Damian al-Ghul ⁰⁷.

Damian al-Ghul had established himself as the legitimate ruler of the dynasty some years before. Entire cities, trade routes, oases, and territories where his name was spoken with respect—or fear—lay under his authority. Power belonged to him by blood and by will.

He had no shortage of wives or alliances sealed with gold and promises. Some had given him heirs; others, only obedience. Even so, the summit felt strangely lonely. That night, the palace reeked of excess.

String and drum music enveloped the hall like slow smoke; servants paraded silently with trays of spiced meat, honey-dipped fruit, and goblets of dark wine

Dancers moved among translucent veils, their steps calculated to please, their gazes trained not to hold the prince's eye longer than necessary

Damian reclined among gold-embroidered cushions, observing everything with sharp eyes. He picked up a date, broke it open with his fingers, and brought it to his lips. The sweet taste failed to stir anything within him.

The servants worked diligently, attentive to every slightest gesture, knowing that the prince's boredom could be as dangerous as his anger. Minutes passed. And then, an inner silence prevailed.

Damian: This doesn't entertain me anymore. Damian murmured, his voice low but authoritative, setting his glass aside. He raised his gaze, heavy and calculating.

Damian: Surprise me.

The music faltered, and a disturbing certainty hung in the air: when Damian al Ghul asked for something new… someone always paid the price