Shadowflame

It's been a wild week since Raven showed up. Not only did she bond with Kara and Kori like they were long-lost sisters, but she's also moved into Mount Justice. And, of course, because nothing in my life can ever be simple, Mount Justice isn't just a superhero hideout anymore. Nope. Now it's also home to about a thousand witches, wizards, goblins, Veela, and a whole bunch of magical creatures from my old universe. Goblins are setting up banks, hippogriffs are nesting on nearby cliffs, and I'm pretty sure a nundu is prowling the lower tunnels. Basically, Mount Justice has become a magical zoo.

And somehow, I'm in charge of this circus.

Right now, I'm standing in front of a mirror, trying to convince myself I look like the person I'm supposed to be. Which is a lot harder than it sounds.

The guy staring back at me? He's tall, with broad shoulders and a sharp jawline—like someone ripped him straight out of a teen drama show. Black hair, artfully messy. Emerald-green eyes that practically glow, even in bad lighting. If you squint, I look a lot like a young teen heartthrob. You know, minus the whole "part wizard, part superhero" thing.

I adjust the tie on my suit, which costs more than everything I've ever owned—probably even more than my Hogwarts tuition, if that had been a thing. I tug at the cuffs. Straighten the lapels. It's still weird seeing myself in clothes like these. Back at Hogwarts, I spent most of my time in robes or hand-me-downs from Dudley. Now? I'm wearing a custom-tailored suit meant to make me look like a billionaire heir.

Because apparently, that's who I am now.

Charis Peverell. Yeah, say it five times fast. That's the name Batman and Diana cooked up for me—complete with a whole backstory about being the long-lost son of Diana of Themyscira (Wonder Woman, to her friends) and James Peverell (a dead guy Batman made up to keep things legit). Oh, and because I'm technically Diana's kid, that makes me a prince of Themyscira. Not that I can actually go there, being, you know… male. But hey, titles are fun.

Oh, and did I mention that Peverell Industries is a thing now? Batman and the goblins thought it would be a great cover—give me a public identity and let the goblins do what they do best: infiltrate the world economy and make a lot of money. Nothing suspicious about that, right?

I shake my head, half-expecting to wake up from this fever dream.

Just as I'm starting to feel like an imposter in my own skin, the door swings open, and in strolls my support squad—Sirius, Remus, and Talia.

Sirius grins like he's about to drag me to some dodgy pub. "Look at you, kid! Sharp as a dragon's tooth." He claps me on the back, nearly knocking the air out of me. "Your old man—" He catches himself, grinning slyly. "I mean, James—would've been proud."

"Gee, thanks, Pads," I mutter. "That really clears things up."

Remus steps in next, looking about as comfortable as a cat in water. He's pulling at his sleeves like the suit is slowly strangling him, but even he looks polished. "The suit fits," he mutters.

High praise, coming from Moony.

Then there's Talia. Cool, collected, and terrifyingly competent. She glides into the room like she owns it—and, to be fair, she kinda does. As far as the world knows, she's Talia Tate, CEO of Peverell Industries. As far as I know, she could kill me with a business card and wouldn't lose any sleep over it.

"You're fidgeting," Talia says, arching one perfect brow. "Stop it. You'll make us look unprofessional."

"Oh yeah, wouldn't want to ruin our totally normal corporate image," I say with a grin that's 90% nerves.

Talia gives me a look that could freeze lava. "You need to embrace the role, Harry. If you don't believe you're Charis Peverell, no one else will."

Before I can tell her how helpful that advice is (spoiler: it's not), Sirius leans in and whispers, "Don't worry, kid. Just wing it. Works every time."

"Yeah, because your plans always go so smoothly," Remus mutters, shooting Sirius a tired glare.

I take a deep breath and glance back at the mirror. The guy staring at me still looks like a stranger. But I don't have a choice. This whole thing is happening, whether I'm ready or not.

Talia checks her watch. "We leave in five. Try not to look like you're going to throw up."

"Thanks for the pep talk, Talia," I say with a smirk. "Really inspiring."

She rolls her eyes and sweeps out of the room, followed by Sirius and Remus. Sirius pauses at the door, flashing me one last grin. "Remember, kid—you're Charis Peverell now. And Charis Peverell? He doesn't sweat stuff like this."

"Yeah, well," I mutter as he leaves, "Charis Peverell sounds exhausting."

Alone again, I stare at my reflection one more time. I square my shoulders, adjust my cuffs, and force myself to smile.

"Alright, Charis," I say to the mirror. "Time to make the world believe."

And with that, I turn away and head out the door, hoping nobody realizes just how out of my depth I really am.

—

The limo glides through the streets of Metropolis like it owns the road, smooth as butter. Inside, I'm doing my best to not completely freak out. Which, let's be real, is pretty impressive given the circumstances. I'm in a limo on my way to a freaking UN summit, flanked by three of the most dangerous and unpredictable people I know. What could possibly go wrong?

Sirius is sprawled out on the leather seat across from me, looking as relaxed as if we're heading to a theme park instead of a diplomatic event. Remus sits next to him, one leg crossed over the other, sipping quietly from a flask he definitely didn't clear with security. And Talia? She's on my left, cool as a cucumber, flipping through today's Daily Planet like it's her personal to-do list.

"Enjoying the quiet before the chaos?" Sirius asks with a grin.

"Yeah, nothing says 'calm' like an impending diplomatic nightmare," I mutter, adjusting the tie that still feels like a noose.

Talia folds the newspaper with surgical precision, then nudges it toward me with two fingers. "You might want to see this."

Curious (and a little suspicious—because Talia doesn't just hand things over without reason), I glance down at the headline.

NEW HERO ON THE BLOCK: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH CHARIS PEVERELL (aka SHADOWFLAME), THE TEENAGE WONDER WHO KNOCKED OUT BLACK ADAM.

There's a photo of me, mid-flame-wing, looking way cooler than I felt at the time. I'm in my Shadowflame suit—black and gold, with a crimson gemstone embedded in the chest. The wings, made entirely of fire, look like something out of a myth, which was kind of the point. They flare out behind me as I hover just above the ground, like a phoenix trying to blend in with the locals.

I cringe internally, because, let's be honest: the whole thing was Batman's idea. It wasn't just about punching Black Adam in the face (though that part was satisfying). It was about making sure people saw me do it. Building credibility. Public perception. All that strategic Bat-nonsense. The interview with Lois Lane was the cherry on top. If people believe in Shadowflame, they'll believe in Charis Peverell. And if they believe in Charis, the whole backstory Bruce concocted holds water.

And it's working. Maybe too well.

"I don't suppose there's an article about keeping impostor syndrome at bay?" I ask, shooting Talia a look.

She arches a brow, because Talia doesn't believe in syndromes. "You're in the spotlight now, Harry. Best get comfortable."

I let out a low groan and slump deeper into the leather seat. "Yeah, no pressure."

Remus chuckles softly. "It could be worse."

"Worse how?" I ask, half-expecting the universe to answer by throwing a meteor at us.

"You could've been interviewed by Clark Kent," Remus says. "He'd make you cry halfway through, and you wouldn't even know how it happened."

Sirius laughs so hard I'm worried the driver might hear him. "I'd pay good money to see that."

"Glad my existential crisis is entertaining for you," I mutter, rubbing my temples.

Talia doesn't even blink. "It's not a crisis, Harry. It's branding."

I shoot her an incredulous look. "You say that like it's better."

She smirks. "It is. If you do it right."

I glance at the paper again, catching another glimpse of myself as Shadowflame. I've only been operating under that name for a couple of months, and somehow the whole world already knows who I am. That's what happens when you punch someone like Black Adam in the jaw. You don't just make headlines. You become the headline.

The problem is, Shadowflame is everything Charis Peverell is supposed to be—confident, powerful, larger than life. But Charis Peverell? That's still me, Harry Potter. And Harry Potter? He's just a guy in an expensive suit, pretending not to drown under the weight of expectations.

Sirius claps a hand on my shoulder. "Relax, kid. You've got this."

I wish I believed him. But for now, I settle for a half-smile and hope it looks convincing.

Because ready or not, Shadowflame is about to make his diplomatic debut. And something tells me it's going to be one hell of a show.

—

The limo glides to a smooth stop, and before I even have time to adjust my tie one last time, I see the flashing lights outside. There's enough paparazzi camped out at the entrance to start a small riot. Cameras click and whirr like an army of digital mosquitoes, eager to capture every moment of our arrival.

Sirius whistles low. "Look at that. They rolled out the red carpet just for us."

"Yeah," I mutter, eyeing the crowd. "It's either that or they're preparing for a feeding frenzy."

Remus shoots me a look of quiet sympathy but smooths it over with his usual calm demeanor. "We've faced worse. Remember the time you escaped that horde of Dementors? This should be easier. Just smile."

Right. Smile. Easy.

Talia catches my eye and gives me a subtle nod. She's already in full CEO mode—poised, collected, and so sharp she could cut glass with just a glance. "Stay in character," she murmurs. "The prince, the billionaire, the hero. You are Charis Peverell."

No pressure or anything. Just your average, everyday Teenage Billionaire Prince with a secret superhero identity.

Sirius adjusts his cufflinks, smirking like he's been waiting his whole life for this kind of attention. "Follow our lead, kid. We'll handle the vultures."

Before I can second-guess the whole operation, the door swings open, and the outside world explodes in a shower of camera flashes and shouted questions.

"Mr. Black! Over here!"

"Is that really Charis Peverell?"

"Ms. Tate, what's Peverell Industries' next big move?"

"How does it feel to be a teenage billionaire, Charis?"

Talia, Sirius, and Remus step out first, effortlessly falling into their assigned roles. They look like they've done this a hundred times—cool and untouchable, giving just enough attention to keep the reporters on edge but not enough to spill anything meaningful. The media swarms them, and for a brief moment, I watch in awe as they dismantle the barrage of questions with the precision of a heist crew.

"Mr. Peverell is excited to meet with world leaders at the summit today," Talia says with a smile that could stop traffic.

"Of course, Charis will answer questions when appropriate," Sirius adds, flashing a grin that makes a few reporters blush. "He's still getting used to all the attention."

Remus plays the quiet, responsible adult, fielding inquiries about the company's future with a smile so sincere it's almost unnerving. "We'll release an official statement later today."

They're good. Really good. Which means I just have to not screw this up.

My turn.

Taking a breath, I step out into the chaos, and for a second, the flashbulbs blind me. The crowd surges, shouting questions, but I channel every ounce of Shadowflame's confidence. I stand tall, let a lazy grin spread across my face, and give the crowd what they came for: Teenage Billionaire Prince with a side of mystery.

I raise a hand in a small, half-wave, just the right amount of "I'm too cool for this" without coming off as rude. Cameras click like crazy.

"Charis! Over here!"

"What's your favorite part of being a superhero?"

"Any comment on your connection to Themyscira?"

I don't answer any of them, of course. That's not how this works. The art of being Charis Peverell is all about looking like you could say something profound at any moment—but choosing not to. Instead, I keep walking, flanked by my very protective entourage. The message is clear: I'm important, I'm in control, and I've got people to handle the messy stuff.

We glide up the steps toward the entrance like we belong there, the crowd trailing behind us in a blur of noise and lights. I can feel the weight of their gazes on me—everyone trying to figure me out. They see the heir to a billion-dollar empire, a prince by blood, and a superhero by choice. They have no idea I'm also a kid who still gets nervous tying a Windsor knot.

Sirius leans in as we reach the summit doors, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "See? Told you you'd nail it."

I give him a quick glance. "If nailing it means not puking in front of fifty reporters, then yeah, I nailed it."

He chuckles. "That's the spirit, kid."

Talia steps ahead, her heels clicking smartly against the marble as she leads us through the entrance. "Welcome to the big leagues, Charis. Better get used to it."

As the grand doors swing shut behind us, cutting off the roar of the paparazzi, I allow myself a small sigh of relief. One hurdle down. Now all I have to do is survive the UN summit without accidentally starting a diplomatic incident.

Easy, right?

—

From the shadowy perch of a high-rise across the street, Slade Wilson—better known to the world as Deathstroke—adjusts the scope of his rifle. The cold metal of the weapon feels comfortable in his hands, as natural as breathing. His one remaining eye narrows as he watches the limo roll to a stop beneath the UN summit building, and the four passengers step out into the chaos of cameras and questions.

"Look at them," Slade mutters, mostly to himself. "Parading around like royalty."

His daughter, Rose, sits beside him, chewing gum with all the enthusiasm of someone trying to stave off boredom. She's in full costume—her signature white-and-black armor, a katana strapped to her back—but she lounges in her chair like it's casual Friday.

"Teenage billionaire superhero," she says, watching Harry through a pair of binoculars. "I mean, come on, Dad. This kid's living the dream."

Slade doesn't reply immediately. His focus is on Charis Peverell—the heir apparent of some conveniently resurrected fortune, prince of Themyscira by blood, and, if the rumors are to be believed, the new superhero everyone's talking about: Shadowflame. Slade's been around long enough to smell something fishy when it wafts his way, and this kid stinks of secrets.

Rose blows a bubble and lets it pop loudly, earning a glare from her father. "Relax. It's not like they can hear me from all the way up here."

Slade shifts his weight slightly, still tracking Harry through the scope. "Don't underestimate him, Rose. That kid might look soft, but he decked Black Adam hard enough to put him in traction."

Rose raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, and I bet that punch felt really good. Admit it—you're impressed."

Slade doesn't answer. He's not the kind of man who admits to being impressed, especially by teenagers. Instead, he watches as Harry moves through the crowd, his every step measured, every glance calculated. If Slade hadn't known better, he might've thought the kid was born into this life. But Slade does know better. The name "Peverell" might sound like old money, but it's a name nobody had heard of until recently. And now, suddenly, it's attached to Themyscira, Peverell Industries, and a fire-winged superhero?

"Something's not right with him," Slade mutters.

"Yeah, no kidding," Rose says. "You think he knows Talia's using him?"

Slade's jaw tightens beneath his mask. "He'll figure it out sooner or later. The question is, when—and how badly it'll blow up in her face when he does."

Rose tilts her head, as if reconsidering the boy in the binoculars. "So, what's the plan? Wait until he's royally screwed, or...?"

Slade's lips curl into a thin, predatory grin. "We watch. We wait. And when the time's right..." He lets the sentence hang, knowing Rose can fill in the blanks.

Rose's grin mirrors her father's, a dangerous glint in her eye. "You always did know how to make a girl's day, Dad."

The two of them sit in comfortable silence, watching as Harry disappears inside with his entourage. Slade lowers the scope and leans back, mentally running through the hundred ways this could all go sideways.

"Keep an eye on him," he tells Rose. "The kid's a wild card, and I don't like wild cards."

Rose taps her binoculars against her knee, chewing thoughtfully on her gum. "You think Talia's plan is gonna work?"

Slade shrugs. "Doesn't matter. When it doesn't—" He taps his temple. "We'll be there to pick up the pieces."

And with that, the mercenary father-daughter duo settle in, watching the building like hawks, knowing it's only a matter of time before the cracks start to show.

—

The second we step inside, the paparazzi go absolutely bonkers. Flashes go off like strobe lights at a bad rave, and the noise? It's a chaotic mix of shouted questions, camera clicks, and way-too-eager reporters calling out my "name" like we're best friends. Honestly, if I didn't have super hearing, I could pretend they were yelling at someone else.

I play the role like I was born into it: casual grin, hands in my pockets, the kind of walk that says, Yeah, I own the place—and maybe the next five blocks too. Meanwhile, Sirius and Remus are doing their thing—flashing charming, non-answers to the reporters. They've got the whole "mysterious board members of Peverell Industries" routine down pat. Talia, on the other hand, looks like she could run for office with how smooth she handles the press, batting questions aside with a smile that says, Try harder, amateurs.

All I have to do is look like the perfect combination of teenage billionaire, royal prince, and fire-winged superhero. No pressure, right?

And then I see her—Diana.

She's standing by the entrance to the hall, looking every bit the Amazonian goddess she is. I mean, technically she is one, but even if she weren't, she's got that whole I can punch a tank in half and still make it to brunch on time energy down. She's in full warrior-princess mode: dark hair falling over her shoulders, eyes calm but sharp enough to cut steel.

The second our eyes meet, her expression softens, and I can't help but grin.

Without even thinking, I break away from the others and head toward her. The cameras behind me go wild—guess the press really loves a good "family reunion" shot.

"Mom," I say as I wrap my arms around her. It still feels weird to call her that, but hey, it sells the story.

Diana hugs me tightly, and for a moment, all the pretense fades. She's got this warm, grounding presence that makes everything—superhero stuff, secret identities, even this—feel manageable.

"You're doing well, Charis," she says softly. She always uses my "official" name when we're out in public, just to drill the cover in a little deeper.

I grin. "Not bad for a kid from Little Whinging, huh?"

She pulls back slightly, her expression a mix of fondness and warning. "My mother is very excited to meet you."

Oh. Right. Queen Hippolyta. The actual queen of Themyscira. No pressure or anything.

"So, uh... how's she feeling about all this?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "Like, on a scale from 'formal handshake' to 'you're-not-good-enough-for-my-daughter.'"

Diana's lips twitch, but she doesn't quite smile. "She's... traditional."

Yeah. I figured. In other words: Don't screw this up, kid.

"And what about Donna?" I ask, shifting gears. Diana's sixteen-year-old adopted sister is technically my aunt now, which is both hilarious and terrifying.

Diana's eyes sparkle with amusement. "She's excited to meet you. She's already trying to figure out what she can teach you."

I groan. "Great. So she's planning to kill me, then?"

"She likes to test people," Diana says, way too calmly. "It's an Amazon thing."

"Oh, I bet it is." I sigh dramatically. "So what's the protocol here? Do I call her Aunt Donna? Aunt Wonder Girl? Auntie Amazon?"

Diana nudges me with her shoulder, her expression warm but firm. "Just behave."

"No promises." I smirk, because let's be real—when have I ever?

We pull apart just as the paparazzi outside press closer, their cameras still pointed our way. Diana gives me that look—the one that says, Stay sharp. Remember why we're here.

I straighten my jacket, slip my arm through hers, and flash her my best "I've-got-this" grin. "Ready to knock some political socks off?"

She loops her arm through mine like royalty does this sort of thing every day. "Let's."

And with that, we step into the hall together: Wonder Woman and her "son," striding into a room full of ambassadors, politicians, and people just waiting for me to mess up.

Somewhere in this mess, Queen Hippolyta is waiting to meet me—and Donna, too. If I play my cards right, I'll make it out with my dignity intact. If not? Well, at least I've already got fire wings. Those might come in handy for a quick exit.

—

The room they bring us to is massive—vaulted ceilings, gold trim, all that regal flair you'd expect from a diplomatic summit. It's like they took the Sistine Chapel, threw in some Atlantean architecture, and sprinkled in a bit of Themysciran magic just to make everyone feel underdressed. Which, lucky me, I'm not.

I tug at the cuff of my ridiculously expensive jacket, making sure I still look like "Charis Peverell, Teenage Billionaire Prince," even if I feel more like "Harry Potter, who is very much winging it right now."

At Diana's side, I step through the doorway, and there she is—the Queen Hippolyta, ruler of Themyscira, legendary Amazon warrior, and the woman I'm supposed to convince I belong in this insane world.

She stands by the far wall, straight-backed and regal, her armor gleaming as if she just came from battle. Her long blonde hair is braided intricately, her crown perched in place like it was forged to intimidate. And judging by the way she looks at me, I'd say mission accomplished.

The moment her piercing gaze lands on me, I feel like I just got hit with a Stunner. No smile, no warmth—just cold assessment, like she's reading every secret I've ever tried to keep buried.

Perfect. Just what I need: a magical lie detector with a sword.

Beside her stands Donna Troy—Diana's 16-year-old adopted sister, which makes her, hilariously enough, my aunt. She's got this wild, mischievous glint in her dark eyes, like she's two seconds away from challenging me to a duel just to see what I'm made of. She's wearing a sleek black outfit with silver accents that somehow screams both "superhero" and "troublemaker."

I give her a polite smile, trying to stay cool. She grins back, way too eager.

Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun.

Diana steps forward, and I follow her lead. "Mother, this is Charis."

I bow slightly, because you bow to queens, even if they're technically family. "Your Majesty."

Hippolyta arches a brow. Her expression says, That better not be the best you've got. I resist the urge to tug at my collar and remind myself I fought Black Adam. I can do this.

"It's an honor to meet you," I add, keeping my voice steady. "I've heard so much about you."

Her stare doesn't waver. "I imagine you have."

Okay. Off to a great start.

Donna leans closer, not even pretending to be subtle. "So, do those fire wings of yours really come out whenever you want, or is it more of a 'magic mood ring' situation?"

Before I can answer, Hippolyta clears her throat, silencing Donna with nothing but a look. Donna just shrugs, like What? I was curious.

Diana steps between us, clearly in her diplomatic mode. "Mother, Donna, I'd like you to officially welcome Charis as part of our family. He carries the name Peverell, but he is also my son in every way that matters."

I glance at Diana, a little taken aback by how easily those words roll off her tongue. It's like she really means it, like she's not just saying it for the sake of the cover. And weirdly? That makes me feel... good.

Hippolyta studies me a moment longer, then gives the slightest nod. "You have your mother's courage."

It's a small compliment, but I'll take it. I give her my best charming smile—the one that's gotten me out of trouble more times than I care to admit. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Donna, meanwhile, has no intention of letting me off easy. She steps closer, looking me up and down like I'm a shiny new toy. "So, when do we spar?"

"Spar?" I blink. "We just met."

Donna grins, like that's not a good excuse at all. "Exactly. Best way to get to know someone."

Diana places a hand on Donna's shoulder before things can spiral too far. "Later, Donna."

Donna pouts, but Hippolyta gives a subtle nod of approval. "Your aunt is right. It is important to know how someone fights."

Great. Family bonding, Amazon-style.

I plaster on my best smile and pretend I'm not slightly terrified. "Looking forward to it."

Donna's grin widens. "Hope you can keep up, Prince."

Oh boy. What have I gotten myself into?

—

Meeting royalty is a lot like juggling flaming swords—you're expected to smile, stay graceful, and definitely not drop anything, or, you know, set yourself on fire. With Diana on my arm, we weave through the crowd of UN dignitaries, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. I smile when required, nod like I actually care about diplomatic trade deals, and try not to think about how if I was in my superhero suit, it would've made all of this way more fun.

And then, as if this circus wasn't lively enough, the Atlantean delegation arrives, and the whole room collectively loses its mind.

The doors swing open, and in walks Aquaman—sorry, King Orin. I swear the guy looks like he just walked out of a shampoo commercial, with that perfect salt-and-pepper beard and ocean-colored armor that gleams like it's never seen a barnacle. Behind him is Queen Mera, looking like she's ready to drown anyone who sneezes in her general direction. Her red hair flows behind her like it's powered by some magical underwater breeze.

Then there's Mareena, the sixteen-year-old princess who's way too comfortable with teasing me about every part of my life. She spots me instantly, and, yep—there it is. That smug grin she always wears when she knows something I don't. Which, by the way, is often.

Kaldur'ahm follows right behind them, calm as ever. He's Aquaman's sidekick and one of my closest friends in the Justice League. Where I have wings made of fire, Kaldur wields magical water whips and somehow manages to look dignified doing it. If I tried that, I'd just end up soaking everyone and slipping on the floor.

Mareena makes a beeline for me, giving me a quick once-over like she's judging a fashion show. "Charis," she says with a grin, "nice suit. Very billionaire chic. Though I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed the wings didn't make an appearance."

I flash her a grin right back. "Didn't want to outshine your dad. It's a courtesy thing."

She laughs—one of those easy, teasing laughs that says she knows exactly how full of it I am. "Kara and Kori send their love, by the way. They told me not to steal you away, but… no promises."

I roll my eyes. "Tell them I said thanks for the vote of confidence."

Kaldur, ever the practical one, steps up next to us and raises an eyebrow. "Mareena, do you ever stop trying to cause trouble?"

"Why would I?" she replies, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Kaldur just shakes his head, then gives me a small nod. "Good to see you, Shadowflame. Surviving all this?"

"Barely," I mutter. "If someone hands me one more canapé, I swear I'm going to start setting things on fire."

"Don't," Kaldur advises with a rare smile. "Not unless you want your mother to ground you."

Before I can fire back a witty comeback, the king himself approaches. Aquaman isn't just a king—he looks like one. His sea-green eyes lock onto me, and for a split second, I feel like I'm about to get a lecture about the importance of tidal currents or something equally ocean-y.

"Charis Peverell," he says in a voice that could command a hurricane. "Good to see you again. I've been hearing quite a bit about you from other League members."

"Hopefully good things?" I say, aiming for polite but landing somewhere closer to awkward.

Aquaman's grin is sharp, like the edge of a trident. "Mostly."

Before I can figure out whether that's a compliment or a veiled threat, Mera steps in with a smile that's just as sharp as her husband's. "You carry yourself well, young prince. Your mother should be proud."

Diana squeezes my arm, and I'm about ninety percent sure it's a silent warning not to say anything dumb.

I bow slightly, keeping my expression as prince-like as I can manage. "It's an honor to meet you both." I glance at Mareena and smirk. "And, of course, always a pleasure to see you."

Mareena returns my smirk with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Obviously."

With the pleasantries out of the way, the Atlanteans are soon swept up by the flow of the crowd, leaving me with Diana and Kaldur.

"Good job," Kaldur says quietly. "You managed not to insult any royalty. That's progress."

"Thanks," I mutter. "I'll put it on my résumé: Didn't embarrass myself in front of Aquaman."

Kaldur's expression softens just enough to show amusement. "Remember, it's not just about survival. It's about making an impression."

"Yeah, well," I mutter under my breath, "hopefully that impression isn't 'awkward teenage billionaire with a thing for fire wings.'"

Kaldur just gives me one of those cryptic, knowing looks and slips back into the crowd, leaving me to ponder the fact that this—playing the role of Charis Peverell—might just be more complicated than punching Black Adam in the face.

---

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