The fire had eaten through half of Brewer's Row before dawn broke, leaving only smoldering timbers and smoke that stung the throat.
The air was thick with the smell of charred wood and boiled tar, and scattered across the ruins were strange remnants: dozens
of bird feathers, blackened and singed, lying in the ash as if sprinkled there by deliberate hands.
Jonathan crouched near one, lifting it with care.
It wasn't the feather of a city pigeon this was longer, darker, like that of a raven or crow. And it wasn't burnt entirely. Only the edges were scorched, as though fire had never been the true enemy, only a stage.
Crane kicked at the rubble behind him. "Accidental fire, the Chief says. Bad wiring."
Jonathan raised the feather. "Since when does wiring lay feathers in neat little piles?"
Crane stopped, muttering under his breath. "Bloody hell."
The fire hadn't been random. Jonathan could see it now: five buildings destroyed, all in a row, yet the pattern formed a curve when marked on the city map.
A deliberate scarring.
A message.
From the shadows of a collapsed doorway, a thin voice spoke: "Crows gather when the debt comes due."
Jonathan spun.
Scrap emerged, covered in soot, his small hands trembling. The boy's eyes were too old for his face, eyes that had seen death more often than bread.
"What are you doing here?" Jonathan asked, softening his voice.
Scrap shrugged.
"I saw them. Hooded men. Tossed burning oil into the row. Laughed while the houses went up. And they left those."
He pointed to the feathers. "Dropped them, like breadcrumbs."
Jonathan knelt to meet his gaze. "Did they see you?"
Scrap shook his head quickly. "No. I hid. I always hide." His lip quivered.
"But I heard them say something… 'Feathers in ash, the flock gathers.' Then they laughed."
Crane muttered, "Sounds like bloody poetry. Cultish rot."
Jonathan pocketed the feather. "Or a ritual sign. A harbinger left its mark in the church.
Now the flock comes to claim the streets."
The boy looked from man to man, fear plain. "They'll come back, won't they?"
Jonathan placed a steady hand on Scrap's shoulder. "Not if I can help it."
That night, Jonathan returned to the Wayne household. Isadora had already heard whispers of the fire through her patients. She stood at the window, looking out over the gaslit street.
"They're driving people out," she said, her voice tight. "Families who've lived here generations, scattered like rats. And the city shrugs."
Jonathan set the feather on the table. "It's not just fire. It's a message. They're marking territory."
Isadora studied the feather, her sharp mind working. "Crows. In every culture, they mean death, warning, or passage between worlds."
"Which one here?" Jonathan asked.
Her gaze lingered on him. "All of them."
The next morning, the family attended service at St. Bartholomew's, despite the warnings. Vale was already there, pale as parchment, delivering a sermon that sounded more
prophecy than scripture.
His words carried like oil-fed flame: "From ash shall rise
the flock, and from the flock, the offering. Be watchful, for the feather is a sign of both death and inheritance."
The congregation sat in silence, hanging on every syllable. Jonathan felt bile rise in his throat. Vale wasn't comforting them; he was preparing them.
Afterward, as the crowd dispersed, Vale caught Jonathan's sleeve. His grip was icy.
"You see it now, don't you?" the priest murmured. "The Owe does not hide. It warns.
The feathers are not scattered they are placed. Each one a marker, each ash heap a grave waiting to be filled."
Jonathan pulled free. "If you know so much, then tell me outright who leads them."
Vale only smiled. "Would you believe me if I named him? Or would you call me mad and turn away like the rest?"
Jonathan ground his teeth. "Try me."
Vale's smile sharpened. "The Harbinger is not the leader. It is only the mouthpiece. Behind it stands Elijah Blackthorn. And he watches you even now."
Jonathan froze. Blackthorn he had heard the name already among Gotham's whispers. An industrial baron, wealthy, untouchable. But to hear Vale tie him to this cult… it was almost too neat.
"Why tell me this?" Jonathan asked, suspicion heavy.
Vale's eyes gleamed. "Because the Owe wants you to inherit. And what you inherit will either damn or deliver Gotham."
Later that evening, Jonathan walked the ruins of Brewer's Row alone.
The ash crunched under his boots, feathers scattered like forgotten prayers. In the distance, he thought he heard wings a low rustle, though no birds flew in the smoke-thick sky.
From the corner of his vision, he glimpsed movement: a tall shadow at the end of the street, cloaked, unmoving. The Harbinger again.
Jonathan's hand went to the pistol at his belt. But before he could call out, the figure raised one gloved hand and let a feather drift from its fingers.
It caught the wind, spiraling slowly, landing at Jonathan's feet.
By the time he looked up, the Harbinger was gone.
Jonathan picked up the feather. It was not burnt. It was perfect, black as midnight, glistening in the dying firelight.
And as he held it, he realized with grim clarity: The ash was
Gotham's.
The feathers were its warning.
And the flock was already gathering.