The chamber was silent after he left.
No footsteps.
No lingering breath.
No closing of doors beyond the one that trapped her here.
Just silence.
Nyssa remained frozen on the bed, her body curled tightly, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold together the pieces of who she had been minutes ago. The cold silk beneath her felt wrong on her skin. The smell of incense clung to the air like smoke after a fire.
Her body shook with small, involuntary tremors.
Not fear.
Not pain.
A violation of identity.
A rupture of certainty.
A violence done not to flesh — but to purpose.
She forced her breathing to regulate.
In through her nose.
Out through her teeth.
Again.
Again.
Nyssa al Ghul did not break.
Not where walls listened.
Not where assassins lurked.
Not where he might return.
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright. Muscles screamed, but she ignored them. She gathered the pieces of her torn clothing, binding them around her chest with trembling fingers. Standing took effort. Moving took more.
But she stood.
Her reflection in the polished metal bowl was barely recognizable — eyes sunken, hair tangled, face pale and hollow. She splashed water on her face until the last traces of tears vanished and the cold steadied her bones.
Control.
If she had nothing else, she would have that.
A soft knock disturbed the quiet.
Nyssa stiffened instantly.
A masked assassin spoke from behind the door, voice low and formal.
"Lady Nyssa. The Demon commands your presence."
Her pulse hammered once, sharp and cold.
The command was not optional.
Nothing was anymore.
"Very well," she replied, her voice iron-steady despite the pain threading through it.
She opened the door herself.
Two assassins stood at attention, heads bowed. Neither looked directly at her.
Not out of reverence.
Out of fear.
Fear of him.
Fear of the claim.
Fear of the consequences of witnessing what should never have happened.
Nyssa stepped out, posture perfect, chin lifted.
She had lost enough.
She would not lose dignity.
The assassins fell in beside her as she walked through the dimly lit hallways of Nanda Parbat. Every corner she passed held another hooded figure lowering their head. No whisper rose. No murmur slid through the ranks.
The League had gone silent.
And it was not for her.
Nyssa felt the truth like a blade beneath her ribs:
They were not bowing to a daughter.
They were acknowledging a consort.
A possession.
A political bond forged in force rather than blood.
Her stomach twisted.
The walk seemed endless, each step a reminder of what she had endured, what she had lost, what she now represented. But she held her composure with an iron grip, refusing to show pain or weakness.
Finally, they reached the entrance to the Hall of the Demon.
Massive stone doors carved with centuries of conquest parted at their approach.
Inside, the hall was already filled.
Hundreds of assassins stood in perfect rows on either side of the long path.
Hoods lowered.
Heads bowed.
Breaths held.
Waiting.
At the far end, elevated upon the dais, stood the Demon.
Kharon.
His mantle rested over his shoulders like a shadow made flesh, the black armor gleaming in the torchlight. His posture was straight, unyielding, impossible to challenge.
He did not look at her with softness or ownership.
He looked at her with expectation.
The assassins flanking Nyssa stopped at the threshold and bowed deeply, stepping aside.
Nyssa walked alone.
Each step toward him echoed across the stone, loud in the suffocating silence. She felt every eye on her, judging, weighing, calculating.
She had been many things in this hall:
Daughter of Ra's.
Warrior.
Heir.
Executioner.
Now she was something else entirely — something she had no name for, something forced upon her without choice, without honor.
When she reached the base of the dais, she lifted her chin.
She would not kneel.
Not willingly.
Not ever.
Kharon descended the steps slowly, each movement controlled, deliberate, heavy with authority.
He stopped only inches from her, looking down with calm, unreadable eyes.
"Nyssa al Ghul," he said, his voice carrying through the hall with effortless command. "You will stand at my side."
It was not a question.
Not an invitation.
Not a request.
It was a decree.
A seal on the bond forged behind closed doors.
A reminder of who now ruled the League…
…and everything within it.
Nyssa's pulse hammered.
Her jaw tightened.
But she did not look away.
Not now.
Not from him.