The tunnels breathed like the lungs of the earth, wet with dripping stone and echoing with every step.
Jonathan led the way, lantern in hand, the flame trembling against slick walls carved by hands long dead.
Scrap followed, his jaw set, while Isadora walked just behind Jonathan, her fingers brushing the cold limestone as though to anchor herself.
Crane brought up the rear, muttering prayers under his breath that no one else wanted to hear.
The descent seemed endless. Narrow steps spiraled downward until the air itself felt ancient, tinged with salt and soot. Faint whispers rose through the stone not the scurrying of rats, not wind, but human voices. Chanting.
Jonathan raised a hand. They paused, listening. The sound grew louder: a rhythm of breath and syllable, building into a tide.
When they reached the final archway, the cavern opened wide before them. Torches burned in iron sconces, casting jagged shadows over a vast chamber shaped like a cathedral buried beneath the city.
Dozens of figures in black robes and silver masks knelt in concentric circles around a low stone altar. At the center of the altar lay a mound of ash not cold, but smoldering faintly as though the dead still smoldered there.
Jonathan's stomach clenched. The ashes looked endless, a mountain ground fine. Scrap whispered, voice raw:
"God… how many did they put in there?"
Isadora's face tightened, her jaw rigid, but she said nothing.
At the altar's base stood Elijah, robed in steel-grey, his mask more ornate than the others.
In one hand he held a staff topped with a blackened circle. His voice cut through the chant like a blade.
"We gather for the covenant. We gather for the Owe. Fire claims what was promised, and blood seals what remains."
The congregation bent low, their chanting swelling.
Jonathan froze as his eyes moved across the crowd. Among the masked, kneeling figures, one lifted their head.
A mask of hammered bronze stared back familiar in height, in posture, in something deeper. His heart faltered.
It was Abe.
Jonathan almost stepped forward, his throat tightening with a cry he dared not release. Scrap caught his arm before he could move.
"Don't," he hissed. "You'll give us all away."
But the sight rooted itself in Jonathan's mind: his brother, veiled by the Owe, kneeling in obedience.
Elijah raised his arms. "The ledger is nearly full. The tithe nears its century mark. And as it was in the beginning, so shall it be again blood for blood, fire for fire, Wayne for Gotham."
The crowd thundered their reply, the cavern shaking with the sound. Jonathan's chest burned, fury and dread entwined.
He wanted to rush them, to end it here but Isadora's hand gripped his sleeve. Her eyes, steady, urgent, held him back.
"Not yet," she mouthed.
He swallowed, forcing his body still. Crane's hands shook as he scribbled furiously in his pocketbook, capturing every detail.
Scrap's jaw worked, the muscle twitching as if he wanted to leap into the fire himself.
The chant rose to a fever pitch. The robed figures slammed their palms against the stone floor in unison, the sound like a war drum. The air vibrated, the ashes on the altar rising in a soft swirl as though stirred by unseen breath.
Jonathan stared at Elijah, whose mask gleamed with torchlight. Elijah's voice soared, echoing off the walls with an unholy resonance:
"The city demands its due. And it shall have it."
The cavern erupted with a single, unified shout.
Jonathan's lantern flickered. His resolve burned brighter.
Whatever happened here, whatever secrets writhed in the heart of the Court Below he knew one truth. Gotham would never be free until this circle was broken.