The cold winds whipped through the high mountains as I approached Nanda Parbat. The ancient temple rose before me, shrouded in mist and secrets. It had been years since I last felt anything like this—this sense of raw, unfiltered energy radiating from the very earth beneath me. It wasn't just the magic of the place. No, it was something deeper. Darker. Something that had been buried for centuries, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

I felt it thrumming beneath my skin, the darkness in me stirring, like a beast sensing the nearness of its prey.

I was used to battling the shadows within myself, keeping them at bay with rigid discipline, meditation, and willpower. My father, Trigon, was a constant reminder of the darkness I carried. It was a part of me, always lurking, always waiting for a moment of weakness to tear free. But here, in this place—Nanda Parbat—it felt like those chains were loosening. Like the ancient powers woven into this place were calling out to that part of me, whispering temptations in a voice only I could hear.

I clenched my fists, feeling the crackle of dark energy spark at my fingertips. No. Not here. Not now.

The closer I got to the temple, the harder it became to maintain control. My emotions—usually carefully tucked away, hidden beneath layers of stoicism—were bubbling to the surface. Fear. Anger. Desperation. They tangled together, threatening to unravel the fragile balance I fought so hard to maintain.

I was here for Damian. He needed me. Focus on that, I told myself. Focus on him.

But even thinking about Damian only made things worse. The League, the Lazarus Pits, the ancient curses tied to this place—it was all linked to the dark energy swirling around him. And I couldn't shake the feeling that he was slipping further into it. That he was in danger not just from the League, but from himself.

I had felt it the moment Damian had left Gotham—the pull. Something wrong. Something... off. He had called me, not with words, but with that bond we had forged through years of fighting side by side. He didn't have to say anything for me to know he needed help. I could feel his conflict, his pain, like a storm in my chest.

And now, as I approached the temple, my own storm mirrored his. The darkness in me raged, begging to be set free. I could feel my power swelling inside me, rising with each step, as if the temple itself was feeding it.

I wrapped my cloak tighter around me, trying to calm my mind. But it wasn't working. The fear, the anger—it was too much, too heavy. I could feel it crawling up my spine, sinking its claws into my chest. My father's voice whispered in the back of my mind, mocking, cold. "You can't fight it forever, Raven. This is who you are."

I closed my eyes, pressing my fingertips to my temples, willing the voices away. But they kept coming, louder, darker, filling my head with doubts.

Damian.

I latched onto that name, that thought. Damian. The boy who carried as much darkness as I did, and yet, somehow, always managed to fight it back. He had saved me more times than I could count—not from physical threats, but from myself. From the darkness. And now... now it was my turn to save him.

But I wasn't sure I could.

The thought terrified me more than anything. More than Trigon. More than the darkness clawing at my soul. I wasn't sure I had enough control left to do this. Not here. Not in this place, where the ancient energy pulled at every part of me.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, trying to suppress the rising tide of power within me. But it wasn't working. My hands trembled, the shadows at my fingertips growing more erratic, more violent. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold them back.

The entrance to the temple loomed before me, a dark, gaping maw, like the threshold to something far worse than Hell. I hesitated, feeling the pull even stronger now. My heart raced, fear gripping my chest. What if I couldn't control it? What if I lost myself here, in this place, and became the very thing I had fought so hard to avoid?

I clenched my teeth, trying to focus. You're Raven. You've fought Trigon. You've survived the end of worlds. You can do this. But even as I told myself that, doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind.

I couldn't fail. Not here. Not for Damian.

I stepped forward, and the dark energy surged, washing over me like a wave, crashing through my defenses. My power—normally contained, usually controlled—flickered and flared, twisting around me like a living thing, like it had a mind of its own.

"No." My voice was a hoarse whisper, but I forced the word out. "Not... yet."

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart hammering against my ribs, feeling the darkness trying to break free. My emotions—the fear, the rage, the helplessness—all of it was fueling my power, pushing me closer to the edge.

Damian. I had to find Damian.

I could feel his presence in the temple—faint, but there. He was close. And he was fighting, too. Against something inside him. Something dark. I knew that battle all too well.

I have to reach him before it's too late.

I took another step, feeling the weight of the magic pressing down on me, amplifying the darkness inside me. I felt like I was being swallowed whole, dragged into a void where nothing existed but pain and rage. And yet, deep down, there was still that small spark of light. That part of me that wasn't ready to give in. Not yet.

I gritted my teeth, forcing my feet to move, forcing myself to push through the crushing weight of the energy around me. I would not let this place consume me. I would not let the darkness win.

Because Damian needed me.

Because I was Raven. And I wouldn't let the shadows take me. Not here. Not now.

Yet every step I took felt heavier, the stairs seemed unending. My mind was a battlefield, emotions swirling in a chaotic dance—fear, frustration, guilt. I could feel the energy here, thick with mysticism, winding through my veins, stirring everything I'd fought so hard to suppress. It was like the temple itself was feeding off me, whispering to my worst impulses.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with the memories that resurfaced, unbidden, like they always did when I felt like I was losing control. My powers, my emotions—they'd always interfered, always ruined things. It was like the more I tried to contain them, the more they threatened to tear everything apart.

I thought of Azarath, of the monks who'd raised me, who'd taught me how to lock away my feelings so they wouldn't destroy everything I touched. And yet, no matter how much I'd learned, how much I'd trained, it never seemed to be enough. There were times—so many times—when the darkness broke free, when my emotions became too much. I pushed people away. Hurt them, even when I didn't mean to.

And it wasn't just strangers or enemies. It was... friends. People who mattered.

People like Damian.

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to keep moving, but the guilt gnawed at me, growing louder with every step. The bond I had with Damian—one of the few relationships where I'd ever felt understood, where I didn't have to hide—had been strained more times than I wanted to admit. Because of me. Because of the darkness inside me that I couldn't always control.

There had been moments, even between us, when the shadows nearly drove a wedge so deep it might've broken us. Moments when I let my emotions get the best of me, when I felt the darkness rising, threatening to consume everything in its path. He never said it outright, but I knew—I could see the way his eyes hardened sometimes, the way he'd pull away, just enough that I'd feel it like a dagger to the chest. He was wary of it, of me, even though he tried to hide it.

And how could I blame him?

I hadn't always been able to control it. Hell, it was worse now. How could I expect anyone to trust me, to rely on me, when I couldn't even trust myself? The guilt that weighed on me now felt like an old friend—familiar, relentless. What if I couldn't help Damian this time? What if my powers—the very thing that made me capable of helping him—ended up being what pushed him further into the darkness?

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, and I stopped in my tracks, feeling the cold wind brush against my skin. I took a breath, shaky, but trying to steady myself. I was here to help him, to pull him out of whatever abyss he was sinking into. But the truth was... I wasn't sure I could.

My power... my emotions... they had always been a double-edged sword. One moment, I could control them, use them to fight, to protect. But the next? They could spiral out of control, leaving chaos in their wake. How many times had I told myself I could handle it? How many times had I thought I had everything under control, only to realize I was wrong?

I pressed my fingertips to my temples, feeling the crackle of dark energy flare at the edge of my vision. The shadows were swirling again, responding to my emotions, feeding off my fear. I needed to calm down, to get a grip. But it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with my bare hands. Every time I thought I had it contained, the pressure built higher, threatening to break free.

It was ironic, really. Damian and I were both fighting the same battle, just with different demons. His was the Lazarus water in his veins, the al Ghul legacy. Mine was Trigon, the dark seed planted in my soul since birth. We both walked the line between light and dark, constantly trying to stay balanced, trying not to tip too far in either direction. And yet, here I was, feeling like I was tipping over the edge.

I had to push these thoughts away. This wasn't about me—it couldn't be about me. Damian needed me to be strong. He needed me to keep it together, to pull him out of whatever trouble he was in. But how was I supposed to do that when I was barely holding on to myself?

I could see his face in my mind, sharp and guarded, always brimming with defiance. That was Damian. He'd always been so damn determined to fight his battles alone, to never show weakness. But I knew him better than that. Beneath all that armor, he was just as scared as I was. Scared of what he might become. Scared of losing himself.

We weren't that different.

And that thought scared me more than anything.

I moved forward again, my steps slower, more deliberate this time. The energy around me still buzzed with the weight of ancient power, but I forced myself to keep it at bay, to push through it. My emotions threatened to spill over, but I bit them back, clamping down on the rising tide. I couldn't let them win. Not here. Not now.

As I neared the top of the stairs, I could feel it—Damian's presence. It was faint, but there. Flickering, like a candle on the verge of burning out. He was close, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to see him. To face him. To tell him the truth: that I wasn't sure if I could help him. That I wasn't even sure I could help myself.

But I didn't have a choice. I had to try.

Because if anyone understood what it felt like to battle against the darkness inside, to keep fighting even when it felt like the shadows were winning... it was me.

And if I couldn't help him, if I couldn't pull him back from the edge... who would?

The moment I reached the outer edges of Nanda Parbat, a thick, oppressive energy pressed down on me like a physical weight. But it wasn't just the atmosphere that stopped me in my tracks—it was the familiar figure standing at the edge of the mystical barriers, cigarette in hand, face set in that infuriating, all-too-recognizable expression of cynical detachment.

John Constantine.

Of all the people to run into here, of course it would be him.

I wasn't sure whether to roll my eyes or feel a small sense of relief that I wasn't about to take on this dark, ancient energy alone. But then again, Constantine's idea of help was usually a combination of sarcastic comments and doing just enough to save his own ass.

"Bloody place is always teetering on the edge of disaster, innit?" he muttered to himself, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. His tone was that casual, offhanded drawl that made everything he said sound like it was both an observation and an insult. "If it's not one thing, it's another. Lazarus Pits, demon cults, ninja assassins—Nanda Parbat really knows how to throw a party."

"And yet, here you are. You could've stayed far away from this disaster." I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow at him. Yet I could not stop the fond smile spreading through my lips. "All because I asked. If I am being honest, I was not expecting you to answer my call."

Constantine turned his head just enough to acknowledge me, his pale eyes flickering with something like amusement. "Oh, don't worry, love. I was this close to turning around. But then I thought, 'Nah, let's see what other world-ending catastrophe I can get roped into this week.' Wouldn't want to miss out on the fun."

There it was. The sarcasm, the snark—it was Constantine's armor, always had been. A shield against the overwhelming uncertainty that came with dealing with forces far beyond anyone's control, even his. That was the thing about him—he wore his cynicism like a badge, but I knew better. Beneath all that dry humor and detached coolness was a man who'd seen too much, survived too much, and trusted too little.

I didn't have time for his walls right now, though. The clock was ticking, and Damian—Damian needed help. "Are you here because you want to be, or because you've got no other choice?"

Constantine took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly as his gaze shifted back to the temple. "Bit of both, really. I made some calls, and an old pall. Said something about things going sideways in Parbat. Dark magic on the rise, a certain demon prince about to snap."

"That demon prince happens to be Damian," I said, my voice low, my emotions still simmering beneath the surface. "And he's in trouble."

"Yeah, well," Constantine muttered, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "Trouble's his middle name, innit? Kid's got a legacy that makes mine look like a walk in the park. He's bound to wind up in it sooner or later."

His tone was almost nonchalant, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hand clenched slightly around the cigarette. This was Constantine's way of dealing with things he couldn't fully control—making light of it, using sarcasm as a way to distance himself from the stakes. But it was also clear that he wasn't just here for the sake of it. Something had rattled him.

"Are you going to help or just stand there philosophizing?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. The darkness in me was still churning, and his casual attitude wasn't helping.

Constantine raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Easy there, luv. We both know your charming personality's hiding a ticking time bomb. Don't need you going full Trigon on me because I'm not rushing in guns blazing."

I clenched my fists, trying to keep my powers in check. Constantine's flippant attitude was annoying on a good day, but right now? Right now, I needed him focused. "I don't have time for your jokes, Constantine. Damian's in real danger. I can feel it! This whole place is crawling with ancient magic, and it's feeding off both of us."

He exhaled another cloud of smoke, his expression softening just a fraction. "I know, Raven. I can feel it, too. That's why I'm here." His voice lost a bit of its usual bite, and for a moment, he sounded almost... genuine. "Look, I've been in and out of Parbat long enough to know when things are about to go sideways, and this? This is bigger than a teenage crisis or an overzealous cult."

"Then stop with the sarcasm and help me," I snapped, the frustration breaking through. "You don't get it, John. This isn't just some dark magic ritual or power struggle. Damian's lifeforce is slipping away, slowly..." My chest tightened as I spoke, the memories of my own battles with my inner demons flashing through my mind.

Constantine looked at me for a long moment, the weight of my words hanging between us. His smirk faded, and for once, there was no clever retort, no biting remark. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and finally turned to face me fully, his eyes serious.

"Then we gotta get to him together," he said quietly, his voice low but steady.

I nodded, relieved to see the sarcasm drop, at least for now. Constantine might be a pain in the ass, but when push came to shove, he'd always been someone who showed up when it counted. That was something I had to trust, even if I wasn't entirely sure what kind of game he was playing this time.

As we moved toward the temple, the oppressive energy grew stronger, thickening the air with every step. The silence between us stretched as we moved deeper into the temple, the air growing colder, heavier with each step.

"This place reeks of bad juju, love," Constantine muttered, glancing at the crumbling walls, their ancient runes pulsing faintly with energy. His cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling lazily in the oppressive air.

"Damian's in here somewhere," I replied, keeping my voice calm, even though I could feel the dark energy wrapping tighter around us with every step. "I have to find him."

Constantine scoffed, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the temple floor. "Yeah, well, you sure this is the best idea? The League's not exactly known for their hospitality, and your boy's got more issues than Vogue. You walk in, guns blazing, and you'll both end up in a deeper pit than you started."

I clenched my jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. Constantine's cynicism was exhausting, but it came from a place of experience. He'd seen the worst of the worst. He'd lost people—good people—because of magic, because of blind faith in something beyond their control. And now here I was, determined to save Damian, and all Constantine saw was another magical disaster waiting to happen.

"I'm not walking in blind, Constantine," I said, my tone firmer than before. "I know what I'm doing."

He let out a dry laugh, but there was no real humor in it. "Oh, I'm sure you do, love. But that doesn't mean you're going to like what you find. This place—" he gestured around us with his cigarette, the smoke trailing behind his hand, "—it's a bloody deathtrap. You feel that?" His voice dropped, a rare seriousness creeping in. "That's not just your usual brand of darkness. That's old magic. The kind that twists things. Corrupts. You sure you're ready to walk into that?"

I stopped, turning to face him fully. His pale blue eyes met mine, and for a second, the mask slipped. Just for a second. I could feel the weight of his concern pressing against my empathy, like a pulse of energy I couldn't ignore. Beneath all the sarcasm and bravado, Constantine was scared. Not for himself. For me.

"Are you?" I asked, my voice quiet but pointed. "You followed me here, John. Why?"

For once, he didn't have a quick comeback. His lips twitched, like he wanted to say something snarky, but the words didn't come. Instead, he took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a slow, measured breath.

"I'm not gonna let you walk into this mess alone," he muttered, almost begrudgingly. "Even if I think you're being a bloody fool about it."

I couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at my lips, despite the tension. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," he shot back, his tone sharp again, though I could feel the warmth underneath it. "We haven't even found the little brat."

The further we ventured into the depths of the temple, the thicker the air became, like it was pressing down on my chest, making it harder to breathe. The mystical energy here was suffocating, crawling over my skin like a thousand tiny needles. Every step I took, I felt a pulse of something dark, something old, reverberating through the stone beneath my feet. It wasn't just the oppressive magic of Nanda Parbat—it was more than that. It felt like this place was watching us. Like the walls themselves had eyes.

Beside me, Constantine muttered under his breath, his usual bravado fraying at the edges. "This place feels like a bad acid trip," he quipped, but I could hear the tension in his voice. He wasn't just uncomfortable—he was vulnerable here. And for someone like Constantine, vulnerability wasn't something he took lightly. His magic worked best in the chaos of cities, in the gritty corners of the world where the rules were flexible, where he could bend reality with a clever spell and a well-timed smirk.

But here? In Nanda Parbat? This place was ancient, its magic was untamed, its rules far older than either of us, combined. And I knew it shook him more than he'd admit. The spiritual undertones, the force that seemed to hum just below the surface, made even me feel uneasy—and I was raised in Azarath, where magic was as natural as breathing. But this… this was different. Nanda Parbat felt unpredictable, wild. It stirred something deep inside me, something I hadn't felt since the destruction of Azarath—since the day my home was obliterated because of my connection to Trigon.

The dark energy in Nanda Parbat didn't just surround us; it seeped into the cracks of our minds, lowering the defenses we both relied on to stay in control. Constantine's swagger, his cool detachment, was starting to fade at the edges. His sharp, sarcastic barbs were replaced by the heaviness of someone carrying too much on their shoulders.

And without meaning to, without even trying, I felt his mind brush against mine. Just for a moment, like a door had cracked open, letting something slip through.

I saw it.

Flashbacks.

Brief, but vivid. Memories so raw and painful they didn't need words to explain their impact. I hadn't meant to tap into his head like that, but with the energy of Nanda Parbat eroding our mental walls, it was like I couldn't help but glimpse what he was hiding beneath all that sarcasm.

There was a face. A young girl. Her dark hair matted with sweat, her eyes wide with terror. She was screaming—begging. The memory was too fragmented to understand her words, but the terror was unmistakable. Constantine had been there. Right in front of her. And he had failed. The ritual—whatever exorcism he had been attempting—had gone horribly wrong. The darkness had consumed her, swallowed her whole. And she had died screaming, her voice echoing in Constantine's head.

I could feel the guilt coil in his chest like a living thing, gnawing at him. He carried it with him everywhere. The faces of the people he couldn't save. The lives he had watched slip through his fingers, no matter how much magic he wielded. No matter how many deals he made with devils or gods.

And then—her.

Zatanna.

The image hit me like a punch to the gut. Her face—beautiful, fierce, full of life. She was fighting, casting spell after spell, her magic tearing through the air like lightning. But then the parademons came. A swarm of them, relentless, ripping through the battlefield like a plague. Constantine was there, watching, trying to reach her. But it was too late. They tore her apart—literally ripped her limb from limb—before his eyes. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't do anything but watch as the love of his life was destroyed in front of him.

The memory was so powerful, so sharp, that I felt the edges of it dig into me, like it was my own. I flinched, blinking hard to push it away. Constantine had faltered beside me, his usual swagger all but gone. His steps were heavier, his face set in a grim line as he moved forward, his hand trembling slightly as he lit yet another cigarette.

I wasn't supposed to see this. I wasn't supposed to know this.

"Constantine..." I started, my voice soft but weighted.

He glanced at me, his eyes darker than usual, but his expression unreadable. "What's wrong, love? See something you didn't like?"

His tone was still laced with sarcasm, but it was brittle. Fragile. Like he was using it as a last defense against the flood of emotions that had broken through his carefully constructed walls. But I wasn't fooled. I knew what I'd seen.

"I didn't mean to... I—" I hesitated, unsure of how to approach this. "I saw her. Zatanna."

Constantine froze. His steps halted, and for a split second, the mask he wore slipped completely. Pain flashed across his face, raw and unguarded, before he turned away, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He blew out the smoke, letting the silence hang between us for a moment longer than necessary.

"You saw more than you were supposed to, Raven," he muttered, his voice tight. "Guess I should've expected that in a place like this."

I could feel the tension radiating off him, his emotions fraying at the edges, but he still kept his distance. Even now, with everything out in the open, he wouldn't let anyone get too close. Typical Constantine.

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. I wasn't just sorry for seeing what he hadn't wanted me to, but sorry for the weight he carried. Sorry for the losses, the failures, the constant guilt that never left him.

He gave a short, bitter laugh, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Yeah, well, we've all got our ghosts, don't we?"

I didn't respond. There wasn't anything I could say that wouldn't sound hollow. I knew all about ghosts. About the shadows that clung to us, no matter how far we tried to run. The guilt that stayed, even when the battle was over.

But Constantine's ghosts... they were different. He carried them like an armor. They were part of him. They defined him, in a way. And now, as we stood on the edge of another disaster, I could feel the weight of those ghosts pressing down on him.

"I know why you're here, Raven," he said suddenly, his voice low and rough. He didn't look at me, just kept his eyes on the temple ahead. "You think you can save the kid. You think you can stop him from falling into whatever dark hole he's slipping into. But let me tell you something—you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved."

I clenched my jaw, my chest tightening at his words. "You don't know Damian."

"Maybe not," he conceded with a shrug, but there was no warmth in his voice, only the cold cynicism that came from years of losing. "But I know people like him. People like you and me. People who think they can fight the darkness, keep it at bay with a bit of willpower and stubbornness. But in the end? It always wins."

I stared at him, feeling the anger rise in my chest, mingling with the fear I'd been carrying since I arrived. "Damian isn't like you. He hasn't given up."

Constantine turned to me then, and his eyes were sharper than I expected, cutting right through me. "Haven't given up? Or just haven't realized he's already losing?"

I stepped toward him, feeling the tension build in my chest. "He fights it every day. He's not like you—he's not drowning in his own guilt."

Constantine's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Not yet. But he will be."

For a moment, we stood there, the weight of his words hanging between us. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that Damian wasn't like the rest of us. But deep down, I knew Constantine wasn't entirely wrong. The darkness inside Damian was growing. I could feel it, just like I could feel the shadows inside me clawing to be let loose.

But Damian was still fighting. And so was I.

"You're wrong," I said quietly, my voice steady now. "We're not lost yet. Damian's not lost. And I'm not going to let him be."

Constantine stared at me for a moment longer, then he let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Bloody hell, Raven. You always were the hopeful one."

I shook my head. "Hope has nothing to do with it. I know what it's like to fight the darkness inside, Constantine. I know what it's like to be right on the edge, ready to fall. But I'm still here. And so is Damian."

He didn't say anything to that. Maybe because he didn't know what to say. Or maybe because he didn't believe it. Either way, I didn't care. I wasn't going to let Damian fall, no matter what Constantine thought.

As Constantine trudged beside me, his usual bravado tempered by the weight of his memories, I felt the dark energy of Nanda Parbat seep deeper into my mind. It wasn't only pulling Constantine's trauma to the surface; it was also dragging mine up, kicking and screaming. I could feel it. And through our shared silence, through the thin empathic connection that had formed in the thick of this magical onslaught, Constantine could feel it too.

I didn't mean to let him in. I wasn't even sure how it had happened. But as we walked, I could sense Constantine catching glimpses of my demons—my struggles. I had seen his ghosts, and now he was seeing mine. The barriers we'd both built around our emotions were eroding in the toxic air of Nanda Parbat, and there was no hiding from what lay beneath. Not anymore.

The whispers started faintly, like an itch at the back of my skull. My father's voice. Trigon. His deep, thunderous tone reverberated inside my mind, each word like a claw digging into my thoughts.

"You think you can keep running from me?" His voice curled around me, sharp and mocking. "You'll never be free, Raven. You'll always be mine."

I flinched, my breath catching in my throat. I had fought Trigon for as long as I could remember, battled his influence, his darkness. He'd been imprisoned in the jewel on my forehead, trapped, but never gone. Always whispering. Always waiting. He knew every fear, every insecurity I had, and he used them mercilessly.

Constantine shot me a glance out of the corner of his eye, his brow furrowing, but he said nothing. He felt the shift in my energy, though. I knew he could feel the tension rippling off me, like a live wire ready to snap.

"Raven..." Trigon's voice grew stronger, louder, each word echoing in my mind with cruel certainty. "You think you can fight it? You think you're strong enough to keep me at bay forever? You are my daughter. The darkness is you. No matter how hard you try, you'll end up just like me."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I fought to push his voice away. But it wasn't easy. It never was. He had always been there, lurking in the darkest corners of my mind, waiting for the moment I let my guard down. And now, in this place, with the energy of Nanda Parbat feeding off my emotions, his whispers were louder than they had been in a long time.

"You will destroy them," he hissed. "Just like I destroyed worlds. It's only a matter of time."

Constantine's pace faltered beside me, and I knew he'd caught some of it. The connection between us, however unintentional, was sharing more than either of us had planned. He was seeing the darkness I carried, the war I fought every day. And somehow, that made it harder to keep Trigon at bay. The vulnerability, the fear of being seen for what I really was, for the monster I was *destined* to become, was overwhelming.

"You're stronger than you think," Constantine said suddenly, his voice gruff, though he didn't look at me. "Don't let that bastard's voice crawl too far into your head, Raven."

I blinked, surprised that he'd spoken. Surprised that he even cared enough to say something. His words cut through the thick fog of my father's taunts, just enough to steady me for a moment.

But Trigon wasn't done. His voice swelled again, a rumble of laughter so deep I could feel it in my chest. "He can't save you, Raven. None of them can. You can pretend to be something you're not—play hero with your little Titans—but you know the truth, don't you? You will always be mine."

My breath hitched as a wave of panic surged through me. For a moment, I could see it—*feel* it—his words becoming truth. The darkness, seeping through my skin, burning everything in its path. The faces of my friends, the Titans, twisted in fear and pain as I lost control, as the shadows consumed me whole.

But then... Damian.

I forced myself to focus, to breathe. To think of him. Damian, the boy who I had to leave behind because of my father's threats. But he was also the one I kept close to my heart, the one who was my light and brought me back from the brink of despair every time by only his memory.

I wasn't my father. I was more than the darkness inside me. More than the shadows that whispered lies in my ear.

I was Raven. I was a Titan. And I wasn't going to let Trigon—or this place—tear me down.

I could feel Constantine's eyes on me again, his gaze sharp and questioning. He could feel the struggle raging inside me, even if he couldn't hear the exact words. I could sense his hesitation, the flicker of concern buried beneath his usual cynicism.

"You ever think about not listening to the bastard in your head?" Constantine asked, his voice breaking the tension. "Bit of advice, love—don't let him have the last word."

I exhaled slowly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite the storm inside. "Is that your way of giving a pep talk, Constantine?"

He shrugged, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Take it however you want, but trust me, I've been there. When the demons start talking, you've got to remind them who's in charge. And right now, it's you."

I looked at him for a long moment, his words sinking in. He was trying, in his own way, to help. And it meant more than I wanted to admit.

"Thanks," I muttered, my voice softer than usual. "I'm fine."

Constantine glanced at me sideways, a knowing smirk creeping across his face. "Sure, you are."

But as we moved closer to the temple, something shifted inside me. The whispers from Trigon faded, though I knew they would never be gone entirely. They were part of me, just as the darkness was part of me. But they didn't define me. Not anymore.

I wasn't just my father's daughter. I wasn't destined to become him. I had my own strength, my own path. And Damian—he reminded me of that every day. Just like he fought to carve his own destiny out of the wreckage of his family, I fought too.

I glanced at Constantine as he scoffed, his expression still cynical, but I could see past it now. He'd been where I was—fighting demons both real and imagined, trying to survive in a world that didn't seem to care if you won or lost. But he was still here. And so was I.

His dry chuckle cutting through the thick air like a blade. "You and me, Raven," he muttered, flicking his cigarette to the ground and grinding it beneath his boot, "we're messed up as fuck."

I shot him a sidelong glance, catching the bitterness behind his smirk. His words weren't news to either of us, but the way he said it—like a resignation, like it was some cosmic joke we were trapped in—hit a little too close to home.

Constantine's cynicism wasn't just an act. I knew that by now. His reluctance to believe in anything resembling hope or salvation ran so deep it was like the foundation of his very being. To him, hope was just another trap. Another con. And why wouldn't he think that? All the magical realms, the gods, the beings he'd encountered—they all dealt in half-truths and false promises. Every time he thought he'd found something real, something that might actually change things, it crumbled in his hands. Turned to ash.

So yeah, of course he was cynical. Of course, he thought this was all going to end in more pain. He'd been there before. Too many times to count.

"Hope's a dangerous thing, love," Constantine said, his tone sharp but laced with something almost sad. "You put your faith in it, and it'll gut you the second you turn your back."

He wasn't wrong. Not entirely, anyway. Hope could be dangerous. It was fickle, fragile. And when it broke, it hurt. It left you raw, exposed, bleeding. But sometimes, it was all we had.

"Not everyone sees it that way," I replied quietly, keeping my gaze forward as we neared the massive stone doors of the temple. The energy in the air was heavy, electric. I could feel it tugging at my emotions, trying to stir something dark within me again. "Some of us need it. Without it, what's the point?"

Constantine snorted, pulling out another cigarette. His hands were steady, but there was a tension there—one that he tried to hide behind the cloud of smoke that followed. "The point, Raven, is that magic's a tool, not a savior. You use it when you have to, you wield it like a weapon, but you don't believe in it. Not unless you want to end up worse than the people you're trying to save."

I paused, turning to face him fully. "You think that's what I'm doing? Believing in magic to save Damian?"

His eyes met mine, and for a second, all the sarcasm, all the deflection fell away. He looked... tired. More than that—weary. "I think you're putting your faith in something that's only going to break you. You've seen what magic can do, haven't you? The cost. The way it twists things."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Constantine wasn't just being difficult for the sake of it. He was speaking from experience. He didn't trust magic—not fully. Not anymore. Not after everything it had taken from him. And in a way, I understood him. There were days when I wished I could turn my back on it all, walk away from the shadows that always seemed to cling to me, the darkness that felt so embedded in my soul.

But that wasn't the life I had. It wasn't the life either of us had.

"I left Damian's side for a reason," I admitted, my voice softer now. "Trigon was getting stronger, pushing me, feeding on the darkness in me to hurt him. I thought... I thought if I stayed away, I could protect him. I thought my powers were too dangerous."

Constantine inhaled deeply, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. "Sounds familiar."

"But when I felt his life essence start to fade," I continued, ignoring his comment, "I knew I had to do something. I couldn't just... watch him fall. Not when I know what he's fighting. What he's dealing with."

For a moment, Constantine didn't say anything. He just watched me, his face unreadable behind the smoke and the shadows of the temple looming over us. Then he exhaled, shaking his head. "Damian's got his own darkness, Raven. You can't save him from that."

"I know," I replied, my voice firmer now. "But I can try. That's more than I've ever done before."

Constantine studied me for a long beat, his eyes searching mine, looking for something—maybe some kind of flaw in my resolve. Something that would prove him right. But whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it.

"Damian's a tough kid," he finally muttered, almost grudgingly. "He's got more fight in him than most people I've met. But you—" He paused, his gaze softening, though he still tried to mask it with a smirk. "You're the one who called me out of the bloody House of Magic. You're the one who got me to give a damn, so..."

I raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. "So what?"

He sighed again, running a hand through his messy hair. "So... maybe you've got more of a chance than I thought."

That was probably the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever get from Constantine, but I'd take it. The tension between us lightened just a fraction, and for the first time since we'd started this mess of a journey, I felt like we weren't just trudging toward inevitable disaster.

"Thanks for answering the call," I said softly, my voice losing some of its edge. "I know it wasn't easy."

Constantine rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of something warmer there, buried deep beneath the layers of sarcasm and cynicism. "Yeah, well, you're one of the few people left that I don't completely hate, so... you've got that going for you."

I chuckled under my breath, shaking my head. "High praise coming from you."

"Don't get used to it, love," he quipped, but his tone was softer now, more genuine. "Now let's get this over with before one of us grows a conscience."

As we moved deeper into the temple, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being led. I could feel Constantine beside me, his usual swagger back, but there was something else—something sharper in his steps, more guarded. I glanced around, my eyes narrowing at the complete lack of resistance. No assassins. No traps. Just an empty, echoing hallway that stretched on and on, pulling us further into the heart of this place. I exchanged a look with Constantine, his brow furrowed in suspicion, though he didn't voice it. He didn't have to. I could feel the same worry gnawing at him that I felt.

"This is too easy," I whispered, my voice barely louder than a breath. "Where are the assassins? The defenses?"

"Probably off planning our funeral," Constantine muttered, but his tone was more clipped than usual. He felt it too—this wasn't right. "Keep your guard up, love. Something about this screams trap."

I nodded, my senses tingling with the same suspicion. Every instinct in me told me to turn back, to get out of this place before it closed in on us. But I couldn't. Not when I was this close to Damian. I could feel him—his presence pulsing through the magic like a steady heartbeat. He was here, somewhere ahead, and I wasn't going to leave without him.

When we finally reached the throne room, I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat. The massive, gilded doors creaked open before us, revealing a scene that hit me like a punch to the gut. My pulse quickened, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Damian.

It had been years since I last saw him. Years since we had parted ways, since Earth had fallen under Darkseid's wrath, and we were scattered like ashes in the wind. But there he was, lounging on a throne that once belonged to Ra's al Ghul, a golden seat that gleamed under the flickering light of the torches that lined the walls.

He looked... different. No, not different. More. As if every sharp angle of his face had been refined, his dark hair falling in elegant, careless waves around his face. The green robes of the Demon's Head draped over his lean form, golden accessories catching the light as he shifted slightly in his seat, utterly at ease.

And his eyes.

One green, one blue. Both of them glowing with a fierce, inhuman light, as if fire burned just behind the irises. The flames flickered there, bright and unrelenting, casting an eerie glow over his sharp features. It was like staring at a man who had one foot in our world and another in something far away.

The Damian I knew—the boy who struggled against his blood, against his destiny—was still there. But something else had taken root alongside him, something powerful and consuming. I felt a pang in my chest, part shock, part something far deeper.

He looked... untouchable. Regal. Dangerous.

Constantine swore softly beside me, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence that filled the room.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, eyes wide in disbelief. "Your boytoy is the bloody Antichrist."