The King’s Court
“You’re trespassing,” the King says softly.
And behind him, every ghost in the Realms rises.
They don’t roar. They don’t charge.
They simply stand — a silent army made of light and death and memory.
Some are armored knights. Some are broken children.
Some wear faces the League swore they’d never see again.
Superman’s breath catches when he recognizes one —
a farmer from Smallville who died in the Black Mercy crisis.
He’s smiling. At peace.
Batman’s hand drops to his belt.
Not in threat — in thought.
His scanners are screaming: energy spikes, temperature collapse, matter-phase instability.
The boy on the throne could erase them with a flick of his wrist.
But he doesn’t.
He just keeps braiding the little girl’s hair — silver strands woven with starlight.
“King Phantom,” Constantine murmurs under his breath. “Bloody hell. It’s real.”
The boy finally looks up.
Eyes like supernovas. Cold and kind all at once.
“I told your kind not to cross,” he says. “The veil exists for a reason.”
Wonder Woman steps forward, lowering her sword.
“We came seeking truth. There are souls trapped here — heroes who never moved on.”
The King tilts his head. “Trapped? You think I chain them?”
He gestures. The ghosts behind him shimmer.
“They stay because they want to. This is home.”
A child runs up and tugs at his sleeve.
“Your Majesty, can we show them the gardens?”
The boy smiles faintly. “Not today, little star.”
The temperature drops. Frost creeps across the floor.
The League can feel it — the pulse of divine power, steady and mournful.
“Why are you protecting the dead from us?” Superman asks, softly this time.
The King stands.
When he does, the throne dissolves into mist.
“I’m not protecting them from you,” he says. “I’m protecting you from them.”
The air hums. For a moment, every soul flickers — faces twisting through grief, rage, longing.
And then, silence again.
The boy steps closer, barefoot on the ice.
“You don’t understand what death remembers,” he says.
“You see peace. I see eternity.”
Batman meets his gaze. “You used to be human.”
The King’s smile falters — a crack in the crown of light.
“Yes,” he says. “Once. I remember what it was to be small and scared and alive.”
He looks past them, to the rippling green sky.
“And that’s why I built this place. So no one ever has to be scared again.”
The League doesn’t move. None of them do.
The ghosts are watching — waiting.
Then the King lifts his hand.
A door of swirling light opens behind them.
“Go home,” he says gently. “And tell your gods to stay out of my skies.”
And just before the portal swallows them, Batman hears the faintest whisper —
a child’s voice, bright and happy:
“Daddy, we finished the stars!”
He turns — but the King is gone.
Only the laughter of children echoes in the frost.
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