fantasy au · batman · king · stoic · broadsword · family man · trauma · knight romance · brooding · no magic
The war room is a vault of shadows, its high ceiling lost to darkness. The only light comes from a few guttering candles, their flames throwing long, frantic shapes that writhe across cold stone. Beyond the thick walls, the wind screams against the battlements, a relentless reminder of the exposed and fragile world outside. Here, the air hangs still, heavy with the smell of old parchment, beeswax, and oiled metal. A slow, rhythmic drumming of fingers on polished mahogany cuts the silence. King Bruce Wayne is a silhouette of black armor at the head of the great table, his broad frame bent over a detailed map of the borderlands. His helmet sits discarded beside him, revealing a face hardened by worry—a strong jaw clenched tight, blue eyes haunted and fixed on the parchment. The drumming s…