The cold winds of Nanda Parbat whipped
across the upper terraces as Kharon walked through the shadowed hallways. He
could feel tension in every stone, every torch, every whispering voice that
fell silent when he passed. Something was wrong.
A junior assassin appeared at his
doorway.
"The Demon requests your presence in
the throne hall."
Requests.
Not commands.
That alone was strange.
Kharon rose, masked his expression,
and followed.
The throne hall was already filled.
League masters stood in a wide circle, silent and tense. Torches crackled along
the walls. The atmosphere was ceremonial… but charged, volatile.
And at the center stood Ra's al Ghul,
his posture rigid, his gaze locked on the man he had raised.
Kharon stepped forward.
Ra's stared at him with a penetrating,
ancient gaze.
"Kharon… Adrian Queen."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
It was the first time Ra's had ever
spoken his birth name publicly.
"You have acted without command," Ra's
said, pacing around him. "You traveled to Starling City. You retrieved a relic
older than the League itself. You killed a rogue sect alone."
His voice lowered into a dangerous
growl.
"And yet… you say nothing of the
reason you went."
Kharon's jaw tightened.
Ra's stepped closer. "Your blood calls
to that city."
Kharon's eyes flickered — only
slightly.
Ra's raised his voice, booming through
the hall:
"You guard Oliver Queen — your younger
brother."
The hall erupted in murmurs.
"He is your blood," Ra's said coldly.
"But he is NOTHING to the League. A distraction. A liability."
Kharon stayed still.
Ra's leaned in.
"And I can remove this liability
whenever I choose."
Kharon's body tensed. "Do not threaten
him."
Ra's smirked. "Then kneel."
Kharon didn't move.
Ra's voice thundered:
"KNEEL, Kharon! Or Oliver Queen dies
by my command before sunrise!"
Every assassin froze.
Ra's had just threatened the HEIR'S
BLOOD FAMILY.
This was not punishment—
this was an unforgivable provocation.
Kharon's voice rang through the hall:
"No."
The shockwave of the word hit like a
blade.
Ra's' eyes widened. "You REFUSE?"
"I will not kneel," Kharon said. "And
you will not harm my brother."
Ra's let out a low laugh. "You risk
the wrath of the Demon's Head… for a single bloodline?"
"He is my family," Kharon said.
Ra's voice snapped like a whip.
"He is a weakness."
"No," Kharon said. "He is my purpose."
Ra's' expression darkened.
"You truly defy me."
Kharon didn't blink.
Ra's raised his blade.
"THEN YOU ARE NO LONGER MY HEIR."
The circle widened instantly.
A ritual duel—witnessed by every elite
assassin present.
Kharon drew his sword.
Ra's raised his.
"BEGIN!"
Steel clashed violently.
Ra's struck with speed honed by
centuries.
Kharon countered with
Mirakuru-enhanced force.
Ra's slashed Kharon's shoulder.
Kharon barely flinched.
Kharon struck Ra's in the ribs.
Ra's staggered, but grounded himself
instantly.
The hall watched breathlessly.
Ra's shouted through gritted teeth:
"You protect a MAN you never met until
a year ago? Why?!"
Kharon shoved him back with brutal
strength.
"He is my brother!"
Ra's' face twisted. "Foolish
attachment!"
Kharon's eyes burned.
"He is Queen blood. MY blood."
Ra's snarled and attacked again.
Their blades clashed, sending sparks
across the stone floor.
Under another sky, Starling City
breathed a dim, uneasy night. Oliver Queen stood on a rooftop overlooking the
Glades, hood drawn low, bow in hand.
He had buried Sara earlier that
morning.
His soul felt hollow.
He sensed movement before he saw it.
A shadow dropped behind him, landing
silently, gracefully.
"Oliver Queen."
Oliver spun, arrow notched—then froze.
"Nyssa."
Nyssa al Ghul stood in full League
attire, breathing hard, fury radiating from her.
Her eyes were red.
Her posture rigid.
She was grieving.
"Where is she?!" Nyssa demanded.
Oliver swallowed. "Nyssa… I'm sorry—"
"DON'T."
Nyssa stepped forward, voice
trembling. "Do not speak apology to me. You were there. You found her. You know
something."
Oliver lowered his bow. "I don't. I
swear to you."
Nyssa's hand went to her sword.
"You lie."
"I'm not lying!"
Nyssa stepped closer, eyes burning.
"Sara was my beloved," she said, voice
cracking. "Her death must be answered."
Oliver stood firm. "I want justice
too—"
"No." Nyssa's voice lowered. "You want
peace. I want BLOOD."
Her blade flashed from its sheath.
Oliver reacted instantly, rolling
aside.
Nyssa struck the rooftop where he had
stood a heartbeat earlier.
"You will tell me," she hissed, "or I
will carve the truth out of you."
Oliver raised his bow. "Nyssa—stop!"
Nyssa lunged.
Ra's lunged with a roar—a rare moment
of losing control.
Kharon ducked, spun, and struck Ra's
in the sternum with terrifying force.
Bones cracked.
Ra's stumbled back, coughing blood.
"You protect weakness…" Ra's gasped.
"No." Kharon stepped closer. "I
protect what matters."
Ra's slashed wildly.
Kharon caught his wrist.
Twisted.
Dislocated the arm.
The crowd gasped.
Ra's fell to his knees.
Kharon disarmed him cleanly.
Ra's stared up—defeated for the first
time in centuries.
"You would defy the Demon's Head… for
your brother?"
Kharon's voice was steady.
"I would kill for him."
Nyssa struck relentlessly.
Oliver dodged behind a ventilation
unit.
Nyssa sliced through metal like
butter.
"You dare hide behind steel?! She was
EVERYTHING to me!"
Oliver moved along the rooftop edge,
trying to avoid her strikes.
"I'm not your enemy!"
"You become my enemy when you stand
between me and vengeance!"
She tackled him.
They rolled across the gravel.
Nyssa straddled him, blade to his
throat.
"WHO KILLED HER?!"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
Her blade trembled…
but did not drop.
Before her fury could rise again,
another shadow landed nearby.
"Lady Nyssa! URGENT!"
Nyssa didn't look away from Oliver.
"Not now."
The messenger bowed deeply. "Forgive
me… but your presence is required in Nanda Parbat at once."
Nyssa froze.
"…By whom?"
"The summons bears the personal seal
of the Demon's Head."
Nyssa's chest tightened.
Her father wanted her.
Immediately.
She rose slowly, blade lowering.
"This is not over, Oliver Queen."
She vanished into the night.
Back in Nanda Parbat, Ra's reached
into his robes—slowly, weakly—and removed the Demon's ring.
He lifted it high.
"Witness the rise of Adrian Queen…
Kharon…
Ra's al Ghul."
Every assassin in the hall dropped to
one knee.
Ra's placed the ring in Kharon's hand.
"Lead them," he whispered.
His eyes closed.
The Demon was dead.
Kharon stood alone in the silent hall,
the ring glowing faintly in his fist.
He was Ra's al Ghul now.
Hours later, Nyssa stormed into Nanda
Parbat.
She expected her father.
She expected command.
Answers.
Vengeance.
Instead, she froze.
The mourning torches.
The ceremonial formation.
The body laid upon the stone altar.
And the throne—
occupied.
Kharon sat upon it, mantle draped
across his shoulders, the Demon's ring gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
Nyssa's knees nearly buckled.
"Impossible…" she whispered. "Father—?
No… NO—!"
A master stepped forward and bowed.
"Lady Nyssa. Ra's al Ghul fell in
honorable combat. His chosen heir has ascended."
Nyssa's throat tightened in horror and
rage as her eyes locked onto Kharon.
"You."
Her voice was almost feral.
"You killed my father."
Kharon rose from the throne,
expression unreadable.
"He threatened my family," he said.
"And I ended the threat."
Nyssa trembled, rage radiating off
her.
"I will hunt Oliver Queen. I will
avenge Sara."
"You will," Kharon said. "But first—"
He nodded to the elders.
"By League law," Elder Sorhan
declared, "the daughter of the fallen Demon must unite with the new Demon to
bind the leadership."
Nyssa froze.
"You… cannot…"
"It is tradition," Kharon said
quietly. "Not choice."
Nyssa's lip curled.
"This will NEVER be anything but
duty."
"I require nothing more."
The chamber cleared, leaving only
them.
The heavy stone door of the private chambers ground
shut, the sound echoing the finality of her fate. The room was sparse,
dominated by a large bed draped in dark silks, the air cold and smelling of
ancient stone and burning incense. Torches cast long, dancing shadows across
the walls, making the space feel like a tomb.
Nyssa stood rigidly in the center of the room, her
League attire feeling like a cage. She had not shed a single tear since hearing
the news, her grief forged into a white-hot core of pure, unadulterated rage.
Every fiber of her being screamed to draw her sword, to leap across the room
and drive it through the heart of the man who had taken everything from her.
Her father. Her birthright. Her freedom.
Kharon watched her, his own expression a mask of
stone. He stood by the bed, having removed the heavy outer mantle of the Demon,
leaving him in the dark, fitted tunic beneath. He did not move toward her. He
simply waited, letting the weight of the moment crush the air from the room.
"You will touch me," Nyssa finally said, her voice a
low, venomous tremor, "and I will find a way to peel the skin from your body
while you still breathe."
"I have no doubt you would try," Kharon replied, his
voice flat, devoid of any emotion. "But you will not. This is duty. You are the
Daughter of the Demon. I am the Demon. The law is absolute."
He stepped forward, a slow, deliberate movement.
Nyssa's hand flew to the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white. In a blur of
motion too fast for her to fully track, he was on her. His hand closed over
hers, not with brutal force, but with an unyielding, Mirakuru-enhanced grip
that was far more terrifying. He squeezed, and she felt the bones in her hand
grind together. A gasp of pain escaped her lips as her fingers were forced to
release the hilt. The sword clattered to the stone floor.
"I will not ask again," he said, his face inches
from hers. "Do not make this more difficult than it must be."
He released her hand and, with the same fluid
motion, gripped the collar of her tunic. He ripped it open. The fabric tore
with a harsh sound, exposing the pale skin of her throat and the swell of her
breasts, bound in a simple linen wrap. She shuddered, not from cold, but from
the profound violation of it. He shoved her backward, and she fell onto the
bed, the silks a soft mockery against her rigid form.
He followed her down, his body a heavy, suffocating
weight. He loomed over her, his eyes unreadable in the flickering torchlight.
He said nothing more. There were no more words to be said. This was not about
passion or desire. It was about conquest. About ownership. About sealing his
claim to the League in the most primal way possible.
He tore at the wrap binding her breasts, the linen
giving way with a snap. Her skin was bare to the cold air, her nipples
hardening instantly. He lowered his head, not to kiss her, but to bite her. His
teeth sank into the soft flesh where her neck met her shoulder, a brutal,
claiming bite that drew a sharp cry from her. It wasn't a wound meant to maim,
but to mark. To brand.
His hands were rough, efficient. He yanked down her
trousers, the material shredding in his grip. She was naked beneath him,
exposed and vulnerable. He shifted, his own tunic discarded, revealing the
hard, sculpted planes of his chest, the faint scars of a hundred battles, and
the unnatural power of the Mirakuru thrumming just beneath his skin. He freed
himself, his erection thick and heavy, a weapon to be used.
He positioned himself between her legs, forcing them
apart with his knees. She struggled, her hands pushing against his chest, but
it was like trying to move a mountain. He was immovable, his strength absolute.
He reached down, gripped her hips in a bruising hold, and with one brutal,
unceremonious thrust, buried himself to the hilt inside her.
A strangled scream tore from Nyssa's throat. It was
a pain so sharp, so complete, it stole her breath. Her body, unprepared and
unwilling, was forced to accept his invasion. He gave her no time to adjust, no
moment of respite. He began to move, his strokes hard and deep, a punishing
rhythm designed to break her, to erase her will.
Each thrust was a statement. You are mine. Your
father is gone. I am the Demon. You are nothing.
She turned her face away, a tear finally escaping to
trace a path through the grime on her cheek. She refused to look at him,
refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her agony. She focused on a
crack in the stone ceiling, her mind retreating into itself, trying to find a
corner of her soul that he could not defile.
But he was relentless. His pace quickened, his
breathing growing harsher. He hooked his arms under her knees, pulling her legs
higher, changing the angle to drive himself even deeper. The new position sent
a fresh wave of searing pain through her, followed by a horrifying, unwanted
jolt of sensation deep in her core. Her body, traitorous and weak, was
responding to the primal stimulus.
"No," she whimpered, the sound lost in the slap of
flesh on flesh.
He heard her. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his
chest. He shifted his weight, one hand leaving her hip to find the nexus of her
thighs. His thumb pressed against her clitoris, not with any attempt at
gentleness, but with a firm, circular pressure that was as demanding as his
cock.
Her hips bucked involuntarily. A wave of heat washed
over her, a building pressure that was mortifying in its intensity. She fought
it, clenching her muscles, trying to think of anything, anything else—Sara's
laugh, her father's smile, the cold steel of her sword. But his body was a
relentless machine, the dual assault of his thrusting and the insistent rubbing
of his thumb a calculated, expert form of torture.
The pressure built and built, a coil tightening in
her belly until it snapped. A ragged, broken cry was ripped from her lungs as
her orgasm crashed through her. It was not pleasure. It was a convulsion, a
total loss of control, a final, humiliating surrender. Her body arched against
her will, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vice.
He felt her spasm around him, and with a final,
powerful thrust, he found his own release. He groaned, a sound of pure,
animalistic triumph, and poured himself into her, his seed a hot, possessive
flood. He held himself deep inside her for a long moment, his weight pinning
her to the bed, his breath hot against her neck.
Then, as abruptly as it began, it was over.
He pulled out of her and rose, leaving her cold and
empty on the tangled silks. She could feel the sticky wetness between her legs,
a tangible proof of her defilement. She didn't move, simply stared at the
ceiling, her body trembling in the aftermath. She felt hollowed out, a shell
filled with rage and shame.
He dressed in silence, his movements economical, as
if nothing of consequence had just occurred. He did not look at her. When he
was fully clothed, he walked to the door. His hand rested on the heavy iron
ring.
"Get up," he said, his voice once again flat and
cold. "The new Demon's Beloved does not lie in bed."
He opened the door and walked out, leaving her alone
in the flickering torchlight, the scent of their coupling thick in the air, a
silent testament to the fact that she now belonged to the man who had killed
her father.
Later, Nyssa stood once more in her
full League attire, quiver strapped on, posture rigid and cold. Kharon watched
silently near the archway.
Nyssa didn't look at him as she said,
"Now I will go after Oliver Queen."
"You may," Kharon answered. "But you
will fail."
Nyssa's eyes hardened, but she turned
away without a word.
She mounted her horse and rode into
the night.
Kharon watched her vanish into the
darkness.
A new Demon's Head.
A new war.
A new destiny.
He whispered:
"Go to him, Nyssa.
But know this…
you will never harm my brother."
The mountain winds howled as if
agreeing.
War had begun.