More advanced chapters on p@treon.com/Saintbarbido.
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(League of Shadows Stronghold ā Somewhere in the Mountains)
The air in the grand hall of the League of Shadows was thick with the scent of burning incense, the kind that masked the rot buried deep in the foundation of the centuries-old fortress.
Shadows danced on the stone walls, cast by the flickering flames of torches mounted in iron sconces.
Ra's al Ghul stood at the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his piercing green eyes watching as his daughter, Talia, labored on a raised dais.
The midwives worked in silence, their movements brisk and efficient, faces masked by black veils.
Talia al Ghul, always a picture of poise and control, now lay vulnerable and drenched in sweat.
Her nails dug into the wood of the armrests as another contraction wracked her body.
She refused to scream. She would not give her father the satisfaction of seeing her in pain.
Moments later, a sharp cry filled the hall.
The midwife stepped forward, holding a small, squirming infant wrapped in dark silk.
Talia's lips trembled as she reached out, but before she could cradle the child, Ra's raised a commanding hand.
"Bring him to me," Ra's said, his voice calm but heavy with authority.
The midwife hesitated, but a sharp glance from the Demon's Head spurred her forward.
The infant was placed in his arms. Ra's tilted his head, studying the child as if he were a flawed artifact. The room fell silent.
"What is this?" Ra's voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
He held the babe up to the torchlight by it's leg, his expression souring as the infant's white hair glimmered faintly in the glow.
"A mark of weakness," Ra's declared, his voice heavy with disdain. "This...thing will not be the heir to the League of Shadows. He is no grandson of mine."
Talia struggled to rise, her body weak but her will unbroken. "Father, he is my son. He will grow strong. The blood of al Ghul flows through his veins."
"The blood may flow, but it is tainted," Ra's snapped, his eyes narrowing. "This child's very existence is a curse. He will bring ruin, not strength. He will never be accepted here. I refuse it."
The room seemed to grow colder. Talia's heart clenched as she realized what her father intended. She rose from the chair, her legs trembling but her voice firm.
"You will not harm him," she said. It wasn't a pleaāit was a command.
Ra's chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Harm him? No, Talia. I will give him what this world has denied him: a chance to survive. But it will not be here. This child does not deserve the League. Let the outside world determine his fate."
He handed the child back to the midwife, who stared at him with wide, uncertain eyes. "Take him to Gotham but not with the Father. Leave It in the slums where he belongs. If he is truly an al Ghul, he will claw his way to survival. If not, then he was never meant to live."
"No!" Talia stepped forward, her hands trembling. She wanted to fight, to protect her son, but the League stood against her. Even the midwives backed away, afraid to defy Ra's.
Ra's turned his back on her. "Do not defy me, Talia. This is your second warning. You know what happens to those who try my patience by questioning my judgement."
Tears burned in her eyes as she sank back into the chair, her body shaking.
The infant's cries grew fainter as the midwife carried him away, vanishing into the shadows.
---
-Gotham City ā The Narrows-
The midwife kept her head low as she hurried through the grimy back alleys of Gotham's Narrows, watched over by the shadows.
Her League-issued robes were hidden beneath a tattered cloak, but her steps were quick and deliberate.
The infant in her arms whimpered softly, his pale skin and white hair standing out even in the faint light of the streetlamps.
She stopped in front of a run-down orphanage, its sign barely legible through the grime and peeling paint.
A drunk slumped by the steps, oblivious to her presence. The midwife hesitated, looking down at the baby.
His wide, curious eyes stared back at her, unknowing and undeserving of the fate being thrust upon him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling.
She placed the infant gently on the doorstep, wrapping the silk tighter around him to shield him from the biting wind.
With a final glance, she melted into the shadows, leaving the child alone in the harsh, cold Gotham night.
Gotham City ā St. Bartholomew's Orphanage
The faint cries of the infant were drowned out by the howling wind.
It wasn't until the first rays of dawn began to pierce the murky skyline of Gotham that the heavy front door of the orphanage creaked open.
A tired, middle-aged woman in a stained cardigan stepped outside, her lips pursed as she scanned the desolate street.
She almost didn't notice the small bundle on the doorstepāuntil the sound of a soft whimper made her stop.
"What theā" she muttered, leaning down to peel back the silk covering. She stared at the baby in confusion, her eyes narrowing when she noticed the shock of white hair.
"Well, aren't you a strange one?" she said with a sigh. Scooping him up, she stepped back inside the building, muttering under her breath about "another mouth to feed."
The orphanage was nothing more than a crumbling relic of the city's neglect.
The walls were stained with water damage, and the air carried a permanent stench of mildew and despair.
The other children, huddled around a broken radiator for warmth, barely glanced up as the woman entered with the baby.
"What's his name?" asked one of the older boys, his voice tinged with boredom.
The woman hesitated. She glanced at the silk wrappings, hoping for some kind of clue, but there was nothing. No note, no nameājust a child abandoned to the world.
"Doesn't have one," she grumbled. "Call him whatever you want."
The older boy smirked. "Whitey," he said, eliciting a few chuckles from the others.
"Enough," the woman snapped, her tone sharp. She placed the baby into a battered crib in the corner of the room, already turning away. "He's no different than the rest of you. Just another orphan nobody wanted."
---
-Six Years Later-
The sound of metal clashing against concrete echoed through the orphanage's dimly lit basement.
Six-year-old, self named, Damian stood in the center of the room, his small fists clenched, his knuckles raw and bloody.
Around him, a group of older boys circled like wolves, their sneers illuminated by the single flickering bulb overhead.
"Think you're better than us, freak?" one of them spat, stepping forward. His name was Kyle, the self-proclaimed leader of the orphanage's bullies. "That white hair makes you look like a ghost."
Damian didn't answer. He simply watched Kyle with cold, calculating eyes, his small frame deceptively still.
"I'm talking to you!" Kyle snarled, lunging forward.
The moment his hand reached out, Damian moved.
A sharp, precise elbow caught Kyle in the stomach, doubling him over.
Before the boy could recover, Damian spun, delivering a brutal kick to the side of his knee.
Kyle collapsed with a howl, clutching his leg as Damian stepped back, his expression unreadable.
The other boys hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. Damian's reputation had grown quickly in the orphanage. He wasn't the biggest or the strongest, but he was the smartest.
He studied his opponents, learned their weaknesses, and struck with ruthless efficiency.
"You'll regret this," Kyle hissed, struggling to his feet.
"No," Damian said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will."
The other boys retreated as Damian walked away, his small hands trembling slightly. He hated fighting because it hurt his hands.
He hated this place too. But he had learned long ago that survival required strengthāand he would not allow himself to be weak.
Alone, he could only count on himself.
---
-Nightfall-
Damian sat alone on the rooftop of the orphanage, his legs dangling over the edge.
The city stretched out before him, its lights flickering like dying embers. The cold wind bit at his skin, but he didn't flinch.
He had begun stealing books from the local library, sneaking them back to the orphanage to read by the dim light of the hallway.
Books on engineering, mathematics, and historyāthe knowledge he absorbed was his only solace in a world that seemed determined to crush him.
He didn't know who his parents were, but it didn't matter. They had abandoned him.
To Damian, the world was nothing more than a battlefield, and every person in it was either an enemy, a tool, or a waste of his time.
The boy looked down at his scarred knuckles, then back at the city below.
"I'll get out of here," he whispered to himself, his voice resolute. "One day, I'll be stronger than all of them. They'll never control me again."
The wind carried his words away as Damian sat in silence, the faint sound of sirens in the distance a reminder of Gotham's endless chaos.