The summons came at midnight.
A scrap of parchment slid under Jonathan's door, ink smudged but legible: "Your judgment is due. Come alone."
Jonathan stared at the message as Isadora lit another candle. The flame quivered in the draft, making the words dance.
She touched his hand, worry plain in her eyes. "Don't go it's a trap."
"All of Gotham is a trap," he said softly, pocketing the note. "If I don't go, they'll come for us anyway."
The meeting place was the ruins of St. Gildas Chapel, abandoned since the fire of '72.
Its crumbled nave jutted like a broken rib against the night sky. Jonathan walked alone beneath the arches, his revolver heavy in his coat.
Torches flared inside.
Figures in black hoods waited, their faces hidden. At their center stood Father Mordecai Vale, his hands folded like a man at prayer. He did not smile.
"You have been called to account," Vale intoned. "For trespassing into sacred grounds, for disturbing the dead, for prying into that which belongs to The Owe."
The crowd answered in unison, a whispering chorus: "Guilty."
Jonathan's jaw tightened. "You call this justice?"
Vale lifted a book bound in cracked leather. "This is older than your laws, older than your city. This is Gotham's covenant. And you, Jonathan Wayne, have broken it."
The hooded men dragged forth prisoners two gaunt workers, chained and beaten. Their eyes were hollow, their tongues cut out
Vale gestured toward them. "Behold. These men bore witness to secrets not theirs. They were tried in silence, as you shall be."
One prisoner was forced to his knees.
A blade flashed, and his body fell before Jonathan's feet. The chorus whispered again: "Guilty."
Jonathan's stomach turned, but his hands did not shake. "If this is your trial," he said coldly, "then I'll answer it in kind."
He drew his revolver.
A shot cracked like thunder inside the chapel, and one of the hooded men collapsed. The others rushed forward, a wave of shadows. Jonathan fired again, then swung the revolver as a club. Fists and blades caught him in the dark, tearing his coat, splitting his lip.
Through the chaos, Vale's voice rose above it all, calm and chilling: "You cannot silence the covenant, Wayne. It silences you."
Jonathan's vision blurred as a blow struck his temple. He fell to one knee, boots slipping in spilled blood. They closed in, torches flickering around him.
And then a second gunshot rang out.
Crane burst through the chapel doors, revolver blazing. The mob scattered, hoods vanishing into the ruins like phantoms. Jonathan staggered to his feet as Crane pulled him up.
"You never listen, do you?" Crane muttered, dragging him toward the exit.
Jonathan glanced back. Vale still stood at the altar, untouched, the covenant book pressed to his chest. His eyes glowed in the firelight, fixed on Jonathan with something like pity.
"Your trial has only begun," Vale called after him.
Jonathan's heart pounded as they fled into the night.
Somewhere deep inside, he knew Vale was right.