𐔌 ⋮ ۩ — 𝕮hapter XIII ; Mirrors & Mothers
۩ — MASTERLIST , ۩ — INFO POST , ۩ — PREVIOUS CHAPTER
“I see you’re rather happy today—for someone who’s been acting depressed all week.”
His voice reached me before his reflection did.
I paused mid-stroke, the brush caught in my curls as I lifted my gaze to the mirror. Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, posture deceptively loose. Watching. Studying. As if he’d been there longer than he wanted to admit.
“Excuse me?” I asked coolly, returning my attention to the mirror.
“Since when do you like Jason?”
I blinked once. Then twice. Slowly. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, stepping farther into the room. The door clicked shut behind him, soft but deliberate. His tone sharpened, edged with something unmistakable. “Since when do you talk and laugh with my men in the kitchens? Alone.”
I turned on the stool to face him fully, one brow arching. “Good morning to you too.”
“Sultana,” he snapped, irritation flashing across his face. “Answer.”
I rose to my feet, smoothing my robe as if entirely unbothered. “I was helping him cook something,” I replied evenly. “For my friend. The one who almost died, in case you forgot.”
His gaze flickered—just briefly. Then hardened again.
“I see,” he said. “That explains why you spent nearly all noon and afternoon with him.”
There it was. The accusation dressed up as observation.
I laughed, soft and dismissive, though my heart thudded traitorously. “Are you jealous?”
“At least he’s funny to be around,” I added sweetly. “And surprisingly gentle. A rare quality in this palace.”
Damian stepped closer, invading my space. “I am not jealous,” he said immediately. Too quickly. “And I am far funnier than he is.”
I looked him up and down, deliberately slow. “If you say so.”
Silence stretched between us, taut and crackling. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as if he were restraining something far sharper than words. Then his eyes flicked to my face—really looked at me.
“You look…” he began, then stopped himself.
I tilted my head. “I look what?”
Annoyed. Hesitant. Almost caught.
He cleared his throat and turned abruptly, irritation replacing whatever he’d almost said. “Get ready quickly. We’re having breakfast with my mother.”
I turned back to the mirror, but not before catching his reflection again. He was already at his wardrobe, pulling out a pristine white thobe, movements precise, controlled. The ease with which he said my mother unsettled me more than his jealousy ever could.
“You’re smiling,” he added without looking at me.
“It doesn’t suit you,” he said. Then, after a beat—quieter, almost begrudging—“But it… looks good on you.”
My fingers stilled on the vanity.
I met his eyes in the mirror. Just for a second.
“And you,” I said calmly, “look less unbearable when you’re bothered.”
He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
“I already know about breakfast,” I added, turning back to my curls.
“Good,” he said, voice clipped again.
Yet he lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary.
⸻🕌
Breakfast with Talia al-Ghul was not a meal.It was a battlefield—one lined with porcelain plates, silver cutlery, and smiles sharp enough to draw blood.
She sat at the head of the table like a queen carved from patience and poison, her back straight, her presence absolute. Talia al-Ghul did not need a crown to command a room. The servants moved around her as if pulled by gravity, careful, reverent, afraid. Her dark eyes flicked between her son and me with an amused precision that made my spine prickle.
“So,” she said lightly, lifting her cup as if we were old friends sharing idle gossip, “I hear my son has finally learned to listen.”
Damian groaned. Actually groaned. “Mother—”
“To his wife,” she added sweetly, her gaze slicing toward me. “A miracle, really.”
I met her eyes and smiled thinly, politely. The kind of smile you wear into war. “I do try to be persuasive.”
Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained hum of amusement.
She laughed—rich and genuine, echoing slightly through the chamber.
“Oh,” she said, studying me anew. “I like her already.”
Damian muttered something under his breath and stared intensely into his tea as if it had personally betrayed him.
“And how are you finding married life, Sultana?” Talia continued, spearing a piece of fruit with elegant precision. “My son has always been… difficult.”
“That’s one word for it,” I replied smoothly, buttering my bread with careful calm.
“Cold?” Damian cut in. “You could say cold.”
I shot him a warning look. Talia merely hummed in approval.
“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t bore each other.”
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, posture relaxed—too relaxed. This was the stance of a woman who knew she had already won something. “So,” she continued, voice deceptively gentle. “Grandchildren.”
Damian choked on his drink, coughing violently as a servant rushed forward in alarm.
“Mother,” he snapped once he could breathe again. “Absolutely not.”
I pressed my napkin to my lips, barely managing not to laugh.
Talia’s gaze slid to me, sharp and knowing, as if she were weighing my soul. “In time, of course. But empires need heirs.”
“Your empire,” I said calmly, meeting her stare without flinching, “has only just survived an assassination attempt.”
“And children,” she replied without blinking, “are the best answer to fear.”
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, reverent.
Damian’s jaw tightened. My hands stilled.
The rest of breakfast passed in a haze of polite smiles, honeyed words laced with veiled threats, and Damian glaring at the table like it had personally conspired against him. When it was finally over and I was dismissed, I exhaled as if I’d escaped a cage—one gilded, perfumed, and very nearly deadly.
They let me see her that afternoon.
I didn’t wait for permission.
My skirts tangled around my legs as I rushed through the corridors, ignoring the startled looks of servants. I burst into the chamber and found her propped up against pillows, color slowly returning to her face, though she still looked far too small in the bed. Fragile. Breakable.
When her eyes opened and found mine, she smiled weakly.
“Sultana,” she whispered.
I was at her side in seconds, gripping her hand like I might anchor her to this world through sheer will. “You absolute fool,” I breathed, tears blurring my vision. “You scared me half to death.”
She winced faintly. “Worth it?”
I laughed through the ache in my chest, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “Never do that again.”
A presence shifted near the doorway.
Jason stood there, arms crossed, posture guarded—but his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. Not a knight. Not a weapon. Just a man who had almost lost something.
He nodded once. Respectful. Quiet.
“…Thank you,” I said after a moment, my voice steadier than I felt.
“For not letting her die.”
His jaw tightened. “I won’t let it happen again.”
For the first time since arriving in this palace—since being buried beneath silk, suspicion, and whispered threats—I felt something settle in my chest.
The gardens were quiet in that rare, fragile way that only existed between obligations.
Sunlight filtered through the carved arches, scattering gold across marble paths and beds of jasmine. I had kicked off my slippers, letting the cool stone kiss the soles of my feet as I sat beneath a fig tree, skirts pooled around me like spilled ink.
Inaya sat beside me, knees drawn to her chest, a piece of fruit balanced in her palm.
“So,” she said casually, biting into it, “is it true the Sultan scowls in his sleep?”
I choked on my laugh. “He what?”
She grinned, delighted. “Malika swears he frowns like he’s at war with his own dreams.”
I covered my mouth, laughter spilling out anyway. “That explains so much.”
Inaya laughed too, bright and unrestrained. It startled me how easy it was with her—how natural. No titles. No measured words. Just warmth.
“You know,” she said after a moment, softer now, “I thought you’d be… different.”
I raised a brow. “Worse?”
“Colder,” she admitted. “Or cruel. Court stories tend to do that to women in power.” She shrugged. “But you’re kind. And brave. Reckless, but—”
She smiled. “Infuriatingly so.”
We laughed again, shoulders brushing. I told her about the kitchens, about Ali’s scolding and Maryam’s flowers. She told me about growing up in the southern provinces, about dancing barefoot in the dust before silk and jewels replaced freedom.
For a moment, I forgot I was a Sultana.
Then the laughter faded—not because it ended, but because it thinned, like air before a storm.
Inaya’s smile faltered first.
Across the garden, half-hidden behind a column wrapped in ivy, Malika stood perfectly still. Silk clung to her form like a second skin, jewels heavy at her throat. Her expression was carved from something sharp and poisonous, dark eyes fixed on me with naked disdain.
Her gaze slid briefly to Inaya, then back to me—assessing, measuring, resenting.
I felt it then, that familiar tightening in my chest. The reminder.
This palace does not allow softness without consequence.
Inaya straightened subtly, her laughter gone. “She’s been watching you more often,” she murmured. “Since the ball.”
I didn’t look away from Malika. “Let her.”
Malika’s lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
And as she turned and disappeared into the colonnade, I knew this quiet moment in the garden had already been marked.
A/N: Do we remember when i used to post a chapter every day? sigh...gang i'm through changes (2pac reference),ANYWAYS!! I MADE IT EXTRA LONG SO Y'ALL ENJOY IT!! GO AND READ ''𝓦𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭'' BY @gothamwing FOR AN ALTERNATIVE POINT AND STORYYYY!!!!! HER WRITING IT'S GENUINELY AMAZING!!!!
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