Taming the Demon

Damian set upon the matter without delay, unwilling to consider that his suspicions of the Blood King's intent were unfounded. No matter how he sought to frame it otherwise, the truth lay bare before him—there could be no mistaking the man's purpose.

From what Damian knew of the young chieftain, the man was less formidable than he was reckless—prone to rash, violent deeds that bred needless bloodshed. Whatever victories he claimed were won not by respect, but by fear, stark and immoral, like the harsh retribution that follows a child's ill-tempered outburst.

Sebastian Blood was forged in a world where violence was the favored solution and enlightenment was the weak man's path. Men like him did not respond well to diplomacy, they were better served by public displays of "strength" such as hanging the corpse of a political rival for all to see after subjecting them to a gruesome, public death.

Why be fair when you can be feared? Damian reasoned.

However, Damian did not carry the name of The Demon for nothing. And if it was a violent end Sebastian wanted, then he'd have it, and with all the gore and flare the Demon's fist could inflict. But it was best to try the diplomatic way first.

No harm in trying I suppose?

He made his way down the hall, flanked by his guards and Grayson at his side and entered the antechamber. Before the door to the throne-room, his father waited with impatience, which was unlike him, his stoic face cast in a shadow of concern.

"Has the fiend mentioned anything?" Damian asked upon meeting his father in the antechamber.

Lord Wayne shook his head, his stoicism unyielding. "Nothing that could be of any great use. I will say his humility leaves you looking like a bastion of hubris."

Damian glared at his father, not appreciating the jest. "We shall see about that."

The prince stepped past his father and stood before the great doors, carved of the finest oak. Damian took a moment to study the carvings of which told the story of how the al Ghuls came to power. Starting with his great grandfather laying his life down before the Savage King. To his grandfather having to flee east to escape persecution, until his fateful return. The image of his victory reminded him how difficult power was to gain, to keep, and how easily it could be lost.

He was sure to collect himself before the doors opened, flying off the handle or showing too much emotion would only give his rival fodder. However, nothing could have prepared Damian for the sight of the loathsome Blood King, sitting on the throne that was rightfully his.

"Making yourself at home, I see," Damian said plainly, doing well to hold back the revulsion in his voice.

A curious grin spread across the Blood King's gaunt face, revealing yellowed teeth, two of which had been ground into fangs. "I was instructed to make myself comfortable, was I not?"

Damian held back the venom of his displeasure. "While I appreciate your apparent comfort in my palace, however, I must remind thee that your presence here is perceived as an unwelcome intrusion," he began, voicing his displeasure. "That throne rightfully belongs to our anointed sovereign, and I will not tolerate any attempts to usurp it."

"Seeing myself upon thine throne bothers thee?"

"How would you perceive it?" Damian questioned. "If I were to show up, unannounced, under the cover of night to thine dwellings and then see to plant myself upon your humble throne?"

"I can assure thee, my throne is not humble," Blood retorted, straightening himself, holding high his crown carved of bone. "Nor would you be permitted to trespass on my land—not without consequence. I will say I was shocked. I thought Nanda Parabat would be better fortified, yet here I am."