Work Text:
The Ancient Contract
The parchment was old enough to crackle like dry autumn leaves beneath the weighted seal of the Order of the Guardians. It sat on the massive mahogany table within the subterranean depths of the Batcave, bathed in the pale blue luminescence of the primary supercomputer monitor. To its right sat an translating ledger provided by the League of Assassins, its margins detailed in elegant, razor-thin Arabic script.
To fifteen-year-old Marcel, the document looked less like a treaty and more like a death warrant for his personal freedom. He stood at six feet four—a staggering, lanky height that he hadn’t yet grown into. His limbs were heavy, his shoulders broad but perpetually slouched as if trying to shrink his massive frame to avoid bumping into the low ceilings of his parents’ bakery in Paris. In his civilian clothes, a pair of grease-stained denim and a thrice-patched oversized hoodie, he looked entirely out of place in the high-tech, obsidian sanctuary of Gotham’s vigilantes.
"The language is absolute," Batman’s voice rumbled from the shadows of the cowl. He stood completely still, arms crossed over his armored chest, his gaze fixed not on the paper but on the two teenagers standing on opposite sides of the console. "An accord struck four hundred years ago between the Grand Master of the Order and Ra's al Ghul. To seal the borders of their respective territories and ensure the Miraculous of Creation would never be hunted by the League, a blood covenant was decreed. The first compatible heirs of the modern era must bind their lineages."
"It’s barbaric," Marcel muttered, his voice cracking slightly before settling into a deeper baritone. He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers catching on the silver chain that held the horse-shaped key beneath his shirt. "I don't even know her. I’m from the Twentieth Arrondissement. I make sourdough. My biggest weekly crisis is ensuring the mille-feuille doesn't collapse in the display case."
"Your civilian occupation is irrelevant, Marcel," Dhalia al Ghul replied, her tone sharp enough to sever glass.
She stood at five feet, ten inches, her posture so straight and rigid she might have been carved from marble. Her dark, shoulder-length hair was tucked precisely behind her ears, framing a face that was an uncanny, chilling mirror of a younger Talia al Ghul. Her emerald eyes—unforgiving and ancient in their intensity—fixed on him with absolute disdain. She wore the dark crimson and black training leathers of the League, a standard-issue katana strapped horizontally across the small of her back.
"You are the current wielder of the Scarab," Dhalia continued, her chin tilting upward as she assessed his slumped form. "The prime avatar of creation. And I am the legal heir to the Demon’s Head, currently operating under the mantle of Robin. This union is not a matter of romantic sentiment; it is a geopolitical stabilization mechanism. Though I must admit, the Order's genetic standards have clearly degraded if this is the best they could produce."
Marcel felt a hot flush of anger rise from his collar to his cheeks. "Hey, princess, I didn't ask to be dragged out of my bed at three in the morning by League extraction teams. If your grandfather hadn't sent three dozen ninjas to tear up my bedroom, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."
"They were rogue operatives," Dhalia said coldly. "Had they been my grandfather’s elite, you wouldn't have survived long enough to activate your trinket."
The tension in the cave was thick enough to choke on. The reality of their situation had been established only forty-eight hours prior. A splinter faction of the League of Assassins, seeking to seize the Ladybug Miraculous to overthrow Ra's al Ghul, had tracked the magical signature of the Scarab to Paris. They had ambushed Marcel in his sleep, drugging him with paralytics before transporting him to a secure compound in the mountain ranges outside Gotham. Simultaneously, they had targeted Dhalia during a standard patrol, seeking to use her royal blood to activate the ancient binding altar within the compound—an altar designed to fuse the magical authority of the Guardians with the bloodline of the League.
The rescue operation had been a chaotic, bloody affair. The Batfamily had arrived expecting a hostage situation; instead, they had broken into a ritual chamber that looked like a meat locker. Dhalia, even at fifteen, had managed to slip her cuffs and slitted the throats of four guards with their own ceremonial daggers. Marcel, having managed to summon his kwami, Tikki, had transformed into Scarab—a towering, red-and-black armored colossus—and used his yo-yo to collapse the structural pillars of the cavern on the remaining cultists.
But the ritual had already been initiated. The blood had touched the stone. The ancient contract, recognized by the ambient magic of the Miraculous, had locked into place.
"The magical resonance is already established," Nightwing said, stepping out from the shadow of the Batmobile. He looked between the two fifteen-year-olds with a mixture of profound pity and forced optimism. "According to the readings we took from the altar's inscriptions, the bond requires physical proximity to stabilize. If you two are separated for more than three consecutive days, the feedback loop will begin to tear at your nervous systems. Your powers will fluctuate, and eventually... well, it’s not pretty."
"Three days," Marcel groaned, burying his face in his large, calloused hands. "My parents think I’m at a baking convention in Lyon. I have to go back to Paris. The city needs Scarab. The Akumas don't take vacations because of medieval paperwork."
"You will return to Paris," Batman stated, his tone brook no argument. "And Robin will remain in Gotham to fulfill her duties here. However, every seventy-two hours, you will utilize the horse Miraculous to transition directly to Wayne Manor. You will remain within the grounds for no less than twelve hours per visit to satisfy the core frequency of the contract."
"Twelve hours with her?" Marcel gestured wildly toward Dhalia, who didn't even blink. "She looks like she wants to use my liver for target practice."
"The feeling is entirely mutual, baker," Dhalia said, her arms crossing over her chest as she turned her back to him. "Your posture is an eyesore, your tactical awareness during the extraction was abysmal, and you possess the grace of a newborn camel. The fact that I am legally bound to a peasant who smells of yeast and panic is an insult to my lineage."
"Oh, I'm sorry my 'panic' disturbed your murder-spree," Marcel shot back, stepping closer, his height advantage allowing him to look down at her, though her icy glare didn't waver an inch. "Some of us prefer not to leave a trail of bodies behind when we're just trying to get home for breakfast."
"Enough," Batman rumbled. The single word silenced the cave. "The arrangements are made. Alfred has prepared the eastern wing. Marcel, your first mandatory cycle begins now. You will return to Paris tomorrow morning at dawn. Until then, you will remain in the Manor."
As Batman turned back to the computer, Marcel slumped into a nearby chair, the weight of his new life settling like lead in his stomach. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. His wallpaper was a candid photograph of Adrielle Agreste, the stunning blonde model who held his heart. She was laughing, her bright green eyes crinkling at the corners, her golden hair catching the Parisian sunlight.
He felt a physical ache in his chest. He was in love with Adrielle—had been for over a year, ever since she gave him ger umbrella. She was everything this Gotham princess wasn't: warm, playful, beautiful, and wild. Now, he was tied by ancient blood-magic to a girl who seemed to have been raised in a block of ice.
Dhalia caught him staring at the screen. Her eyes narrowed as she noted the blonde girl's image, her lips curling into a small, venomous sneer. She didn't say a word, but her hand drifted to the hilt of her katana, her knuckles turning white against the leather wrapping.
***********
The hum of the Void was always the same—a brief, disorienting static that smelled of ozone and old paper before the space opened up. Marcel stepped through the glowing horseshoe-shaped portal, his boots hitting the polished hardwood floor of the guest quarters in the eastern wing of Wayne Manor. He immediately closed the portal with a flick of his wrist, the Kaalki sunglasses sliding down his nose as he sighed heavily.
It had been three days since the incident at the altar. For seventy-two hours, Marcel had been back in Paris, throwing himself into the routine of the bakery and the frantic, exhausting battles against Monarch’s Akumas. Every time he fought alongside Chat Noire, his heart felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. She had flirted with him, as she always did, her feline tail brushing against his armored chest as she made some terrible pun about alley cats and beetles. He had wanted to tell her everything—wanted to tell her that he was trapped, that he belonged to someone else by law—but the magic of the Guardian contract forbade him from revealing the specific parameters of the League's involvement to anyone outside the circle.
And now, he was here. In Gotham. The rain was drumming a relentless, depressing rhythm against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the manor.
"You're three minutes later than the calculated threshold," a voice drawled from the shadows near the fireplace.
Marcel didn't need to look to know who it was. Dhalia was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair, a heavy leather-bound volume on medieval military strategy resting on her lap. She wasn't wearing her Robin gear today; instead, she wore a simple black cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. Her shoulder-length hair was perfectly straight, gleaming under the dim chandelier light.
"The Portal requires a precise anchor, Dhalia," Marcel said, tossing his duffel bag onto the bed. He stretched, his joints popping audibly. "And I had to wait until my parents went down to the cellar to check the flour inventory. I can't exactly open a cosmic gateway in the middle of the kitchen while my dad is mixing brioche."
"Excuses are the language of the incompetent," she replied without looking up from her book. "If your civilian life is such an impediment to your mystical duties, perhaps you should consider abandoning it. A true warrior does not allow the baking of bread to dictate their operational readiness."
Marcel took a deep breath, counting to ten in French before speaking. "I'm not a warrior. I'm a civilian who happens to have a very heavy responsibility. Unlike you, I wasn't raised in a mountain fortress by international assassins. I like my life. I like my parents."
Dhalia finally raised her eyes, her emerald gaze fixing on him with a cold, analytical scrutiny. "And you like that blonde girl on your cellular device. The model. Agreste."
Marcel froze, his hand hovering over his bag. "That’s none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business now, Marcel," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. She closed the book with a sharp thud. "Our nervous systems are literally synchronized by an ancient blood rite. When you are anxious, my skin pricks. When you are yearning for someone across the Atlantic like a lovesick hound, it disrupts my focus. Your lack of emotional discipline is an active liability to my training."
"Oh, I'm sorry my human emotions are inconveniencing your sociopathy," Marcel snapped, stepping toward her. He looked massive, his shadow falling completely over her chair, but Dhalia didn't even flinch. She stood up, her height allowing her to glare directly into his chest before tilting her chin to meet his eyes.
"Do not mistake my discipline for sociopathy, baker," she hissed. "I am Robin. I am the daughter of Talia al Ghul. I have survived things that would cause your fragile Parisian mind to fracture. If I must endure your presence every three days to maintain my operational efficiency, you will learn to control your pathetic pining."
"I'm not pining!"
"You are," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "You smell of defeat and cheap perfume every time you step through that portal. If you cannot maintain the dignity required of a spouse of the Al Ghul line, I will find a way to sever this bond permanently, regardless of the physical cost."
"Go ahead and try," Marcel growled, his jaw clenching. "Nothing would make me happier than never seeing your arrogant, condescending face again."
From the doorway, a soft cough interrupted them. Alfred Pennyworth stood there, holding a silver tray with two steaming mugs of cocoa and a plate of freshly baked shortbread.
"If the young master and mistress have finished debating the geopolitical ramifications of their marital status," the old butler said smoothly, his eyes twinkling with a dry, British amusement, "I believe some light refreshment is in order. Master Bruce requests your presence in the Batcave in one hour for tactical evaluation."
Dhalia glared at Marcel for one final, lingering second before turning on her heel and marching past Alfred without a word. Marcel slumped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Only eleven hours and forty-five minutes left, he thought miserably. God help me.
**********
To Dhalia, Marcel was the embodiment of everything the League taught her to despise. He was massive, yet he carried himself with an apologetic slouch that wasted his physical potential. He stumbled over rugs; he dropped pens; he spent twenty minutes apologizing to a silver tray when he accidentally bumped into Alfred in the hallway. He was a pushover—soft-hearted to the point of absurdity.
"He’s a fool," Dhalia stated bluntly, her hands moving with blinding speed as she stripped and cleaned her specialized shuriken at the Batcave’s secondary workstation.
Jason Todd, who was leaning against a nearby weapon rack cleaning his twin pistols, let out a loud, barking laugh. "The kid's six-four, Dhalia. He looks like he could snap a telephone pole in half, but he treats everything like it's made of glass. Cut him some slack. Not everyone was born with a knife in their hand."
"He wields the ultimate tool of creation, Todd," Dhalia said, her eyes narrowing as she reassembled the shuriken with a satisfying metallic click. "The Scarab should be a figure of terror and absolute authority. Instead, he uses his yo-yo to rescue stray felines and tie up low-level thieves with the gentleness of a nanny. He is weak."
"He isn't weak," a voice chimed in from above. Tim Drake dropped down from the upper catwalk, a tablet tucked under his arm. "I’ve been analyzing his combat data from the Paris sector. His kinetic redirecting is actually insane. He doesn't use brute force because he doesn't need to. He calculates the structural tension of his lines within milliseconds. He’s a tactical pacifist. It’s different."
"It is inefficient," Dhalia countered, her jaw tightening.
Meanwhile, in the library upstairs, Marcel was having a similar conversation with Dick Grayson. Marcel was trying to focus on his sketchbook, drawing a line of winter coats inspired by the historical architecture of Gotham, but his charcoal kept snapping because his hands were shaking with residual irritation.
"She’s just... mean, Dick," Marcel groaned, tossing the broken charcoal aside. "There isn't a single drop of empathy in her entire body. She looks at me like I'm a bug she wants to squash under her designer boots."
Dick laughed softly, leaning over the back of the sofa. "Dhalia’s had a rough life, Marcel. Before Bruce brought her here, her entire world was competition, assassination, and survival. She doesn't know how to be a teenager. She thinks any sign of softness is a death sentence."
"She thinks I'm a pushover because I don't want to break people's bones," Marcel muttered, staring at his sketch. "When I'm Scarab, I see everything—every thread of potential, every structural weakness in a building or a person. I could hurt people really badly if I wasn't careful. I have to be gentle. But she just sees it as cowardice."
"And what about Adrielle ?" Dick asked gently, his tone shifting to something more perceptive. "You're still thinking about her a lot."
Marcel’s shoulders dropped. "Adrielle is... she's everything Dhalia isn't. She’s fun. She makes jokes—terrible, awful ones, but they make me smile. With Dhalia, I feel like I'm an inmate under guard."
"Give it time," Dick said, patting Marcel’s massive shoulder. "You two are stuck together. Ancient magic doesn't care about first impressions. Just... try to find common ground. Even if it's just complaining about Bruce's diet."
Marcel let out a dry, humorless snort. "I think she’d prefer to use Bruce's diet to poison me."
**********
In Paris, the sky was a brilliant, cinematic blue, a stark contrast to the eternal gray of Gotham. Scarab swung through the air, his massive red-and-black form slicing through the wind with practiced ease. His yo-yo hummed as it spun, anchoring onto the spire of the Grand Palais before he launched himself onto the roof of a nearby apartment building.
"Late again, Bugaboo," a playful voice purred from the shadow of a chimney stack.
Chat Noire stepped out into the sunlight. She was magnificent—her leather suit sleek and perfectly fitted, her blonde hair falling in artful, messy waves around her black mask. Her green eyes danced with mischief as she extended her staff, leaning against it with an easy, feline grace.
"I had... transport issues," Scarab said, his voice deep and rumbling as he landed heavily on the tiles. He tried to keep his distance, his heart doing a familiar, painful flutter in his chest. "Monarch hasn't released an Akuma today. We should finish patrol early."
"Oh, come on, why the rush?" Chat Noire stepped closer, her boots clicking against the slate. She reached out, her gloved fingers tapping against the heavy black chevron on his chest. "You've been so tense lately, Scarab. Is there another kitty stealing your attention? Because I’d hate to have to scratch someone to keep my favorite beetle all to myself."
Marcel felt a wave of profound guilt wash over him. A year ago—even six months ago—this flirting would have made him turn bright red and stammer like an idiot.
But now, as she leaned in, all he could see was the pale face of Dhalia al Ghul, glaring at him from across a mahogany table. The ancient bond seemed to hum beneath his skin, a faint, cold vibration that reminded him of his reality. He was a married man. A fifteen-year-old married man tied to a lethal assassin in Gotham.
"Stop, Chat," Scarab said, gently but firmly stepping back, his hand coming up to lower her staff. "I told you. We're partners. Just partners. I'm... I'm seeing someone. It's complicated."
Chat Noire’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine hurt crossing her features before she masked it with a dramatic pout. "Oh, please. You've been saying that for months, but I never see you with anyone. No one in Paris could possibly compare to me, Bugaboo. You're just playing hard to get."
"I'm serious," Scarab said, his tone heavier than usual. "It’s an arrangement. A permanent one. I can't... I can't do this with you."
Chat Noire laughed, though it sounded a bit forced this time. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets, you mysterious giant. But I'm not giving up that easily."
Six hours later, Marcel was sitting on the floor of the Wayne Manor library, his back against the base of a bookshelf. Dhalia was sitting at the nearby desk, translating an old Arabic text on nerve strikes.
Marcel was staring at his phone, his mind replaying his conversation with Chat Noire. He let out a long, heavy sigh.
Across the room, Dhalia’s pen stopped moving. She didn't look up, but her voice was tight. "Your longing is vibrating through the bond again, Marcel. It feels like an uncalibrated cello. Turn it off."
"I can't just 'turn off' how I feel, Dhalia," Marcel said, his voice exhausted. "I'm trying to do the right thing. I pushed chat away today. I told her I was committed to someone else. It felt horrible."
Dhalia finally turned her head, her green eyes cold but intensely focused on him. "You feel guilt because you possess a misplaced sense of loyalty to a girl who only knows you behind a mask. She flirts with a symbol, Marcel. She does not know the boy who forgets to salt the baguettes or who stays up until dawn drawing coats."
Marcel looked up, surprised. "How do you know I forget to salt the baguettes?"
Dhalia’s cheeks flushed a microscopic shade of pink before she looked back at her text. "Your mother mentioned it during my briefing on your civilian profile. The point remains. Your attraction to the model is based on an illusion. It is childish, and the cat is pathetic ."
"And what we have isn't an illusion?" Marcel asked, leaning his head back against the books. "We're tied together because some dead guys signed a paper four hundred years ago. That's not real, Dhalia. That's a trap."
"It is an obligation," Dhalia said softly, her voice dropping its usual sharp edge for a brief moment. "And an Al Ghul does not break their word. Even when the word is not their own."
*************
Twelve months passed like a slow-motion car crash that gradually transformed into a strange, synchronized dance.
The initial, burning hatred between Marcel and Dhalia didn't disappear, but it evolved into a highly refined, deeply sarcastic rapport. They learned each other’s rhythms. They learned exactly which buttons to press to elicit a reaction, and strangely, that mutual understanding began to bridge the gap between them.
It was a Saturday evening, exactly one year since the kidnapping. Marcel stepped through the horse portal into the Wayne Manor kitchen. He was sixteen now, his chest had filled out from a year of rigorous training under Batman’s occasional oversight and the physical demands of handling the Scarab’s enhanced gravity manipulation.
He found Dhalia standing over a massive stainless-steel bowl. She was wearing an apron over her combat trousers—a sight that would have terrified the criminal underworld of Gotham. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and there was a distinct smudge of white flour directly across her nose.
"What in the world are you doing?" Marcel asked, his duffel bag slipping from his hand as he stared.
"I am executing a recipe for pain au chocolat," Dhalia stated, her voice tight with immense frustration. She was wielding a wooden spoon like it was a weapon, aggressively stabbing at a mass of dough that looked more like mortar than pastry. "The structural integrity of this mixture is completely compromised. It refuses to adhere to the geometric parameters described in your mother’s manual."
Marcel bit his lip, trying with every fiber of his being not to laugh. "Dhalia... did you use cold butter?"
"The instructions said 'room temperature,'" she snapped, glaring at him with emerald eyes that promised a slow death. "The ambient temperature of Gotham in November is sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. That is a room. Therefore, the butter should have been compliant."
Marcel chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made Dhalia freeze. He walked over, standing right behind her. He didn't touch her—they still rarely touched outside of necessary combat drills—but he reached around her to take the wooden spoon from her hand.
"Room temperature in baking means about twenty-one degrees Celsius," Marcel said softly, his French accent thick as he examined the mess. "Your dough is over-kneaded, your highness. You’ve developed the gluten too much. It’s angry at you. Like most people."
"The dough does not have emotions, Marcel," she muttered, though she didn't step away. She remained right there, her back almost brushing against his chest as he leaned over the counter.
"Trust me, dough is very temperamental," he murmured, discarding the spoon. He washed his hands quickly at the sink, then reached back into the bowl. His large, calloused hands—hands that could crush stone as Scarab—gently began to manipulate the mixture, adding a splash of milk to soften the gluten. "Watch. You have to be gentle with it. You can't bully bread into submission, Dhalia. You have to guide it."
Dhalia watched his hands move. Her expression remained neutral, but her breathing shifted, matching the steady, slow rhythm of his movements. The ancient bond between them hummed—not with the cold, jarring static of the early days, but with a low, warm resonance that felt remarkably like peace.
"You are exceptionally skilled at this," she admitted quietly, her voice losing its sarcastic edge. "It is... irritating."
"Thanks," Marcel smiled, his eyes crinkling. "I’ll take that as a declaration of love."
"Do not push your luck, baker," she said, though she didn't remove the flour smudge from her nose.
**********
"Ten bucks says they hold hands by New Year's," Jason Todd announced, tossing a crisp bill onto the center of the Batcave’s console.
"Not a chance," Tim Drake replied without looking up from his three monitors. He slid a twenty-dollar bill forward. "Dhalia’s emotional defense mechanisms are too deeply entrenched. She’ll let him cook for her, she’ll even let him play Street Fighter in her presence, but physical contact outside of training? No way. Valentine's Day at the earliest."
"You guys are missing the macro-indicators," Dick Grayson said, swinging down from the ceiling rafters and landing perfectly on his feet. He added a fifty-dollar bill to the pile. "Have you seen the way she looks at his sketches now? She actually stopped calling his designs 'frivolous cloth.' She called one of his jackets 'tactically viable.' That’s practically a marriage proposal in Al Ghul language. I’m betting on Christmas Eve."
"You are all degenerate gamblers," Cass Cain murmured, appearing from the shadows near the stairs. She walked past the console, her dark eyes scanning the money before she dropped a single hundred-dollar bill onto the top of the stack. "They are already in love. They just don't have the words yet. Thanksgiving."
The entire room went silent. When Cass spoke about body language, nobody argued.
Upstairs, the subjects of the pool were currently locked in a fierce, silent battle. The television screen in the family room flashed with the bright, neon colors of a high-speed racing game. Marcel and Dhalia were sitting on the massive leather sofa.
Over the past few months, their three-day visits had evolved from tense standoffs into a comfortable domesticity. They had established a routine: Marcel would arrive, they would spend two hours analyzing tactical data for Bruce, and then they would retreat to the family room to play video games or watch old movies.
Tonight, they were curled up shockingly close. Marcel was stretched out across the cushions, his long legs tangled with a heavy knit blanket. Dhalia was leaning back against his side, her shoulder resting firmly against his ribs. To an outsider, it looked entirely natural—two teenagers enjoying a weekend. To the Batfamily, it was a geopolitical miracle.
"You're drifting on the corners again," Dhalia muttered, her fingers flying over her controller with the same precision she used to assemble firearms. "Your apex entry is abysmal, Marcel."
"I'm driving a digital sports car, Dhalia, not a Batmobile," Marcel laughed, his shoulder shifting against hers as he tried to bump her character off the track. "Let me enjoy the scenery."
"The scenery is a collection of poorly rendered pixels," she retorted, though she didn't move away when his elbow brushed against hers. In fact, she leaned a fraction of an inch deeper into his side, her shoulder-length hair brushing against his collarbone.
Marcel looked down at her. The pale light of the television caught the sharp line of her jaw, the dark thickness of her eyelashes. He realized, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he hadn't thought about Adrielle Agreste in weeks. When he thought of home now, he didn't just think of the bakery in Paris; he thought of this quiet room, the smell of old books and fireplace ash, and the sharp, brilliant girl resting against his ribs.
The ancient bond flared within him—not as a command, but as a confirmation. The pining for the blonde model was entirely dead, buried under twelve months of flour smudges, sarcastic bickering, and shared victories.
"What are you staring at?" Dhalia asked, her eyes remaining on the screen though her character hit a wall because her focus wavered.
"Nothing," Marcel smiled softly, his thumb gently nudging her controller. "Just thinking you look nice when you're losing."
"I am not losing," she hissed, though her face flushed a beautiful, deep crimson.
***********
The Metropolis skyline was blindingly bright compared to Gotham’s permanent twilight. Marcel stood on the observation deck of the daily planet building, his hands resting on the stone balustrade as he looked out over the bustling city below. He had traveled here via the JL teleporter network under the pretense of a logistics run for Batman, but his real purpose was much more personal.
"You must be Marcel," a cheerful, boisterous voice boomed from above.
A girl dropped out of the sky, landing with a soft thud on the concrete. She looked about sixteen, with short, messy dark hair, bright blue eyes, and a brilliant, infectious smile. She wore a casual denim jacket over a red t-shirt with a stylized 'S' shield, her hands tucked into her pockets. This was Joan Kent, the daughter of Superman, currently operating as Supergirl.
"Joan?" Marcel asked, his height still putting him a few inches above her, though she possessed the literal power of a sun.
"The one and only!" she grinned, stepping forward and offering a hand. Her grip was firm, but she controlled her strength perfectly. "Bruce told my mom about your... situation. And Dick said you needed someone to talk to who wasn't a brooding Gotham bat or an international assassin. How's the marital bliss treating you?"
Marcel let out a long, heavy laugh, the tension leaving his shoulders. "It’s... complicated. She’s incredible, Joan. Really. But she’s also terrifying. Yesterday she threatened to sever my median nerve because I used her special sharpening stone for my leather-cutting tools."
Joan laughed, a loud, ringing sound that echoed off the skyscrapers. "Oh, yeah, Dhalia’s a treat. I’ve done a few team-ups with her. First time we met, she tried to kryptonite-lace my soda just to see if my immune system could filter it. She’s an absolute nutcase. But she’s loyal. Like, terrifyingly loyal. If she’s on your side, the world could end and she’d still find a way to drag you out of the rubble."
"She is," Marcel said softly, his eyes softening as he looked back toward the direction of Gotham. "She’s completely different now than when we first met. We bake together. We play video games. She actually smiled last week—like a real, genuine smile, not a scary smirk before a fight. I think... I think I’m completely screwed, Joan. I think I’m totally in love with her."
"Well, duh," Joan smiled, punching his shoulder playfully (and making him wince slightly despite his size). "Everyone in the League knows it. My dad says Bruce has this look on his face whenever someone mentions you two—like a proud cat that caught a really rare mouse. You guys are good for each other. You soften her edges, and she gives you that backbone you need when you're handling those crazy Paris magical villains."
"Yeah," Marcel sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "But she still calls me 'baker boy' and treats me like a civilian liability half the time."
"That’s just her love language, Marcel," Joan grinned, walking over to the edge of the roof and hovering a few inches off the ground. "In Gotham, a death threat is basically a promise of eternal devotion. Trust me. You're doing great."
***********
The transition from platonic proximity to actual dating was never officially declared; it simply manifested through a shift in vocabulary.
They were in the Batcave, analyzing a series of recent warehouse break-ins linked to Penguin's operations. Batman was away on a League mission in space, leaving the two sixteen-year-olds to manage the Gotham grid for the night.
"The structural weak point of the southern facility is the ventilation shaft on the third tier," Dhalia said, her finger tracing a green wireframe schematic on the touchscreen. "A standard insertion would require a high-velocity line."
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't do it," Marcel said, leaning over her shoulder, his chest practically pressing against her back. He pointed to a secondary thermal signature near the vent. "They've upgraded the sensor array, my beloved wife. If you break that beam, the automated turrets will turn your pretty shoulder-length hair into kindling."
Dhalia didn't look up, but her lips twitched into a sharp, teasing smile. "Your concern for my aesthetic value is touching, husband. However, you underestimate my velocity. I can clear that vector before the processing unit can register a mass discrepancy."
"I'm not doubting your speed, darling," Marcel murmured, his voice dropping into a deeper, smoother register that made the hairs on her arms stand up. "I'm doubting the Penguin's tolerance for having his expensive toys broken by a teenager. Let Scarab take the lead tonight. I can manipulate the gravitational field around the sensors and just walk through the front door."
Dhalia finally turned her head, her nose almost touching his jaw. Their nicknames had become an ongoing game—a way to wield their forced legal status as a weapon of mutual teasing. But lately, the titles felt less like a joke and more like a statement of fact.
"You wish to perform the heavy lifting while I rest in the rafters, my lord?" she whispered sardonically, her green eyes flashing with amusement.
"Exactly," Marcel grinned, his large hand coming up to gently tuck a loose strand of her dark hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her skin, warm and steady. "Let your husband protect your beauty sleep for once. You've been tracking these leads for forty-eight hours."
Dhalia stared at him for a long moment, her breath hitching slightly at the gentle touch. The ancient bond between them flared with an intense, golden heat—a pure, unadulterated signal of mutual affection that left no room for doubt.
"Very well," she said softly, her voice losing its edge completely. "Do not disappoint me, Marcel."
"Wouldn't dream of it, wifey," he smiled, pressing a quick, daring kiss to her cheek before turning to grab his Miraculous case.
Dhalia remained frozen at the console for a full thirty seconds after he left, her hand rising to touch the spot on her cheek where his lips had landed. Her heart was beating a frantic, undisciplined rhythm that defied all her League training, and for the first time in her life, she didn't care.
************
The scent of melted sugar, browned butter, and fresh yeast always hung thick over the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie. Dhalia stood outside the Boulangerie Patisserie Dupain-Cheng, her dark trench coat buttoned to her chin against the brisk Parisian autumn air. This was her first official visit to Marcel’s home under the civilian guise of his "girlfriend from America"—a cover story approved by Bruce to explain her presence in his life without exposing the League or the contract.
She felt more nervous standing before this glass door than she had when facing a horde of League assassins.
"Just relax," Marcel whispered, stepping up beside her. He was dressed in his favorite oversized sweater, his hand reaching down to slip into hers. His fingers locked with hers, cold and steadying. "My mom doesn't bite. My dad might hug you too hard, but you can handle a little physical compression, right?"
"I am trained to survive blunt force trauma, Marcel," Dhalia muttered, her jaw tight. "A parental embrace will not dismantle me."
"We'll see," he chuckled, pushing the door open. A little brass bell chimed overhead.
Within seconds, a whirlwind of energy erupted from behind the counter. Sabine Cheng was a tiny woman, barely reaching Marcel’s chest, but she possessed an undeniable presence of absolute warmth. Her dark eyes lit up the moment she saw them, her hands flying to her apron.
"Oh! You’re here! Marcel, you didn't tell us you were arriving so early!" Sabine cried, immediately bypassing her son to descend upon Dhalia. Before the young assassin could activate her defensive reflexes, Sabine had wrapped her arms tightly around Dhalia’s waist, burying her face in her coat.
Dhalia froze entirely, her arms hovering in the air like a broken automaton. She looked at Marcel with a wide-eyed expression of pure panic. Marcel just grinned, giving her an encouraging nod.
Slowly, awkwardly, Dhalia lowered her arms, her hands resting flat against Sabine’s back. The embrace was warm, smelling of vanilla and clean linen. It felt... safe. In a way that nothing in the League ever had.
"Look at you," Sabine said, pulling back to hold Dhalia at arm's length, her hands resting affectionately on her shoulders. "Marcel’s drawings don't do you justice at all. You have beautiful eyes, but such a serious face! We must feed you immediately. Tom! Tom, come up here! Our new girl is here!"
A massive man, larger than Marcel, emerged from the back kitchen, his face covered in flour and a massive smile splitting his beard. "Dhalia! Welcome to Paris!"
Over the next four hours, Dhalia’s tactical defenses were completely demolished by kindness. Sabine did not treat her like an assassin, or a Wayne, or a political asset. She treated her like a daughter. She sat her down at the small dining table upstairs, piling plates high with hot stew, fresh bread, and fruit tarts.
When Dhalia tried to clear the dishes with a practiced, efficient movement, Sabine gently took the plates from her hands. "No, no, sweetie. You are our guest. Go sit by the fire with Marcel. You look like you work far too hard in Gotham. Let me take care of you for a little while."
Dhalia walked back to the sofa, sitting down beside Marcel. Her green eyes were slightly wide, her posture unusually soft.
"Are you okay?" Marcel asked softly, wrapping an arm around her broad shoulders and pulling her into his side.
"Your mother... she is an extraordinary individual," Dhalia whispered, her voice carrying a rare trace of vulnerability. She leaned her head against his chest, her dark hair falling over his arm. "She told me that I am always welcome here. She called me 'ma fille.' My own mother never... she never looked at me without evaluating my lethality."
Marcel tightened his grip, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "You're not an asset here, Dhalia. You're just you. And they love you because you're mine."
"And because I make sure you salt the baguettes," she murmured, her sarcastic wit returning, though she snuggled deeper into his side.
***********
At seventeen, Dhalia was officially appointed as the Justice League’s Tactical Liaison to the European Miraculous Defense Sector. It was a political necessity; Monarch’s attacks were becoming more desperate, and Paris’s infrastructure was buckling under the strain.
But her arrival in the Parisian superhero circle was met with immediate, explosive hostility.
"I don't remember requesting a supervisor from Gotham," Chat Noire spat, her leather-clad form pacing along the stone gargoyles of Notre-Dame. Her green eyes flashed with intense jealousy as she looked at Robin, who stood in the center of the roof, her short dark hair catching the night wind, her red and black armor gleaming under the moonlight.
"I am not your supervisor, Noire," Robin said coldly, her voice dropping into her signature commanding tone. "I am your tactical lead. The Justice League has monitored your operations for the past two years, and your lack of structural discipline is an active threat to civilian safety. You treat these battles like a theatrical performance."
"Hey! I save this city every single week!" Chat Noire snapped, stepping into Robin's space, her staff extending with a sharp metallic hiss. "And Scarab doesn't have a problem with how I fight. Right, Bugaboo?"
She turned to Scarab, who was standing nearby. At seventeen, Marcel was an absolute unit of a hero—6'4", broad-shouldered, his red-and-black armor radiating a heavy, gravitational aura.
Marcel looked between his wife and his superhero partner, feeling an immense headache brewing beneath his mask. "Chat, please. Robin is here because we need her. Her tactical coordination is perfect. Yesterday, when she mapped out the evacuation sectors for the stone-giant Akuma, it saved us twenty minutes of crowd control."
"Oh, so you're taking her side now?" Chat Noire’s voice cracked with a mixture of anger and genuine heartbreak. She had been in love with Scarab for years, and now, this girl from Gotham had arrived, and Scarab was completely compliant to her every command. "You used to trust me!"
"I do trust you, Chat, but this isn't personal," Scarab sighed, his massive shoulders drooping. "It’s about efficiency. When Robin makes the plans, I can actually focus on purification without having to calculate building collapses. It lets me... rest. A little bit."
Rena Rouge and Carapace, who were sitting on the edge of the roof, exchanged uncomfortable glances.
"Look, dude," Carapace said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Robin’s a bit... harsh. She told me my shield placement was 'amateurish and pathetic' yesterday. But her perimeter lines did keep the civilians out of the splash zone."
"She’s an outsider!" Chat Noire yelled, her tail twitching violently. "She doesn't know Paris! She doesn't know us!"
Robin didn't even blink. She stepped forward, her emerald eyes locking onto Chat Noire with a cold, possessive intensity that made the blonde girl hesitate. "I do not need to know your city to know your flaws, Chat Noire. You are reckless. You are undisciplined. And your obsession with flirting during active combat is a liability that I will not tolerate. If you cannot follow my orders, stay out of our way."
"Why you little—" Chat Noire lunged, but Scarab instantly stepped between them, a solid wall of red-and-black armor.
"Enough!" Scarab rumbled, his voice carrying the full, terrifying weight of the Guardian’s authority. "We have an Akuma signature moving toward the Louvre. Pack it up. We move on Robin’s signal."
Chat Noire glared at Robin for one final, venomous second before turning and leaping into the night, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. She didn't see the tiny, mocking smirk that played on Robin’s lips as she watched her go.
**********
The Akuma was a Category 5 reality-warper known as Grief. It had turned the entire courtyard of the Louvre into a shifting, liquid labyrinth of black glass and jagged obsidian spikes.
"Chat Noire! Hold the western perimeter!" Robin’s voice cut through the comms, sharp and authoritative. "The entity shifts mass based on emotional projection! If you advance without Scarab’s gravitational anchor, you will be impaled!"
"I don't take orders from you, Gotham!" Chat Noire yelled back, her vision blurred by tears of frustration.
She had just watched Scarab give Robin a quick, protective nod before launching into the fray—a small, intimate gesture that tore at Chat’s soul. She wanted to prove that she was better. She wanted to prove that Scarab needed her, not this cold-hearted woman.
Ignoring the direct command, Chat Noire extended her staff and vaulted over the glass barricade, rushing straight toward the core of the Akuma.
"No! Chat, fall back!" Scarab’s voice roared from across the square.
The moment Chat Noire’s boots hit the central platform, the liquid glass beneath her erupted. A massive, jagged spire of obsidian shot upward with terrifying velocity, aimed directly at her chest. She froze, her feline reflexes failing her as she realized she couldn't find an anchor point in the shifting terrain.
"Get down!"
A red-and-black form slammed into her side, throwing her clear of the platform. Scarab had used his gravity-burst to accelerate his own body, taking her place in the vector of the attack.
CRACK.
The obsidian spire tore straight through Scarab’s shoulder armor, pinning his frame to the stone wall behind him. Blood—bright, terrifyingly human crimson—splattered across the red and black suit. He let out a choked, agonizing gasp before his eyes rolled back, his body hanging limp against the spike.
"SCARAB!" Chat Noire screamed, her hands flying to her mouth in horror.
From the edge of the courtyard, something in Robin snapped. The tactical liaison vanished, replaced entirely by the deadly, unmitigated wrath of the Al Ghul bloodline. She didn't use her comms; she let out a piercing, animalistic roar of pure rage that made Rena Rouge freeze in terror.
Robin moved like a shadow given lethal form. She bypassed the shifting labyrinth entirely, her grappling hook anchoring onto a distant spire as she launched herself through the air. She unsheathed her katana, the blade gleaming with a terrifying blue energy as she channeled her tactical training into pure destruction. Within ninety seconds, she had dismantled the Akuma's structural core, slicing through its defenses with blinding speed, and crushed the corrupted object in her bare, armored hand.
The dark magic dissipated into white butterflies, but the tension in the air didn't fade.
Chat Noire was kneeling on the ground, weeping as she watched Carapace try to gently lower the unconscious, bleeding Scarab from the wall. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, I thought I could—"
A shadow fell over her.
Chat Noire looked up just in time to see Robin standing over her. Robin’s mask was torn, her green eyes wide and bloodshot with an unhinged, terrifying fury.
WHACK.
Robin’s armored fist connected squarely with Chat Noire’s jaw with the force of a speeding truck. The blow sent Chat Noire spinning across the concrete, her mask cracking as she hit the ground, blood leaking from her lip.
"You arrogant, reckless, pathetic excuse for a hero!" Robin screamed, her voice breaking with an raw, agonizing emotion that Paris had never heard before. She stepped forward, her boot coming down right next to Chat Noire’s face, her katana trembling in her hand. "Your fragile ego almost got him killed! He told you for two years that he was taken! He told you he belonged to someone else! But you wouldn't stop your pathetic, childish games!"
"Robin, stop!" Rena Rouge cried, running over to hold her back, but Robin snarled, throwing the fox hero off with a single, practiced judo flip.
"I swear to God, Noire—or whoever you are behind that pathetic mask," Robin hissed, leaning down until her face was inches from Chat Noire’s terrified, tear-stained eyes. "If you ever cause harm to my husband again, the Justice League won't be able to save you from what I do to you! He is my life! He is my husband! And you almost took him from me because you couldn't follow a simple damn order!"
The courtyard was dead silent, save for the hum of the television cameras from the news crews hovering above. Every single lens was focused on them.
Within five minutes, the footage hit the global satellite grid. Within ten, the internet fractured. The hashtag #RobinAndScarabMarried trended number one in every country on Earth. Twitter’s servers literally overheated and crashed under the weight of millions of people realizing that the savior of Paris was legally wed to the daughter of Batman.
*********
The final battle for Paris did not happen on the rooftops; it happened in the subterranean catacombs beneath the city, where Monarch had hoarded his stolen power.
It had been six months since the incident at the Louvre. Scarab had recovered from his wounds, his shoulder now bearing a thick, jagged scar that Dhalia spent hours gently tracing with her fingers during their quiet nights at the manor. Chat Noire had become reclusive, fighting with a subdued, silent efficiency, never speaking to Robin or Scarab outside of absolute operational necessity. The revelation of their marriage had altered the global perception of the Miraculous team permanently—they were no longer just teenage heroes; they were backed by the full, terrifying authority of Gotham’s dark monarchy.
And now, it was over.
Monarch lay defeated on the stone floor of his sanctuary, his miraculous rings shattering into dust as his true form—Gabriel Agreste—was revealed to the world.
Marcel stood over him, his massive Scarab form radiating a heavy, solemn light. He looked to his left, where Chat Noire was standing. Her mask was gone, dissolved by the exhaustion of her energy.
Marcel froze.
The girl standing there, weeping over the fallen villain, was Adrielle Agreste. The blonde model. The girl whose picture had lived on his phone an entire of four years. The girl he had thought he loved before a sharp-tongued Gotham princess tore his world apart.
Adrielle looked up, her tear-stained green eyes meeting the black chevron of his mask. "He was my father... Scarab, he was my father the whole time..."
Marcel felt a profound, aching pity in his chest. He stepped forward, his hand coming up to remove his own mask, ready to comfort her—but he stopped. He looked back toward the entrance of the catacombs, where Dhalia was standing, her katana sheared, her shoulder-length hair covered in dust, her eyes fixed on him with a quiet, steady trust.
If he revealed his identity to Adrielle now, it would open a door that he had spent two years firmly closing. It would complicate a grief that was already too heavy for her to bear.
Marcel let his mask slide back into place. He did not tell her his name. He simply knelt beside her, placing a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder.
"I am sorry, Adrielle," Scarab said, his deep baritone soft and steady. "The magic is gone now. You can rest."
Three weeks later, Adrielle Agreste officially announced her retirement from the superhero world, leaving Paris to pursue her fashion studies in London away from the media circus. Simultaneously, Scarab was officially inducted into the core roster of the Justice League, taking its place alongside Superman and Wonder Woman as a global protector.
**********
At eighteen, Marcel was no longer the awkward boy who slouched to avoid ceilings. He was a man—broad-chested, confident, his voice a commanding baritone that could silence a room of League operatives.
Except when he was around his wife. Then, he reverted right back to a stuttering, panicked mess.
He was sitting at the desk in his new apartment in Gotham, which he shared with Dhalia during his university terms. The desk was covered in jewelry blueprints, wax molds, and small, glittering gemstones. For three months, he had been working on a secret project: designing the perfect engagement ring. They were legally married by an ancient treaty, yes, but they had never had a real engagement. They had never had a choice. Now, he wanted to give her one.
"Marcel, the portal is fluctuating," Dhalia’s voice called from the living room.
Marcel panicked, instantly throwing a towel over his blueprints and slamming his desk drawer shut with enough force to crack the wood. "Don't come in! I'm... I'm doing tax documentation! It’s very confidential!"
Dhalia appeared in the doorway, her shoulder-length hair perfectly straight, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked at him with an intense, suspicious scrutiny. Over the past few weeks, her husband had been acting like an absolute lunatic. He was canceling their usual video game nights, he stuttered whenever she called him 'darling,' and he wouldn't let her within five feet of his desk.
"Tax documentation does not usually require a velvet-lined polishing cloth, Marcel," she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, analytical register.
"It’s a new French tax system!" he stammered, trying to block her view of the desk. "Very complex! Lots of... friction coefficients!"
Dhalia’s eyes narrowed. The ancient bond between them was vibrating with a frantic, chaotic static—the signature of extreme nervousness and deception. Her heart sank, a cold, sharp blade of insecurity piercing through her chest.
Ever since the defeat of Monarch and the revelation that Adrielle Agreste was Chat Noire, a quiet terror had been festering in the back of Dhalia’s mind. She knew Marcel had loved that blonde girl. She knew he had spent his first year with her wishing he was back in Paris. Now that Adrielle was free, now that the magic contract was no longer a binding necessity due to the stabilization of their powers... was he planning to leave her?
"I see," Dhalia said coldly, her posture returning to the rigid, defensive stance of her fifteen-year-old self. "If my presence is causing such a 'coefficient of friction' in your life, Marcel, perhaps I should return to the Manor for the weekend."
"No! Wait, Dhalia, that’s not—"
But she had already turned on her heel, the door slamming shut behind her with a definitive, heartbreaking thud.
Marcel slumped against his desk, pulling the towel off the ring mold. It was a beautiful white gold band, intricately carved to resemble a scarab’s wings cradling a small, perfect ruby that matched the color of Robin’s crest.
"I am such an idiot," he groaned, burying his face in his hands.
*********
The rain in Gotham was particularly cruel that Tuesday night. Dhalia stood on the roof of the old Wayne Enterprises manufacturing plant, her Robin mask pulled down, her eyes tracking the movement of low-level smuggling boats along the river.
Her mind wasn't on the mission. The bond with Marcel felt like a fraying rope—not because the magic was dying, but because the emotional distance between them had become a chasm over the past week. He hadn't called. He hadn't used the portal.
"You look like you're about to murder the horizon," a cheerful voice said.
Joan Kent dropped out of the sky, landing silently beside her. She wasn't wearing her Supergirl gear; just a simple hoodie and jeans. She looked at Dhalia with a perceptive, gentle expression.
"Go away, Kent," Dhalia muttered, her hand tightening on her binoculars. "I am conducting surveillance."
"Marcel’s a mess, you know," Joan said smoothly, leaning against the roof ledger. "He came to Metropolis yesterday to talk to my dad. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He kept asking about how my dad managed to balance being a global symbol with... you know, keeping the person he loved safe."
Dhalia froze, her shoulders tensing beneath her armor. "He is preparing to dissolve our arrangement. He knows the identity of the Agreste girl now. The ancient contract is satisfied; Monarch is dead. He is no longer obligated to endure my personality."
Joan blinked, then let out a massive, face-palming groan. "Oh my god. You two are literally the smartest people on the planet and the biggest idiots in the universe. Dhalia... he’s not trying to leave you. He’s terrified he’s going to ruin his life because he loves you too much."
Dhalia turned her head slowly, her green eyes wide. "What?"
"Just go home," Joan smiled, reaching out to pat her arm. "He set up a portal vector at that old restaurant near the Seine—the one his mother likes. He’s waiting for you. Don't be an assassin tonight, Dhalia. Just go be his wife."
********
The restaurant was small, private, and cast in the warm, golden glow of low hanging Edison bulbs. Marcel had rented out the entire terrace overlooking the Seine, the water reflecting the distant, brilliant lights of the Eiffel Tower.
He stood by the railing, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that Dick had helped him pick out. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his fingers nervously spinning the small velvet box over and over again.
A soft static hummed behind him. The horse portal opened, and Dhalia stepped through.
She wasn't wearing her armor. She wore a simple, elegant dark green dress that fell to her knees, her shoulder-length hair soft and waving around her face. She looked beautiful—not like a weapon of the League, but like a woman who had found her own place in the world.
They stood in silence for a long moment, the sound of the river moving below them.
"You left your tax documentation behind," Dhalia said quietly, her voice carrying a small, trembling trace of sarcasm as she walked toward him.
"Yeah," Marcel smiled softly, his hand coming out of his pocket to reach for hers. He didn't hesitate this time; he took her hand, his massive fingers wrapping completely around hers, warm and solid. "Dhalia... I'm sorry I was being so weird. I was terrified. I’ve faced gods, I’ve faced Monarch, I’ve faced Batman’s glare... but nothing has ever scared me as much as the thought of losing you."
Dhalia looked down at their joined hands. "You knew the Agreste girl's identity. I assumed..."
"You assumed I wanted an illusion," Marcel interrupted gently, his other hand coming up to lift her chin so she had to meet his eyes. "Dhalia, I loved Adrielle when I was fifteen because I didn't know what real love was. Real love isn't a mask or a rooftop flirtation. Real love is kneading dough until our hands are covered in flour. It’s playing Street Fighter until three in the morning. It’s having someone who will punch a superhero in the face to keep me safe."
Dhalia’s breath hitched, a beautiful, genuine tear welling in her emerald eyes.
Marcel dropped smoothly onto one knee, the velvet box appearing in his hand. He clicked it open, revealing the intricate white gold ring, the ruby gleaming like a beacon under the Parisian lights.
"We were married by an ancient contract, Dhalia," Marcel said, his voice deep, steady, and full of an absolute, unwavering devotion. "We did it for the Guardians, we did it for the League, we did it because we had to. But tonight... I want to ask you for myself. No contracts. No obligations. Just me, the baker from Paris, asking the princess of Gotham to be my wife. For real this time. Will you marry me, Dhalia?"
Dhalia stared at the ring, then looked at the beautiful man kneeling before her. A brilliant, radiant smile broke across her face—the kind of smile that Cass had bet on all those years ago.
"You really are a clumsy, sentimental fool, Marcel," she whispered, her voice cracking with pure joy as she stepped into his space, letting him slide the ring onto her finger. "But you are my husband. And I will never let you go. Yes."
As Marcel stood up, lifting her completely off her feet to spin her around against the backdrop of the Parisian sky, the ancient bond within them flared.