her—chest heaving, claws dripping, fangs fully extended. The old hunger roared back to life. The taste of blood on your lips was copper and salt and satisfaction. You dragged your tongue across the back of your hand, licking a streak of red clean without thinking. Lady Dracula, they’d called you in the underground pits for a reason.

The feral part of you purred.

Then you heard footsteps.

Jason rounded the corner, shotgun up, eyes widening at the sight of you standing over Jia’s corpse, blood painting your face like war markings.

He didn’t flinch.

But he saw it—the shift in you. The hunger. The monster barely leashed.

“You….good?” he asked carefully.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing red across your cheek.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

————

MEANWHILE….

Bruce, Tim, Dick, and Damian moved through more of the collapsing underground passages with grim purpose. Justice League backup had arrived—Green Arrow and Black Canary providing cover fire as they evacuated the surviving girls.

Tim scanned the group, voice gentle but urgent.

“Is there a girl named Blaire? Small, dark hair, about nine?”

The protective line shifted. One of the older girls shook her head, eyes wide with fear.

“She was with the younger ones… but they took some when they breached the second chamber. We tried to stop them—”

A distant explosion rocked the tunnel.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

Bruce’s voice was calm steel.

“We’re moving. Now. Stay together. And you must be quiet.”

The evacuation contuined—fragile, terrified children being herded through collapsing stone corridors while League remnants and League backup fought a desperate rearguard.

But no one had seen Blaire.

Not yet.

————

Back in the burning courtyard, you stood over Jia’s body, blood still dripping from your claws, the taste of it lingering on your tongue.

The palace groaned around you as another wing collapsed in flames.

Jason watched you carefully—rifle lowered but ready.

Then your comm crackled.

Tim’s voice, strained:

“We’ve got most of the girls—but we can’t find Blaire. She’s not with the group.”

Your blood ran cold.

The feral hunger in your veins sharpened into something far more dangerous.

Pure, protective rage.

You looked at Jason, eyes glowing bright green now.

“Then we tear this place apart until we do.”

The hunt had just become something far more personal.

And heaven help anyone still standing in your way.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

But you were already moving, ignoring the dizziness and the sharp protest in your lungs. You pushed past her, still in your nightgown and wrapper, bare feet slipping into the nearest slippers.

“Miss Sterling!” Clara pleaded, hurrying after you with a thick shawl. “You nearly drowned this morning!”

You didn’t stop.

You made it to the tall window overlooking the entrance courtyard just as a carriage was being loaded with trunks. Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was leaving. After everything — after pulling you from the ice, after that letter bearing pieces of his soul — he was going to slip away with nothing but ink and distance.

No.

You snatched a heavy wool coat from a startled maid in the hallway, threw it over your shoulders, and rushed down one of the side servant staircases, Clara trailing desperately behind you.

“Please, my lady! You’ll catch your death!”

You heard his voice before you saw him — low, commanding, giving instructions to footmen in a side antechamber near the courtyard entrance. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you picked up speed.

The moment you appeared in the doorway, everything froze.

Damian turned sharply. His eyes widened at the sight of you — disheveled, flushed, still visibly unwell, yet burning with determination. The footmen and servants stared.

“Leave us,” you said, voice surprisingly steady despite how fragile you felt. “All of you. Now.”

The servants bowed hastily and filed out. Clara hesitated at the threshold, eyes wide with worry, but you gave her a firm look. “Wait outside, Clara.”

The door clicked shut.

For a moment, the two of you simply stared at each other across the small room. the air thick, charged, alive with everything unsaid.

“You wrote me a letter,” you began, stepping closer, voice trembling with a storm of emotions. “After everything — after you risked your life for me, after the things you said in the snow, you were just going to leave with a letter? Like a coward?”

Damian stood very still, but you saw the muscle jump in his jaw.

“You cannot say such things to me on paper and then run back to Gothmere as though none of it matters!” You closed the distance further, eyes flashing. “You told me I was a fool for trusting the Prince. You told me you cared in the most infuriating, clumsy way possible, and now you think a few lines of ink are enough? After you held me in that freezing water? After I—”

He moved without warning.

In one swift stride, Damian closed the remaining space between you, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you.

It was not gentle.

It was desperate, consuming — months of tightly leashed tension, fear, frustration, and unspoken longing pouring out in a single searing moment. His lips claimed yours with bruising intensity, as though he had been starving for this, as though he might never get another chance. For one dizzying heartbeat, you nearly melted into it, your hands fisting in his coat as the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth and the thunder of your heart.

Then reality crashed back.

Your eyes flew open. You shoved him back hard and slapped him across the face — the same cheek you had struck in the snow.

The sound cracked through the room.

Damian didn’t flinch. He simply stared at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with a thousand unsaid things.

“You don’t get to kiss me and then leave,” you whispered, tears gathering in your eyes again. “Not like this.”

He looked as though he wanted to say something — perhaps everything — but the words seemed to die in his throat. Instead, he took one shaky step back, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

“I have to go,” he said roughly, voice hoarse. “Before I make this worse for you.”

He turned toward the door, every line of his body rigid with restraint.

“Damian—”

But he was already gone.

You stood there alone in the small room, lips still tingling from his kiss, cheek wet with fresh tears, heart torn between fury and something far more dangerous.

Outside, the carriage wheels began to crunch across the snow as Damian Wayne left Valeris Hall. and you….behind.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

She rose slowly, towering over them. “You are no longer welcome at Valeris. You will leave today. A carriage will be prepared within the hour. Your belongings will be packed for you, and you will not speak to another guest before your departure. Consider yourselves fortunate I do not have you thrown out into the snow with nothing but the clothes on your backs.”

Arabella’s mouth opened in protest. “Your Grace, please—our reputation—”

“Should have been considered before you tried to destroy another’s life!” the Archduchess cut her off icily. She rang a small silver bell. A maid appeared instantly. “Pack the Sterling sisters’ belongings at once. They are departing immediately.”

The sisters were escorted out in stunned, humiliated silence, their dreams of a triumphant week at Valeris crumbling into ash.

————

Meanwhile, in his room on the West Wing, Damian Wayne stood at the window as pale winter light slowly strengthened across the snow-covered grounds. The morning was advancing, yet the chaos he had caused earlier still echoed in his mind—the public accusations against the Prince, the near-fight, the spectacle he had made of himself.

He could salvage his reputation. A few well-placed words, a display of cool composure, and the ton would eventually move on. He had always been able to control the narrative.

But then you consumed him.

The memory of your face in the snow—furious, hurt, beautiful. The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek. The raw terror that had seized him when your horse bucked and you disappeared beneath the ice. The crushing weight of your unconscious body in his arms as he carried you from the lake. The sound of your muffled sobs through the door earlier.

He began pacing, hands flexing at his sides. For the first time in his rigidly ordered life, Damian Wayne did not know how to face someone. He could not storm into your room and demand anything. Not after everything.

With an abrupt motion, he sat at the writing desk, pulled out paper and ink, and began to write. The words came haltingly at first—then faster, almost feverish.

————

Miss Sterling,

I have never been skilled with pretty words or easy apologies. What I said to you in the snow was harsh and unforgivable in its delivery, though I still believe the warning itself was necessary. I handled it poorly. Cruelly, even.

You were right to strike me.

I cannot explain the way you have unsettled every carefully built wall I possess. From the library to the lake, from your quiet defiance to the moment I thought I had lost you beneath the ice—something in me has shifted. I do not know what to call it. I only know that the thought of you being hurt, used, or discarded is intolerable to me.

I am returning to Gothmere today. Perhaps distance will restore some clarity. Perhaps not.

Regardless, I remain—

Yours in ways I cannot yet name,

Damian Wayne

He stared at the letter for a long moment, then folded it with precise movements and sealed it. Rising, he rang for a footman.

“Deliver this to Miss Sterling within the hour,” he ordered, voice steady despite the storm inside him. “No one else is to read it.”

The footman bowed and left.

Damian turned back to the window, watching the snow fall more gently now. His trunks would be packed shortly. He was going home.

But as the carriage wheels would soon turn toward Gothmere, he knew a part of him would remain here—entangled with a woman who had somehow managed to crack the unbreakable control he had spent his life perfecting.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

Adrien hesitated, his charming mask cracking for the first time. He looked away toward the window, jaw tight. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and carefully measured. “There are… complications. Old entanglements that have resurfaced at the worst possible time. Lady Evelina Harrow has made certain claims. Demands.” He gave a bitter, hollow laugh. “She believes I owe her a future I never promised. Women like her always do. They mistake attention for devotion.”

Your stomach twisted. The rumors Damian had thrown at you in the snow echoed in your mind. “And the children?” you whispered, voice breaking. “The ones you are said to have fathered and abandoned?”

He waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes betrayed him. “Exaggerations. Scandals blown out of proportion by jealous tongues. A prince is allowed certain… indiscretions. It is the way of our world. One day you will understand that duty must come before fleeting affections.”

The words landed like stones in your chest. You, who had lived your entire life as the illegitimate daughter quietly accepted and protected by a father who chose to keep you—were now hearing this man justify abandoning his own blood so easily. Tears welled up and spilled down your cheeks.

“Was I to be next?” you asked, voice trembling but clear. “Another pleasant diversion? Another woman you would court sweetly until a more advantageous match appeared, then discard like the others?”

Adrien’s silence was damning. He reached for your hand, but you pulled it away. Finally, he spoke, his tone shifting into cool finality. “My mother and the Queen have made my path clear. I must marry soon—properly, strategically. A union that strengthens alliances and secures the line. Our… courtship has been delightful, but it cannot continue. Not now. Not with everything coming to light. You understand, don’t you? This was never meant to be permanent.”

The casual cruelty of it shattered something deep inside you. You turned your face away, fresh tears falling silently onto the pillow.

Adrien stood, smoothing his coat. “Rest and recover. You will always have my fondest regards.” With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him like the closing of a final chapter.

The moment he was gone, Clara rushed back in, her face etched with worry. She climbed onto the bed beside you without hesitation and pulled you into her arms as you finally broke into quiet, heartbroken sobs. “Oh, my lady… I’m so sorry. He never deserved you. None of them do if they can’t see how brightly you shine.”

————

Downstairs in the Archduchess’s private study—her late husband’s old sanctuary lined with dark wood and heavy books—the housekeeper finished her report with a grave expression. The Archduchess’s face hardened like stone as she listened.

“Summon the stable boy immediately,” she ordered, voice cold with authority. “And bring the Sterling sisters as well. They will answer for this in this room. No excuses. No delays.”

————

Meanwhile, Damian walked down the corridor toward your room, freshly changed and still vibrating with restless energy. He intended only to check on your condition through the doctor or a servant. He froze just outside the door when he heard it—muffled, heart-wrenching sobs coming from inside.

His hand hovered over the doorknob. Every instinct screamed at him to enter, to comfort you, to tell you he had been trying to protect you from exactly this pain. But propriety, his own tangled emotions, and the memory of your slap held him back. He stood frozen in the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, listening to your quiet devastation and feeling utterly powerless for the first time in his life.

The storm outside had finally begun to ease, but inside Valeris, the consequences were only beginning to unfold.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

In the warmly lit sickroom, a fire roared in the hearth and thick wool blankets had been piled high on the bed. The Princess Seraphine and her aunt, the formidable Archduchess Elowen of Valeris, stood near the foot of the bed while the doctor finished checking Y/N’s pulse.

“She is remarkably resilient, Your Highness, Your Grace,” the doctor said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “The cold was severe, and the shock to her system significant, but Lord Wayne pulled her from the water with impressive speed. Had he been even a few minutes later, we might be having a very different conversation. She should make a full recovery with rest, warm broths, and careful monitoring. There may be a lingering cough, but nothing life-threatening.”

The Archduchess, a tall woman with steel-gray hair and piercing eyes, nodded gravely. “See that she wants for nothing. Valeris will not be remembered for nearly costing a young woman her life.”

At that moment, you stirred beneath the mountain of blankets. Your eyelids fluttered open, and a soft groan escaped your lips. Everything felt heavy—your limbs, your chest, your thoughts.

“What… happened?” you rasped, voice hoarse from the icy water.

Princess Seraphine moved to your side immediately, taking your hand with gentle warmth. “You were thrown from your horse near the frozen lake during your morning ride. You fell through the ice.” Her voice softened further. “Lord Wayne saw it happen. He rode in after you without hesitation and pulled you out. He carried you back himself, shouting orders like a war general on the battlefield. You’ve been unconscious for nearly two hours.”

You blinked slowly, trying to process her words. “He… saved me?”

The doctor nodded. “You are very fortunate, Miss Sterling. The speed with which he acted likely saved your life. Another few minutes in that water and hypothermia would have taken hold far more severely.”

You lay back against the pillows, a complex swirl of emotions—gratitude, confusion, and the lingering sting of your argument—washing over you. “I don’t… I don’t understand why the horse…”

The Archduchess exchanged a knowing look with her niece. “That, my dear, is being looked into as we speak.”

—————

Tim found Damian in the private sitting room, now dressed in dry clothes but still radiating barely contained tension. The firelight cast harsh shadows across his face.

“It was deliberate,” Tim said without preamble, closing the door firmly behind him. “The Sterling sisters;Arabella and Juliette—bribed a stable hand last night. They wanted the saddle tampered with just enough to humiliate her. They didn’t plan for the lake, I'm certain, but they absolutely intended for her to be thrown.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. A dangerous, icy fury settled over him. “They will answer for this.”

“I’ve already informed the Archduchess’s private secretary and the Princess’s lady-in-waiting,” Tim continued. “They’re handling it discreetly for now, but the sisters are finished here. The Archduchess does not tolerate threats to her guests—especially not from jealous vipers within her own walls.”

Damian stared into the fire, jaw tight. The image of you sinking beneath the ice replayed relentlessly in his mind. “She almost died because of their petty cruelty.”

Tim placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “She didn’t. Thanks to you. Now breathe, Damian. The situation is being managed.”

But Damian’s thoughts were already far ahead—on you, on the sisters, and on the growing, terrifying realization that protecting you had become something he could no longer deny or control.

The storm outside continued to fall softly, but inside Valeris Hall, the real tempest had only just begun.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

“They are not lies,” Damian snarled, stepping forward despite Jon and Tim’s restraining hands. “I heard her myself this morning. Dates. Physician’s letters. Promises you never intended to keep. You would drag Miss Sterling into that web of deceit and ruin—”

The Prince lunged forward, fist raised. “Say another word and I will—”

Damian met him head-on, shoulders squared, every inch the trained warrior ready for blood. The corridor tensed, on the verge of an outright brawl between a future duke and a crown prince.

“Enough!” Jon Kent barked, throwing his full weight against Damian’s chest while Tim grabbed his other arm. “Not here!”

A footman fumbled with the door to an adjacent private sitting room, throwing it open. “My lord—please, this way! Dry clothes and a fire—”

Tim and Jon shoved Damian inside with considerable effort. He resisted for a moment, muscles coiled like a predator, eyes still locked on the Prince. The door slammed shut behind them, muffling the growing uproar in the hall.

Inside the room, a fire already crackled in the hearth. Damian shook off their hands violently, pacing like a caged animal, water streaming from his clothes.

“Damian—” Tim began.

“The horse,” Damian cut him off suddenly, freezing mid-step as the memory slammed into him. “Before she fell—her mare was acting strangely. The buck was too sharp, too violent for fresh snow and a calm ride. It wasn’t natural.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “You think it was tampered with?”

“I know it,” Damian said, voice low and lethal. “Tim. Investigate. The stables. The saddle. The mare. Everything. Do it quietly, but thoroughly. Now.”

Tim didn’t hesitate. He gave a sharp nod and slipped out the door without another word, melting into the chaos of the hallway.

—————

Meanwhile, in a locked bedroom in the East Wing, Arabella and Juliette Sterling had barricaded themselves inside. The moment news of the accident spread, they had fled back upstairs, turning the key with trembling fingers.

Arabella paced frantically near the window, wringing her hands. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she hissed. “Just a little fright—enough to embarrass her, to make her look reckless in front of everyone. Not this.”

Juliette sat on the edge of the bed, face pale. “We only told the stable hand to loosen the stirrup leather slightly. How were we to know the stupid horse would bolt near the lake? If she dies—”

“She won’t die,” Arabella snapped, though her voice wavered. “She’s too stubborn for that. But if anyone traces it back to us…”

Juliette’s eyes darted toward the door as raised voices echoed faintly from downstairs. “Wayne saw it. He was there. What if he connects it? What if the Prince—”

“We say nothing,” Arabella whispered fiercely, grabbing her sister’s arm. “We were in our rooms the entire morning. We saw nothing. Understood?”

Juliette nodded jerkily, but fear lingered in her eyes. The consequences of their petty jealousy had spiraled far beyond anything they had intended.

—————

Back in the sitting room, Damian stood rigid by the fire, steam rising from his wet clothes. His mind churned with rage, fear, and an overwhelming, terrifying need to know that you were still breathing. The doctor’s voice drifted faintly through the wall from the next room, and Damian’s fists clenched at his sides once more.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

Damian’s control frayed. “Kind?” he bit out, voice rising. “He is a man with bastards and discarded lovers trailing behind him like broken promises. He will use you as he has used others—then discard you when a better match appears. You are a diversion, nothing more.”

The words landed like a slap. Your eyes widened, hurt and fury flashing across your face. “How dare you,” you whispered, voice trembling with rage. “You know nothing of him, and even less of me if you think I would allow myself to be used so easily.”

He leaned closer, snow catching in his dark hair, eyes blazing. “Then you are a fool for believing his honeyed lies. A foolish, naive girl playing at court like—”

The crack of your gloved hand across his cheek echoed sharply through the quiet woods. His head snapped to the side, the imprint of your palm blooming red against his pale skin.

Silence fell, broken only by the soft whisper of falling snow.

You stared at him, chest heaving, stunned by your own actions. Then fury surged again and you drew back to strike once more.

Damian’s hand shot out like lightning, catching your wrist in an iron grip—not painful, but unyielding. His breathing was ragged, eyes wild with a storm of emotions he had no language for.

“I’m saying this because I care!” The words tore from him, raw and clumsy, almost angry in their honesty. “Damn it, I shouldn’t—but I do. More than I know what to do with.”

You wrenched your wrist free, tears of rage and confusion stinging your eyes. “Then care from a distance, Lord Wayne. I never asked for your protection or your judgment.”

You turned your horse sharply and urged her back toward the estate, snow flying from her hooves as you galloped away.

——————

You had ridden only a short distance when it happened.

A sharp crack—perhaps a hidden branch or deliberately loosened strap—startled the mare. She shied violently, bucking hard on the snowy, uneven ground. You cried out as you were thrown, tumbling through the air and crashing through the thin ice at the edge of the half-frozen lake.

The cold hit like a thousand knives. Freezing water rushed over your head, soaking the heavy layers of your riding habit and cloak. They dragged you down like lead. Your limbs numbed almost instantly as you struggled, lungs burning, the world above a blurry, unreachable shimmer of white.

“Y/N!”

Damian’s roar cut through the silence. He spurred Titus forward without hesitation, leaping from the saddle at the lake’s edge and diving into the icy water. The shock of cold nearly stole his breath, but he powered through, strong strokes cutting through the murk until he found you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you up with desperate strength. He carried you out bridal-style, water streaming from your sodden clothes, your head lolling unconscious against his shoulder.

He got you onto Titus, then swung up behind you, wrapping his coat around your shivering form as best he could. “Hold on,” he growled, though you could not hear him, and rode like the devil himself back toward the estate.

——————

“Open the doors!” Damian bellowed as they thundered into the courtyard, voice carrying the authority of a battlefield commander. “Now! Fetch the doctor—hot water, blankets, every fire in the east wing! Move!”

Staff scrambled awake in panic. Doors flew open. Lights blazed to life across Valeris as guests stirred from sleep.

He carried you inside, barking orders the entire way, his own clothes dripping and clinging to him. “The Rose Suite—quickly! She’s not breathing properly—someone take her!”

In the hastily reprepared suite, he laid you on the bed. Your lips were blue, skin deathly pale. Without thinking, he reached for the laces of your soaked riding habit to peel away the freezing layers.

“My Lord!” The housekeeper gasped, rushing forward with wide eyes. “You shouldn’t touch her any further! Propriety—please, step back!”

Clara burst in moments later, pale but determined, and immediately began working on your wet clothes with the help of two other maids. A doctor hurried in, medical bag in hand.

“Out, my lord,” the doctor ordered firmly. “You are soaked through yourself. You’ll be no use to her if you catch your death. Tend to him immediately,” he snapped at a footman.

Damian stood frozen, water pooling at his feet, eyes fixed on your unconscious form.

The commotion drew more attention. Prince Adrien came rushing down the corridor in a hastily thrown-on robe, face etched with alarm. “What in God’s name—? Y/N!”

Something in Damian snapped. Adrenaline, fear, and possessive fury surged through him. As the Prince moved toward the door, Damian stepped forward and planted a hand hard against his chest, shoving him back.

“Stay the hell away from her,” he snarled.

The Prince stumbled, shock flashing into anger. “Have you lost your mind, Wayne?”

Jon and Tim appeared almost instantly—Jon grabbing Damian’s arm, Tim locking the other. “Damian—enough!” Jon hissed, struggling to hold him back.

“You don’t touch her!” Damian shouted, voice raw as he fought against his friends’ grip, muscles straining. “Not after what you’ve done—!”

The corridor erupted into chaos—shouts, scrambling staff, the Princess arriving wide-eyed down the hall—as snow continued to fall softly outside, indifferent to the storm breaking within.

To be continued…

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.

“I expect you to do what you promised,” she hissed. Her voice lowered into something deadly. “Or I will ruin you. Every affair. Every child. Every lie you’ve hidden behind that charming smile. I will drag your name—and your crown—through the mud.”

Adrien’s jaw tightened until the muscle jumped. For the first time in years, genuine fear flickered across the Prince’s face.

In the corridor just beyond the slightly ajar door, Damian Wayne had frozen mid-step. He had not meant to eavesdrop, but the raised voices had drawn him. He had heard enough.

Child.Ruin you. Marry me.

His expression went deathly still. Disgust curled in his stomach—at the Prince, at the scandal, at the web of lies now threatening to ensnare everything. And then the image of you flashed through his mind, seated across from the Prince at dinner, the warmth in Adrien’s gaze.

“She deserves better than this,” he muttered under his breath, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He turned on his heel and walked away fast, boots echoing sharply against the marble

Back in his room, Damian moved with tense precision. He threw on his riding boots, a heavy dark greatcoat, and gloves. His movements were controlled, but fury and something sharper—protective instinct—simmered beneath the surface. Without a word to anyone, he left for the stables.

—————

In the Rose Suite, pale morning light reflected off fresh snow and spilled across your bed. You stirred, then sat up abruptly as the realization hit. You rushed to the window, pressing your fingers to the cold glass.

“It’s snowing…” you whispered, pure, unfiltered joy lighting your entire face.

You woke Clara with uncharacteristic excitement, almost childlike in your delight. “Quickly—warm riding habit, the wool cloak, and my sturdiest gloves!”

Clara laughed softly as she helped you dress. “You look like a girl seeing snow for the first time, miss.”

“Perhaps I am,” you replied with a bright smile. “At least… seeing it like this.”

Dressed in a deep green riding habit that complemented the emerald tones you had recently embraced, you slipped out into the crisp morning air.

—————

From a window high above, Arabella and Juliette watched you ride out alone across the snow-dusted grounds. Their expressions were not merely jealous or annoyed. They were calculating.

“She’s gone alone?” Arabella murmured, a smirk curving her lips.

Juliette’s eyes narrowed with dark satisfaction. “How convenient.”

They had ensured it would be. A few quiet words to a stable hand the night before, a subtle tampering with your usual saddle and stirrup leather—nothing obvious, but enough to create trouble on uneven, snowy ground. They stepped back from the window, satisfied.

—————

The grounds of Valeris were transformed under the fresh snow—silent, pristine, magical. You rode at an easy canter, breath visible in the cold air, the world muffled and beautiful around you. For the first time in days, your mind felt clear. Peaceful.

Meanwhile, Damian rode hard across the same fields—fast, controlled aggression pouring out with every stride of his powerful warhorse, Titus. Snow flew from the horse’s hooves as he pushed harder, trying to outrun the disgust and unease churning inside him.

Their paths converged near a small wooded rise.

You crested the hill at the same moment Damian thundered up the other side. Both horses shied at the near-collision. Yours reared slightly in surprise, hooves kicking up snow. You gripped the reins tightly, heart leaping into your throat as you fought for balance.

Damian’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying your horse’s bridle with iron strength before pulling Titus back a safe distance. Snow swirled around you both in the sudden stillness.

His sharp green eyes locked onto yours—breath visible, chest rising and falling heavily from the hard ride. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the only sounds were the soft huffing of the horses and the whisper of falling snow.

©𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐈 — All original works published here are my intellectual property. Please do not copy, repost, or claim them as your own. Unauthorized use or plagiarism of non-fanfiction works may result in legal action.