The storm above Gotham howled as though it could sense what was unraveling beneath.
Rain hammered the streets in sheets, washing the soot into black rivers that ran toward the harbor. But Kora moved through it without hesitation, her cloak plastered to her shoulders, her boots splashing through gutters.
Her mission was clear: carry Elijah's words from the Court Below to the city's surface. The Owe had chosen her, entrusted her, and she felt the weight of their trust like a crown of iron on her skull.
She gripped the sealed parchment beneath her cloak. It burned against her ribs as if alive, as though the ink itself whispered the chants she had memorized since childhood.
Tonight, she would deliver it to the Council of Elders in the high tower. After that, nothing in Gotham would remain the same.
But shadows trailed her.
Jonathan and Scrap had followed her from the tunnels, keeping their distance as the storm cloaked their movements. Crane lagged behind, already half-drowned by the rain, while Isadora moved silent as a whisper at Jonathan's side.
Kora turned down a narrow alley where the light of lanterns faded into a single, sputtering flame. She paused, listening. The storm swallowed sound, but something tugged at her instincts. She drew her knife thin, curved, kissed with silver.
"Who follows?" she demanded, her voice carrying above the storm.
Jonathan stepped from the shadows, revolver in hand. His eyes blazed with something torn between pity and rage.
"End of the road, Kora. Hand over the message."
Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "You don't understand what you're reaching for, Wayne. The Owe is bigger than you. Bigger than your family, your grief, your guilt. You fight shadows. We are the city."
Scrap emerged beside Jonathan, his blade catching a flash of lightning. His voice was cold. "Then tonight the city bleeds."
Kora's stance shifted, blade ready.
She was fast, faster than either man expected. She lunged first, her knife slicing through the storm toward Jonathan's throat.
He deflected with the butt of his revolver, the steel ringing sharp. Scrap swept low, his blade aimed for her side, but she twisted, striking him across the cheek.
Blood mingled with rain.
The fight turned into a blur of steel and fury. Jonathan fought with the discipline of a soldier, Scrap with the raw violence of the streets. Kora danced between them, her strikes graceful but deadly, her movements like ritual as if every cut was part of a prayer to the Owe.
Lightning split the sky. The three collided in the alley's center, shadows thrown high on the walls.
Then Isadora moved. She had circled behind, unseen in the chaos. As Kora spun to strike Scrap again, Isadora's hand shot forward. A shard of glass, sharp as any dagger, buried itself beneath Kora's ribs.
The priestess gasped, eyes widening as the storm swallowed her breath. She staggered, her knife clattering to the stones. The parchment slipped from her cloak, landing in the gutter where rain threatened to wash it away.
Jonathan caught it before it could vanish, his hand closing around the soaked seal. His chest heaved. He looked down at Kora, who sank to her knees.
Her lips moved, faint against the rain. "The Owe… will not… fall."
Her body crumpled, her blood mingling with the storm's flood until the water ran darker through the alley.
For a moment, silence pressed against them, heavier than the thunder. Scrap wiped his blade, staring down at her body with a mix of relief and regret.
Isadora's hand trembled where the glass shard still dripped red. Her eyes, cold and unreadable, stayed on the body as if willing herself not to feel.
Jonathan looked at the parchment in his hand, the seal already cracking from the storm. Whatever was inside, he knew it would carry the weight of Kora's fall and the next step of Gotham's descent.
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