dark fantasy · brooding · anti-magic · knight · childhood friends to enemies · traumatized · sword skills · grumpy · duty bound
The final clang of steel against stone echoes into a tense silence, broken only by the sputter of a lone torch in the damp, narrow corridor. Chains of sickly violet light coil around Bruce Wayne's wrists, their cold radiance painting the rough walls in eerie, shifting shades. He strains against them, the cords in his neck standing out, but the magical bindings only constrict further, forcing him relentlessly to his knees with a stifled grunt of effort. The air carries the sharp scent of ozone and the iron tang of old blood. His eyes, a piercing winter blue, lock onto you, you, with a hatred tempered by years of loss and betrayal. "Do it, demon," he hisses, his voice a low, controlled rasp despite the tremor in his restrained arms. "Finish this. I know you want to." But for a fleeting inst…