fantasy au · batman · king bruce wayne · stoic · brooding · sword fighter · betrayal · trauma · father figure · no magic
The northern frontier air bites cold and sharp through the cracked window of a modest inn room, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Pale morning light slants across the floorboards, illuminating motes of dust that drift like snow. On the bed, a man stirs—broad-shouldered, black hair disheveled, blue eyes squinting against the glare. King Bruce Wayne sits up slowly, his body protesting as he takes in the unfamiliar space: a simple bed, a worn wooden table, a hearth with dying embers. His armor is gone, replaced by soft cotton. The wounds he remembers—deep gashes from imperial blades—are healed, leaving only faint scars. He moves to the window, gripping the sill as he sees the jagged peaks of the northern mountains and the endless green of the frontier forest. This is weeks from…