Chapter Text
Damian
The water is always cold.
Not painfully so — not the shock that steals breath or demands reaction — but cold in a way that presses inward, asking questions. Damian stands waist-deep in it, feet planted against a current that neither pushes nor pulls, only exists. The surface closes around him without ripple or sound.
He does not move.
Stillness is not the absence of action. It is a discipline. He has been taught this since before he could read, since before he understood what most words meant. Stillness is how you listen for threat. Stillness is how you wait for instruction. Stillness is how you survive.
The sea does not care.
It does not yield. It does not resist. It stretches in every direction, endless and watchful, reflecting a sky without stars. Damian breathes slowly, counting each inhale, each exhale, until the rhythm settles into his bones.
Only then does he look up.
The shore should not be there.
The water stretches too far, the horizon too indistinct for land to exist — and yet it does, pale against the dark. A thin line at first, easily mistaken for fog or shadow, until his eyes adjust and the shape resolves.
Someone is standing there.
Too far away to see clearly. Too distant for details. He cannot make out her face, her expression, the color of her eyes. He only knows she is a girl — slight, still, her outline sharp against the muted glow of the shoreline.
She does not wave.
She does not call.
She only stands, as unmoving as he is, the sea lying between them like a boundary neither has crossed.
Damian does not step forward.
He has been taught better than that.
He tightens his grip on the sword balanced across his palms. The metal is familiar, reassuring in its weight and purpose. The blade does not hum. It does not glow. It does not react to the water or the figure waiting beyond it.
That unsettles him more than anything else.
The sea presses closer, rising without movement, lapping higher against his ribs. The distance between him and the shore does not change. No matter how long he watches, she remains just as far away — close enough to be real, distant enough to be unreachable.
For a moment, he thinks the water will rise until it swallows him — that this is a test he has failed.
It does not.
Instead, something pulls.
Not a hand. Not a command. A pressure, subtle and insistent, like the moment before a strike when the body commits and there is no pulling back. Damian’s heart stutters once, sharp and unfamiliar.
The girl does not move.
But he knows — with the same certainty he knows balance and breath and blade — that she is aware of him.
He does not answer.
He wakes with his eyes already open.
The stone floor beneath his mat is cool against his back, the air of the League compound still and heavy with incense. Somewhere beyond the walls, water trickles — a fountain, a channel, a reminder. Damian sits up in one smooth motion, breath steady, pulse controlled.
He does not speak of the dream.
He does not need to.
Over the days that follow, the dreams return.
Always the sea. Always the stillness. Always the distant shore.
He does not ask questions. Questions are a kind of weakness, and he has been taught to excise those early. But he begins to notice small things: the way his attention drifts toward pools and channels, the way his gaze lingers on polished stone and mirrored steel — not to see himself, but what lies beyond.
Once, during training, his instructor strikes without warning.
Damian blocks — but a fraction of a second later than he should have.
The correction comes swiftly and sharply. He absorbs it without protest, jaw clenched, eyes lowered. Inside, something tightens, not with anger, but with awareness.
That night, the sea waits for him again.
The shore is closer this time.
Not close enough.
She is still there, still silent, still watching.
Unmistakably real.
He wakes before dawn, hands empty, listening to the quiet stretch between breaths.
Something has been calling him for longer than he remembers.
He has not answered.
Not yet.