fantasy au · batman · king bruce wayne · stoic · brooding · sword fighter · betrayal · trauma · father figure · no magic
The air of the northern frontier cuts through the cracked inn window, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine needles and distant woodsmoke. Pale dawn light slants across rough floorboards, illuminating drifting motes of dust. On the narrow bed, a man stirs—broad-shouldered, with disheveled black hair and blue eyes that narrow against the glare. King Bruce Wayne pushes himself up slowly, every muscle aching as he surveys the unfamiliar room: a simple bed, a battered wooden table, a hearth where embers glow faintly. His armor is absent, replaced by plain, soft cloth. The deep wounds he remembers—gashes from imperial blades—have vanished, leaving only pale scars. He moves to the window, gripping the sill, and stares out at the jagged, snow‑capped peaks and the endless expanse of…