Damian Wayne: Dark Son Chapter 43: Cassandra Wakes.

Chapter 43: Cassandra Wakes.

(Damian’s P.O.V.)

“All is well. All is well… all is veelll.”

The mantra ran in his head with every breath. Calm. Focus. Order. He sat cross-legged in the open field behind Wayne Manor, morning light spilling across the grass, his hands resting on his knees. The earth here felt cleaner than the suffocating stone of the Lazarus tunnels. But inside him, things were not clean.

Two days. Two days since they had crawled out of the Lazarus swamp. Two days since he’d killed Richard—and absorbed everything the man had stolen.

He drew in a long breath. Let it go. His Ashura flared faintly through the tattoos on his arms, controlled, measured. Over the last day and a half, he had been releasing what wasn’t his. Cassandra’s chi, others stolen long before. Letting them drift back to their rightful owners, strand by strand. And for the darker stuff—the Raksasha Chi—he had been forcing it through the crucible of his Ashura, breaking it down, refining it. His sifú had warned him: leave it unchecked and Richard’s remnant will could poison him.

That wasn’t a risk he could take.

He opened his eyes and flexed his hand. A red dagger, sharp and perfectly balanced, slid into shape from the glowing tattoos. No longer the inky black constructs of before. The Raksasha taint had changed him. His Ashura Tattoos had evolved.

Damian turned the blade in his palm. Let it dissolve. A moment later it reformed as a Glock, weight and proportions precise. He flicked it upward and it came apart mid-air, each piece separating and hovering before snapping back into place.

He smirked. “Except for the color, it’s indistinguishable from the real thing.”

That seemed to be the ceiling. Firearms, blades, bows—anything mechanical but simple enough he understood the insides. More complex constructs, like a smartphone, remained beyond him. Knowledge, maybe. Or the limits of the tattoos themselves.

His gaze fell back on the gun. An idea sparked.

He pushed his Ashura into it. Not steady red this time, but boiling, unstable. The weapon lit with a darker crimson flame, heat licking the metal edges of the construct. The fire burned hotter the longer he held it until it nearly scorched his palm. He released it and the gun vanished into his skin, leaving his hand lightly singed.

He stared at the faint black mark, then smiled.

“Flame bullets. Burning blades. Ashura Ultimate on fire.” His pulse quickened. “This will come in handy. Definitely.”

“Damian!”

The voice came from behind, across the field. Jason’s, casual but urgent. Damian turned.

Jason strode up, hands in his pockets, stupid grin on his face.

“Cass is awake.”

Damian was already moving before Jason finished. He surged to his feet and stepped once, twice—the air itself folding under his Phantom Step. He blurred forward, faster than he had even during his clash with Richard.

Wayne Manor rose before him.

Cassandra was waiting.

-0-

Jason’s smirk was unbearable. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, making no effort to hide the amusement dripping from his tone, as Alfred finished his checkup on Cassandra.

“So… little demon does care. Look at you, hovering like a worried boyfriend.”

Damian’s jaw tightened from the bedside. His hands flexed at his sides as if itching to shut Jason up, but instead he hissed through clenched teeth, “Get. Out.”

Jason’s smirk widened. He raised his palms in mock surrender, stepping back. “Fine, fine. Don’t bite me too while you’re at it.” His boots echoed away down the hall.

Damian turned, meeting the others’ gazes—Barbara, Tim, even Dick lingering at the corner. They seemed ready to stay.

“I said leave,” Damian repeated, voice colder now. That edge carried enough weight for them to quietly file out one by one.

"The young miss needs her rest, master Damian. Make it quick." Alfred informed him and left.

The door clicked shut, and silence pressed down.

Cassandra shifted under the sheets, cheeks faintly pink. Her fingers picked nervously at the fabric. Damian stood at the foot of her bed, staring. Not just looking—staring. Possessive. Intense. Like he was memorizing her face to anchor something inside him.

Her blush deepened. “You’re… staring,” she signed hesitantly, her movements small.

He didn’t answer. He stepped forward, closing the distance, and before she could react he wrapped his arms around her. His embrace was fierce, crushing, like he was trying to convince himself she was truly there.

Cassandra froze. Her heart pounded. Then her entire face burned as Damian suddenly lowered his head and—without thought—bit her shoulder.

“Ah—!” She flinched, eyes wide, pulling back with confusion. She signed quickly, 'What’s up with you, dude? You just bit me!

Damian blinked, registering his own action. His lips tingled, and on her skin… the faint mark steamed. A small curl of vapor lifted from where his teeth had pressed. He frowned at himself, shook his head once, then met her startled eyes.

“That, Cass” he muttered, voice low, “was your punishment. For making me save you.” His hand lingered on her shoulder for just a moment. “You are not allowed to almost die again. Or I’ll kill you myself.”

The words weren’t angry. They were raw. Brutal honesty wrapped in his usual sharp tone.

He stepped back, reached into his coat, and placed something heavy on her lap—her sword. Damian’s fingers brushed the hilt once before pulling away. Then, without another word, he turned and walked to the door.

At the threshold, he paused. For the first time in a long while, his voice softened, almost vulnerable.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.” His head tilted slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging his mouth. “Oh… and sorry about your sword.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Cassandra looked down, puzzled. Her eyes fell on the weapon across her lap. At first, relief—then shock. The blade edge was chipped, several scars running jagged along its once flawless surface.

Her eyes widened, and the next second, she cursed under her breath, fists tightening.

“Damian!”

From down the hall, his laughter carried back, echoing like a taunt. Low, infuriating, and strangely light.

Cassandra stared at the blade again, lips pressed tight, face still flushed.

-

The hallway outside Cassandra’s room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old Manor settling. Damian pulled his hood up, hands tucked in the pockets, already setting his mind toward the calm of his own space. That was when the soft whistle cut through the air.

His hand snapped out, catching the shuriken inches before it would’ve buried into his chest. He turned, eyes narrowing.

Shiva stepped out of the shadows with her usual grace, the faintest curl of amusement on her lips.

“You looked lost in thought,” she said, closing the distance with lazy precision. “I couldn’t resist.”

She stopped in front of him, plucked the shuriken from his fingers as if it belonged to her, and leaned against the wall. Her posture was relaxed, but her presence never was.

“How is my daughter faring?”

Damian leaned back against the opposite wall, mirroring her. His hood cast a faint shadow across his face. “I thought you’d go see for yourself,” he said evenly, hands still buried in his pockets.

Shiva’s gaze flicked toward Cassandra’s door, then back. “Cassandra would hate for me to see her looking weak.”

Damian tilted his head, considering that, before giving a small nod. “That does sound like her.”

“Exactly.” Shiva pushed off slightly from the wall, then rested back into place, voice casual but weighted. “I’ll speak to her once I return from my mission.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Mission?”

She deflected with the smoothness of someone used to commanding conversations. “I was actually looking for you.”

His brow twitched, but he stayed silent, waiting.

Shiva folded her arms. “Orders. Straight from the Demon’s Head. You and Cassandra are to remain in Gotham. Ingratiate yourselves with the Bats.”

Damian straightened, disbelief flashing across his face. “What?” The word cut sharp. “Why would we—why would I—be expected to play nice with enemies?”

It was weird enough that they'd been given guest rooms in the manor. But whatever semi-truce they'd forged in the tunnels was only that. A truce.

Her eyes hardened, tone firm. “Don’t forget the first rule of the Shadows, Damian. The authority of the Demon’s Head is absolute.”

The silence between them stretched for a moment before she continued, softer but still deliberate. “Besides, it gives Cassandra time to heal.”

He cut in, voice sharp. “She could heal faster on the Island.”

Shiva didn’t answer right away. Her expression stayed calm, unreadable. Only after a long pause did she speak again.

“At least remain in Gotham until we know what Batman intends to do with the Lazarus Cave beneath his home. After that, if you still hate it… you can go where you want. Consider it an extended break.”

Damian stared at her, parsing the layers behind her words. Eventually, he gave a slight nod. “…Thank you.”

She pushed off from the wall, walking past him without another glance. Her hand lifted in a lazy wave as she strode down the hall.

“Favor repaid,” she said coolly. Then, over her shoulder: “Take care of my daughter… or I will slice off something precious from you.”

Her footsteps faded. Damian stood in the quiet corridor, processing both the command and the unspoken promise beneath it.

Probably a good idea she didn't find out about the bite.