The storm broke over Gotham that night, a hard rain falling in sheets against slate rooftops and cobblestone streets.
The city's lamps flickered, smoke rose from the chimneys of the factories, and the East End sewers belched steam into the night air. But it was not the weather that set Gotham trembling it was the fire.
Jonathan Wayne had chased whispers for months, following cryptic maps etched in hidden tunnels, stolen notes from Father Vale's sermons, and confessions wrung from dying men.
All of it led here: to the Founders' District, the oldest part of Gotham, where the city's bones were buried beneath grand facades.
He moved quickly through the slick streets, Lionel Crane at his side, Scrap trailing close behind despite Jonathan's command to stay at the safehouse.
The boy wouldn't be left behind; his eyes burned with the same desperate need for truth that haunted Jonathan.
"Tell me again why we're chasing shadows in the middle of a storm?" Crane muttered, adjusting his soaked overcoat.
"Because shadows are where the truth hides," Jonathan said, voice tight. His hand gripped the revolver at his belt, though he knew bullets alone wouldn't protect him from what they might find.
They stopped at an abandoned courthouse, its stone steps cracked and moss-eaten, windows boarded, its once-proud clock tower silent.
This was Gotham's first courthouse, Scrap had learned from Silas Boone the historian whose trembling hands had drawn a map across a whiskey-stained napkin before vanishing days later.
"This is where it started," Jonathan said, staring up at the looming facade. "Where the first trials were held. Where the Owe took their oath of blood."
Inside, the air was thick with mildew and ash. Their lanterns cast long shadows across wooden pews, burned black by an old fire.
At the center of the chamber lay a stone seal half-buried, cracked but still marked with the same symbol Jonathan had seen carved on walls, rings, and skin: a circle split by a downward line, like a coin cleaved in two.
The Owe.
Scrap knelt, brushing dirt away with his sleeve. "This isn't just a mark," he whispered. "It's a lock."
And then they heard it: voices. Dozens of them, echoing through the chamber.
Jonathan motioned them to hide, crouching behind a row of charred benches. The main doors groaned open, and a procession of robed figures entered, lanterns held high.
At their head walked Elijah Blackthorn, his black cane striking stone with each step, his silver ring flashing in the dim light.
"Brothers," Blackthorn's voice rang out, smooth and commanding, "we gather here to renew what was begun in fire."
The figures circled the stone seal.
A priest Father Mordecai Vale lifted a heavy tome, its pages yellow with age. He read in a voice like gravel: the founding of Gotham, the pact made in blood, the promise that for every coin earned, a life must be paid.
Jonathan's stomach twisted this was it the proof. Gotham's wealth was not built on progress or toil, but on sacrifice. Its foundations were soaked in blood.
Blackthorn raised a goblet, crimson liquid swirling inside. "The Founders gave us fire to claim this land," he intoned. "Tonight, we feed that fire anew."
Two men dragged a prisoner forward, gagged and bound. His eyes were wide with terror. Jonathan recognized him instantly William Ashford, the journalist who had tried to print the truth.
"Damn it," Crane hissed, reaching for his pistol. Jonathan grabbed his arm. "Not yet. We don't get another chance if we fail."
But it was too late. Scrap had risen, his fists clenched, face pale with fury. Before Jonathan could stop him, the boy shouted, "Cowards! You'll burn with the city you built!"
The chamber erupted in chaos.
Robes turned, lanterns flared, and Blackthorn's smile cut through the noise like a blade. "Ah the rat returns."
Jonathan burst from cover, revolver drawn.
Gunfire cracked, wood splintered, and the council scattered for cover. Crane took down two cloaked men before a blow from behind sent him sprawling.
Jonathan's bullet shattered Vale's lantern, plunging the room into half-darkness.
Through the haze, Blackthorn stood unmoving, his cane raised like a conductor's baton. "You think to fight the fire?" he called, laughter curling through his words. "You are the fire, Wayne. You just don't see it yet."
Jonathan lunged toward the seal. Scrap was already there, clawing at its edge. Together they heaved, stone grinding against stone, until the cracked slab shifted.
Beneath it yawned a pit, and from that pit rose heat, glowing red as a furnace. The air reeked of burnt flesh.
Cries filled the chamber not of fear, but of worship. The Owe fell to their knees, chanting in tongues older than Gotham itself. Blackthorn spread his arms, the firelight painting him in gold and crimson.
"Behold the flames that founded Gotham!" he cried. "They do not die they consume! And tonight, Wayne, they claim what your family owes!"
Jonathan's blood froze. His family. His name. Somehow, this all tied back to him.
Before he could speak, Vale seized the goblet and hurled its contents into the pit. The flames roared higher, licking the ceiling, spreading through cracks in the walls.
The courthouse shuddered as if alive, timbers groaning, dust falling like ash.
Jonathan pulled Scrap away, shouting to Crane to grab Ashford. Together they fought through smoke and fire, Blackthorn's laughter following them as the building began to collapse.
At the threshold, Jonathan turned back. Through the choking smoke, he saw Blackthorn standing on the stone seal, arms lifted, the flames curling around him like serpents. That smile again calm, eternal.
"Run if you must," Blackthorn called. "But you carry Gotham's curse in your blood, Jonathan Wayne. You cannot escape it. Not you, not your sons, not theirs."
The roof groaned and gave way. Jonathan staggered out into the storm just as the courthouse erupted in an inferno. Flames climbed into the night, lighting Gotham's skyline, a fiery crown upon the city's oldest district.
Scrap coughed violently, ash streaking his face. "They'll burn us all. Won't they?"
Jonathan held the boy close, his eyes fixed on the flames devouring the courthouse. His heart pounded with dread and defiance. "Not if I burn them first."
Behind him, the courthouse collapsed into a mountain of embers. But the chant of the Owe lingered in the air, rising from the fire, a hymn to Gotham's true foundation.
And Jonathan knew then: the war had only just begun.