The fever struck Jonathan the following night.
He woke in a cold sweat, chest tight, breath ragged. The wounds from the Silent Trial had festered, dark bruises spreading like ink beneath his skin.
Isadora was at his side instantly, pressing a damp cloth to his brow, whispering his name.
"Stay with me, Elias," she pleaded. "Don't give in to them."
But sleep dragged him down like a tide.
In his dreams, Gotham bled. He walked its streets, only they were rivers of red, the stones slick with it. Faces he knew Crane, Scrap, Abe, even Isadora stared at him from the crowd, their eyes hollow, mouths sewn shut.
And at the center stood Father Vale, his hands lifted like a conductor. Behind him, the robed figures of The Owe swayed in rhythm, chanting a language Jonathan could not understand.
The book of covenant opened, its pages alive with fire, and from its light came the face of a man older, sterner, and yet disturbingly familiar.
"Blood calls to blood," the figure whispered. "Wayne blood built this city. Wayne blood must feed it."
Jonathan staggered back. "No… I serve justice, not you!"
But the figure only smiled, reaching out. The touch seared like molten iron, and Jonathan screamed.
He woke gasping, thrashing against the sheets. Isadora pinned him down, her voice sharp with fear. "Jonathan, listen to me! It's me, it's Isadora!"
Slowly his vision cleared. The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a lantern but her face her face was steady, calm, the one anchor in the storm.
"You were dreaming again," she said softly, brushing sweat from his brow. "Tell me what you saw."
He hesitated, then told her the blood, the chanting, the figure who bore his name like a curse.
Isadora listened without flinching. When he finished, she took his hand. "They're trying to break you. To make you doubt who you are, where you come from. That's their weapon."
Jonathan shook his head. "It felt more than a dream. It felt like… memory. Like something carried through my blood."
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she rose, crossed the room, and unlocked a chest at the foot of their bed. From within she drew a small leather-bound journal, its edges worn, its cover cracked.
"This belonged to your father," she said, setting it in his hands.
"He left it with me before he died he asked that I keep it from you until the time was right."
Jonathan stared at her, stunned "Why didn't you".
"Because he feared this city, Jonathan. He feared exactly what you're facing now."
He opened the journal. Inside were sketches of strange symbols, fragments of scripture, notes written in a trembling hand about Gotham's founding, its first families, and the rituals whispered of in its darkest alleys
And over and over, the same word scrawled in the margins: The Owe.
Jonathan's pulse quickened. "He knew."
Isadora touched his cheek. "And now so do you. But you're not alone in this, Elias. Whatever comes, we face it together."
Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. Somewhere in Gotham's depths, The Owe whispered and waited.
But in that moment, Jonathan held the journal and his wife's hand and felt a fire kindle in his chest.
If Gotham's curse ran in his blood, then so too would its salvation.