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The Lazarus Pit had given Jason his body back, but it hadn’t given him peace. Six months later, he still flinched at his own reflection, at the shadows that caught on the edges of his vision, at the silence that stretched too long between breaths.
And worst of all—the dark.
It had been his prison for so long. The warehouse, the coffin, the damp stone floors of the Joker’s hideouts. The dark was where the laughter came from, where fists landed without warning, where pain arrived before he even had time to brace. The dark was where he died—at least, mentally.
So now, when the lights guttered out in the League compound, when the torches in the hallways burned too low, when the night pressed too close, Jason felt himself unraveling in the dark.
Tonight was one of those nights.
His quarters had felt too small, too suffocating. He’d tried to bury his face in the pillow, tried to remind himself he wasn’t there anymore, that he wasn’t fourteen and hurt and waiting for everything to end. But his chest ached, and the walls closed in, and before he knew it his feet had carried him to the familiar door at the end of the hall.
Talia’s chamber.
Jason stood frozen in the threshold, barely able to breathe properly. The lamps inside were dim, only a few flickering flames reflecting off polished steel and silk curtains. The shadows felt alive, like they had teeth and slowly gnawing into his skin. He couldn’t step forward, yet he couldn’t bring himself to retreat either.
“Jason,” Talia said softly. She had been reading by the low fire, a dagger resting unsheathed in her lap. She set both aside without hesitation, her dark eyes finding his. “Come.”
His throat closed. He shook his head frantically, jaw clenched, fists trembling. “I can’t. It’s—”
The words broke. He hated himself for it. He was sixteen, trained by assassins, reborn in fire. He wasn’t supposed to be afraid of something as simple as the dark. And yet here he was, shaking like a child.
Talia rose smoothly from her seat, crossing the floor with her usual grace. She didn’t ask questions or demand explanations, she only reached out and took his hand.
Jason flinched at the contact, startled by the warmth of her fingers. But she didn’t let go. Her grip was firm, yet very gentle against his skin, her thumb brushing once across the back of his hand.
“It is only shadow,” she murmured, her voice low, calm. “It cannot harm you.”
Jason swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. “It did before,” he whispered, and his voice sounded so young, even to himself.
For a moment, Talia was silent. Then she drew him gently into the room. Not pulling, not forcing—just guiding, step by step, until his feet moved of their own accord despite shaking. She led him to the low couch by the fire, still holding his hand as if she knew he needed the tether.
The chamber smelled faintly of jasmine and steel, smoke and incense. The flames cast a soft glow that kept the worst of the shadows at bay. Jason let himself sink onto the cushions, chest rising and falling in shallow and ragged breaths.
Talia sat beside him, never letting go of the hold. Her thumb traced slow circles over his knuckles, steady, deliberate, until the tremors in his shoulders eased. Jason stared at their joined hands, at the strength in her grip. He didn’t deserve this—not after everything, not after what he’d become—but he couldn’t let go either.
“You are not weak for this,” Talia said at last. Her tone was quiet but unyielding, leaving no room for argument. “You have faced death itself. Even warriors carry scars the eye cannot see.”
Jason clenched his jaw, trying to hold himself together. He wanted to scoff, to tell her he didn’t need comfort, but the words wouldn’t come. He only tightened his grip on her hand, desperate, ashamed, and grateful all at once.
Talia shifted closer, brushing her free hand gently over his hair, as though smoothing down the edges of a nightmare. “You are alive, Jason,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “The darkness cannot take you again. Not while I am here.”
Jason’s breath hitched, and for the first time in months, the weight pressing down on his chest lifted just a little.
The dark was still outside, endless and waiting. But her hand was steady in his, her presence a shield stronger than walls or weapons. For the first time since he’d clawed his way back from the Pit, Jason closed his eyes in the dark and didn’t feel like he was falling.
That night, it was enough.