The rain returned with a vengeance, washing soot from the air as Gotham's nights grew heavier with rumor.
Word of Silas Boone's death spread quickly; some said Jonathan Wayne had murdered him to keep secrets, others swore they had seen him carrying a cursed book through the flames.
The truth mattered little the city was bending beneath fear, and in fear, The Owe thrived.
Jonathan, Isadora, and Scrap had taken refuge in the crypt beneath St. Brigid's, a crumbling church long abandoned, its stone walls damp with moss and candle smoke.
The journal Boone had given them lay open on the floor, its ink still smelling of fire. Jonathan studied the maps with a grim patience, tracing the tunnels beneath the courthouse with his finger.
"They built a second city under the first," he murmured, half to himself. "A place to move unseen, to hide their gatherings. Boone marked entrances cellars, sewers, basements it's all connected."
Scrap gnawed on stale bread, eyes darting nervously toward the shadows. "So they can be anywhere, Johnny any wall you lean against, any floorboard you sleep on they're under it."
Isadora, seated cross-legged across from Jonathan, spoke softly, her voice carrying a calm weight. "That's why they killed Silas. He could trace them he could name them they want the city blind."
Jonathan closed the journal, jaw tight. "Then we'll open its eyes."
The words had barely left him when the sound came a soft scrape of metal across stone. They all froze from the edge of the crypt, near the crumbling stairwell, something slid beneath the door.
A folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax black as tar.
Jonathan moved slowly, every sense screaming as he picked it up.
The seal was unbroken, but he recognized the mark pressed into the wax: a circle with a jagged line through its center the same symbol Abe had hidden in his belongings the mark of The Owe.
Isadora's voice trembled. "Don't open it."
Jonathan met her eyes, then cracked the seal. The parchment unfurled with deliberate elegance, the handwriting sharp and deliberate, like a blade pressed into flesh.
To Jonathan Wayne
You are summoned to bear witness. A Trial shall be held beneath the city. The charges: Treason, Blood Debt, Heresy against the Circle you will come alone.
Refuse, and more will vanish.
Comply, and truth shall be laid bare the Court Below.
Beneath the words, a single line of ink drew the map to an entrance: the old tanner's yard by the docks.
Jonathan's grip on the parchment tightened until it tore.
"Hell," Scrap whispered, pale beneath the flicker of the candle.
"They're inviting you to your own funeral."
Isadora rose sharply. "Then you don't go you hear me, Jonathan? This is a trap they'll have you chained before you step through the door."
Jonathan's eyes burned in the candlelight. "It's not just for me they killed Silas, kidnapped Delilah, turned Abe against me every move has been theirs, every strike this" he lifted the parchment "this is the first time they've shown their face if I turn away, more people vanish maybe Delilah ,Maybe the next Silas maybe you."
Isadora's hand struck the stone floor. "And what happens when you vanish too?"
The silence that followed was broken by Scrap clearing his throat. "Look, Johnny… I ain't no coward, but I ain't no fool either. They want you scared they want you desperate but maybe… maybe we don't go in blind maybe we use this."
He tapped the journal. "Boone's maps show tunnels under the docks too we scout first we set the field ourselves."
Jonathan looked at him, a flicker of pride cutting through the weight on his shoulders. Scrap was right the boy who once survived on scraps of rumor and alleyway deals had become more than an informant.
He was thinking like a soldier.
Jonathan folded the parchment carefully. "We won't ignore it. But we won't dance their steps either. If this is a trial, then we make it ours."
That night, they slipped through the veins of Gotham, guided by Boone's maps and Scrap's memory of the streets. The city above slept uneasily, but the city below was restless, alive with whispers that echoed through brick and sewer. Rats fled at their passing. Water dripped like a metronome.
The tanner's yard loomed ahead, a ruin by the river where the stench of old hides clung to the stones. Jonathan crouched with Isadora and Scrap among the weeds, watching the yard. The moonlight fell across the yard's central pit, where a rusted grate yawned like the mouth of a beast.
"Boone marked that grate," Jonathan murmured. "It leads to the Court Below."
As if summoned by the words, movement stirred. Hooded figures appeared one by one from the shadows, lanterns casting faint glows.
They filed into the yard in silence, each one lowering themselves through the grate into the earth. Jonathan counted a dozen, maybe more.
The Owe weren't hiding tonight. They were gathering.
Isadora's hand found his. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed fear. "If you go down there, Jonathan, you may not come back up."
Jonathan's gaze never left the grate. "If I don't go, Gotham won't come back up."
Scrap muttered, "Then we ain't lettin' you go alone. I'll crawl behind, unseen if I have to Isadora too they want a trial? Let's give them a reckoning."
Jonathan turned, finally allowing himself the smallest of smiles. For all their fear, for all the blood they'd shed and lost, they were still here. Still choosing to stand beside him.
"Then it's settled," he said. "Tomorrow night, we descend."
He tucked the invitation into Boone's journal, binding the two legacies together fire and ink, death and defiance.
The rain above hammered the earth, but in Jonathan's chest, a fire burned hotter than any that had consumed Boone's library.
The Court Below had called for a trial.
But Jonathan Wayne was ready to turn it into a war.