Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diary Entry: December 23rd

Dear Diary,

It’s been three months and five days since Cataleya disappeared—

No.

Since she sacrificed herself.

And it still doesn’t feel real. I walk past her room and sometimes I pause, just for a second, expecting her to swing the door open with a sarcastic remark, barefoot and fierce, hair wild like always. I swear I can still smell her  in the air—magnolia and something stormy. Like lightning, if lightning could bleed.

Alec’s gone full Commander-mode again. All business, sharp orders, quiet grief. It’s the same thing he did when we lost Clary. Like if he keeps moving, keeps everyone else moving, then maybe the silence she left behind won’t swallow him whole.

And Jace…

Jace is barely holding it together.

The first month, he was drunk every night. Picking fights at the Hunter’s Moon. Looking for trouble like he wanted to get hurt. Maia banned him after he smashed a mirror with a seraph blade and scared a warlock half to death. He didn’t even remember it the next morning.

The second month, he disappeared. Traveled to places none of us had ever heard of. Talked to warlocks older than Magnus, even made deals with things Alec would kill him for if he knew. Came back a few days ago—tired, thinner, a little quieter. Still searching, still trying, but the hope’s burning low in his eyes. Flickering.

I don’t know how to help him. He won’t talk to me. Won’t talk to Alec. Just stares at the window sometimes like he’s waiting for a sign.

I miss her too.

I’ve lost Clary. I’ve lost Meliorn. And now Cataleya.

I miss the way she made Alec roll his eyes every time she pushed his buttons with that smug smile. I miss the way she made Jace laugh like he used to, like he meant it. I miss how she'd lean on walls like she owned the place and walk into danger like it owed her an apology. But mostly… I miss her because underneath all the blades and snark, she felt more deeply than any of us ever gave her credit for.

Cataleya never said it out loud, but she loved us. Every damn one of us. And I wish I'd told her how much she meant to me before she went and stitched herself into the sky to save us.

Gods, I miss her laugh. I miss the way she’d tilt her head when she was being sarcastic. I miss how she used to sit with me on rooftops and pretend she didn’t care when I cried.

Anyway—enough of this depressing spiral.

Tomorrow is Christmas. I have weapons to wrap and blood-red ribbon to tie around them. She would’ve approved.

Miss you, Cataleya.

Wherever y ou are.

Don’t forget us.

—Isabelle

Chapter Text

Three Months Prior

The Council chamber of the Clave was colder than usual.

It wasn’t just the air—it was the way the grey marble walls seemed to close in, the way the rows of Nephilim sat like statues, waiting to pass judgment. The lingering stench of politics and paranoia clung to everything. The silence before the storm.

Jace stood before them, fists clenched at his sides, the skin over his knuckles split and crusted with blood. His eyes, gold and wild, held the storm itself. He hadn’t spoken much in the last three days. Not since the veil fell. Not since she—

Isabelle stood beside him, her face pale, her lipstick forgotten. Her hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail that snapped like a whip with every step she took. She looked like someone who hadn't slept in weeks and didn’t care if she ever did again.

Alec, composed as ever, stood a pace ahead of them. His face was tight, voice calm, but his hands kept curling slightly—just once or twice—as if resisting the urge to lash out.

He did the talking.

“We prevented a collapse of the realms,” Alec said clearly, his tone steady but edged. “Cataleya Ballanger made the sacrifice none of us were able to make. She anchored herself to the Veil to keep it from tearing through every dimension connected to ours. She—”

Consul Greymark cut him off with a lift of her hand. “Spare me the poetry, Lightwood,” she said. Her voice was cold, clipped, the sound of a woman who had too much authority and not enough empathy. Her blonde hair was braided tightly along her spine, not a single strand out of place. Her grey eyes pinned them like knives. “The issue isn’t what she did. The issue is what you did.”

She stood, papers in her hand, though it was clear she didn’t need them.

“So. Miss Ballanger’s exile is revoked. Posthumously, of course.” She said the word like it tasted bitter. “Her warrant nullified. Her record wiped. It appears she won’t be returning.”

The words stung. A finality that hung in the air like the toll of a bell.

“As for the three of you…” She glanced from Alec to Isabelle to Jace. Her stare lingered on Jace a moment longer, perhaps because he didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t breathe. “You broke direct Clave orders. You went rogue. You aided a fugitive. You supported her apparently-not-so-dead brother in attacking not only Malachi’s puppet but also fellow Shadowhunters sent to retrieve her.”

Jace's jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak. Alec subtly shifted his stance, placing himself between his brother and the rising heat of his fury.

“And yet…” Greymark continued, sighing as if the weight of their survival inconvenienced her, “without your interference and… let’s call it assistance... the Veil would have collapsed. And we would all be dead. Or worse.”

She held their gaze with an iron glint. “Therefore, I recommend the following:  withdrawal of mission clearance. Suspension from field work. You will remain under observation here in Idris until January first.”

An immediate ripple of protest buzzed through the room—voices rising, some agreeing, some demanding harsher punishment. Jace looked ready to explode.

Then another voice rang out, smooth and slow, like thunder at a distance.

“I disagree.” The Inquisitor stood now—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and imposing. His dark robe swept the marble as he stepped forward.                                “They are war heroes. Again. For the second time, they’ve stood in front of the abyss and didn’t flinch. Reprimand them, yes. Strip their clearances, if you must. But if we punish them beyond that, we punish loyalty, courage… and sacrifice.” His eyes met Jace’s directly. “We punish grief.”

Silence settled thick and suffocating. No one spoke after that.

When they finally left Idris, it was like breathing after drowning.

They had been benched—yes. But it wasn’t exile. They would be allowed to return to the New York Institute after the new year. Alec, thanks to his father’s quiet pressure and his own unwavering discipline, retained his position overseeing operations from the Ops Center—even if he couldn't join any field missions. Maryse was to be reinstated as Head of the Institute in January, restoring some much-needed structure.

Simon wasn’t so lucky. The Clave had banned him from Institute grounds, suggesting he return to the New York vampire clan. He had refused with a smile and a sarcastic salute.

“I’d rather chew silver shards than deal with Raphael’s schedule again,” he told them. He planned to stay in Cataleya's London townhouse with Mira, who—despite her size—had made it quite clear she would burn down anyone who tried to separate them.

Liam returned to Idris, to the Ballanger estate that stood silent and empty in the center of Alicante. The accusations against him had been withdrawn swiftly—no doubt in part because the Clave saw potential in him. They always did with people who’d walked close to darkness and come out alive. But Liam had no interest in becoming a weapon. Not anymore.

So, as far as the Clave was concerned, they were cleared. Free to go.

But none of them felt free.

Because Cataleya Ballanger—the girl with silver hair, a spine of steel, and a spark in her soul—was gone. Sacrificed to save the world.

And all that was left were the echoes of what she’d done… and the grief in the people she left behind.

"Jace, wait—where are you going?" Izzy’s voice rang through the foyer, sharp with worry.

Jace didn’t pause. His boots hit each step of the Lightwood estate stairs like a drumbeat—quick, clipped, relentless. A worn duffle bag hung heavy on his shoulder, the strap digging into his coat.

"Back to New York," he threw over his shoulder, voice clipped like he’d rehearsed the words. "I’m staying at Simon’s apartment since he’s off to London with Mira."

"No. You’re not." She was in front of him in a flash—black hair flying, hands braced against the door as if she could physically hold the world in place. Her eyes flared, dark and fierce, like fire on obsidian. "You’re staying here. With your family."

Jace finally stopped, the fury on his face fading almost instantly into something far more dangerous: grief.

His golden eyes, usually sharp and full of fire, were dull around the edges, rimmed in exhaustion. They shimmered—not with power, but with ache. The kind that didn’t sleep. The kind that didn’t heal.

"I can’t, Iz." His voice broke quietly, roughened with strain. "I can’t just sit here in silence while the rest of you act like it’s okay. Like she’s not gone. If I don’t keep moving, if I don’t do something, I’ll lose my mind."

He reached out, resting a gentle hand on her arm. And it was that—his tenderness, not his anger—that cracked her chest open.

From behind them, Alec’s quiet voice echoed from the doorway of the salon. "Let him go, Izzy."

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over the sleeves of his dark blue shirt, posture relaxed—but his eyes said otherwise. His jaw was tight, his gaze stormy with the weight of things he hadn’t said.

"What? No. No!" Izzy spun toward him. "You can't be serious. You know Jace. If I let him leave, we won't see him for weeks—months—and he'll throw himself into trouble like he always does. Only this time, he won’t care if he makes it back."

She threw her arms out wide in exasperation, tears beginning to brim—but not falling. Not yet.

Jace stepped forward again, voice quieter now. The fury gone, only the heartbreak remained. "Iz..." He tilted his head, softly. "Please. Step aside."

Her hands balled into fists at her sides. She bit her lip hard enough to leave a mark. And then, finally, she stepped aside.

But not before Jace pulled her into a hug—tight, warm, one arm around her back, pressing a kiss to her temple. She didn’t hug him back, not at first. Then her fingers clutched his jacket, hard, like she wasn’t ready to let go.

He pulled away anyway. The door shut behind him with a quiet finality that felt like thunder.

"He just needs time, Izzy. You know how this works, he'll be alright." Alec said but he didn't sound convincing.

Izzy stood frozen, her back to Alec, her hand on the bannister. "Don’t you dare tell me this is like after Clary." Her voice was low, dangerous now. "Don’t you even try."

Alec’s mouth opened—then closed. He didn’t speak.

"He didn’t love Clary the way he loves Cataleya," she said, turning to face him now. Her eyes were wild with pain. "They are bonded. Soul to soul. This wasn’t infatuation. It wasn’t some tragic crush. This was real. And now she’s gone. And if you think he'll just bounce back like always, then you really don't get it!”

She shoved Alec’s shoulder as she walked past him, her fury barely contained.

"He already lost too much, Alec. Clary was just the last of many other things he'd lost. And now her. This time? It’s not the same. He won't come back from this."

And with that, she disappeared up the stairs, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall as silence fell.

Alec remained in the empty foyer, unmoving. He let out a long breath, his brow furrowing, his shoulders sagging slightly.

Maybe Izzy was right.

Maybe Jace wouldn't bounce back.

But Jace had always needed to be alone to figure out how to breathe again. And if he couldn’t breathe in this house—surrounded by pitying looks, by familiar ghosts—then Alec had to let him go.

Just for a while. He needed space. Not a daily reminder. Not a family constantly asking him how he was feeling. 

But only for a while.

Because no matter how far Jace ran, Alec would always be the one to bring him home.

Even if home didn’t feel like home anymore.

The apartment smelled like old books, stale pizza, and history. Simon had been waiting on the couch, one leg folded under him, a comic open in his lap that he wasn’t reading.

The shady leather sofa groaned when he shifted. The same dent was still there from when Jace had once crashed for two weeks straight after the Downworlder summit. Across from him, the battered wooden TV table still had the circular watermark from Magnus’s overly dramatic brandy glass. Jordan’s bike still hung crookedly on the wall—its front tire slightly deflated. A ghost in chrome, untouched since Jordan’s death.

When the door opened with a click, Simon didn’t look up right away.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, roomie. You better not have brought blood demons or your brooding energy into my sanctuary. Also, I hope you know you’re sleeping on the couch ,because I’m not giving up my bed again. My back’s not twenty anymore."

Silence. Simon finally looked up.

Jace stepped inside wordlessly, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His eyes were glazed, unreadable, and his hair fell into his face like he hadn’t even looked in a mirror today. Without saying a word, he tossed his duffle bag onto the floor with a dull thud that sent dust dancing across the floorboards.

Then, from inside his coat, he pulled out a battered silver flask. No runes, no embellishments—just metal and grief. He unscrewed it, took a long swig, and walked across the room to the window.

The street below buzzed with life. Horns honked, taxis darted around corners, neon signs flickered, and somewhere a saxophone wailed low through the chaos.

Jace stood there, outlined against the glass, drinking whiskey like it was water. Like it didn’t burn. Like he didn’t care.

Simon closed the comic gently and set it aside.   "You know the fridge is empty, right? Like, tragically empty. There's a half-full bottle of expired soy sauce and some questionable pickles. I was gonna shop before you got here, but then I remembered you basically live on rage and pain now, so... figured you wouldn’t notice."

Still no response.

"Cool, cool. This is fun. Like living with a brooding ghost who drinks all the whiskey and doesn’t laugh at my jokes." He tilted his head. "You’re really leaning into the whole 'haunted angel of death' thing, huh? You want me to start calling you Batman, or..."

Jace took another long sip. Didn’t even flinch.

Simon’s voice softened, the humor draining out of it like air from a balloon.

"You could’ve called. Just said something. Even one word."

Nothing. Jace didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

Simon stood, walked over, and leaned on the wall a few feet away—just outside Jace’s reach. Just inside his orbit.

"I get it, you know." His voice dropped. "I do. I’ve lost people too. I know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out and left somewhere you can’t reach."

Still no reaction.

So Simon just stood beside him, eyes on the city.

"You don’t have to talk tonight. Or tomorrow. But I’m not leaving for another week. And you’re not going to drink yourself to death in my apartment like some angsty rockstar, okay? So you can keep pretending to be the world’s most damaged statue, but eventually—eventually—you’re going to feel something again. And I’ll be here when you do."

A pause.

Then a quiet sigh from Jace. Not agreement. Not gratitude. Just... air.

Simon said nothing more.

Chapter Text

"I’ve been waiting for him like mother hen for nights. Eventually I stopped. He comes home whenever he feels like it—so don’t worry, he’s still alive," Simon muttered into the phone, stirring the steaming mug of blood with a butter knife. The mug, obnoxiously cheerful with “I ❤️ London” stamped on the side, looked painfully out of place amidst the apartment’s dim lighting and emotional rot.

"Doesn’t feel like Jace anymore. Doesn’t talk like him either. Actually, he doesn’t talk at all," Simon added, voice tired but laced with that signature sarcasm he used to patch over deep concern.

On the other end, Izzy sighed—a soft sound, but loaded with worry.

"Do you at least know where he’s going?" she asked.

Simon switched the phone to his shoulder and paced.

"Maia said he’s been showing up at the Hunter’s Moon. Gets drunk, picks fights, leaves. Yesterday he fought a werewolf twice his size and slammed the poor guy into garbage cans like a lunatic. He’s like the Hulk—less green, more rage, and disaster following him like a loyal dog."

"Should I come by?" Izzy asked gently, her voice more fragile than usual.

Simon shook his head, mid-eye roll, then realized.

"Right. Phone. No visuals. Genius move, Simon." He cleared his throat. "No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Give him a few more days to adjust to—"

"Adjust to what?"

Simon nearly flung the mug across the room. Jace stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched in that very Herondale way. His golden eyes locked onto Simon like a hawk eyeing a particularly twitchy rabbit.

Simon fumbled, dropping the phone.

"crap!" he yelped, juggling it like a hot potato as Izzy’s voice shrieked out of the speaker, "Simon?! Hello?! SIMON—"

Finally catching the phone, he jabbed the end call button like it was a bomb about to go off and slipped it into his pocket with the guilt of a teenage boy hiding contraband.

Jace remained by the door, his voice low. "Adjust to what?"

Simon laughed—too fast, too forced.

"What? Oh that? Uh. Adjusting to... dinner. With me. Tonight. That’s what I was saying. Obviously." He attempted an innocent shrug that landed somewhere between awkward turtle and guilty raccoon.

Jace didn’t budge. His hands rested on the back of the couch, his posture calm, but his eyes narrowed just slightly.

"You told that to who?" he asked, like a detective who already knew the answer but wanted the suspect to confess.

"Who? Who what? I told—uh—myself. Out loud. It’s this new thing. Manifestation. You say it and it comes true. Universe stuff."

Jace tilted his head, and there was a flicker—just a flash—of that old Jace. Dry humor, steel-edged patience.

"You were holding your phone, Simon."

"Right. Yeah. So, what had happened was—I was taking selfies. For this app. VampGlow. Enhances cheekbones, very niche—"

"Izzy called you."

Simon winced like he’d been caught stealing cookies.

"Okay... yeah, she called. But not about you specifically. She calls me. We talk. A lot. We’re practically besties. It was totally coincidental."

Jace raised an eyebrow, said nothing, and walked past him into the kitchen like he had better things to do than call Simon out on his lies. Which, of course, he didn’t—but he wasn’t wasting energy on it.

He reached into the cupboard, pulled down a glass tumbler, and grabbed the half-drained bottle of whiskey that had become a permanent fixture on the counter.

Simon leaned on the doorframe, arms folded, watching with tight lips.

"You know," he said quietly, "this doesn’t make you forget her."

Jace poured the whiskey without looking up.

"I’m not trying to forget her."

Simon hesitated.

"Then what are you trying to do?"

Jace took a long, deep sip. His eyes, distant and glassy, settled on the skyline beyond the window. Lights flickered across the buildings. Somewhere below, a siren wailed.

"Trying not to shatter."

Simon didn’t say anything else.

Because what do you say to that?

He just stood there, watching the broken angel drink silence.

Simon had left for London three days later.

Not because he wanted to. But because he had to.

He’d tried everything—late-night talks, movie marathons with pizza no one touched, even dragging Jace to the rooftop to stare at the stars and talk about Cataleya. About what she would have wanted. About how she wouldn’t want him to waste away like this. That she would be furious with him. That she’d probably slap him upside the head and say something sharp, then kiss him like nothing else mattered. That she’d tell him to fight.

But Jace hadn’t listened.

He never even looked at Simon during those talks—just sipped his whiskey, silent, staring out the window like if he blinked, she’d vanish all over again.

Izzy had come by, knocking on the apartment door more times than she could count. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes late into the night. But the door had never opened. Not once. She always left a care package—food, clean shirts, a new flask she pretended she didn’t notice him burning through—and then left with red eyes and a clenched jaw.

Alec had stayed away. “He needs time,” Alec had told Izzy. “Let him breathe. Let him think. He’ll come around eventually.”

But he never did.

Jace spiraled. Deeper. Darker. Week by week, drink by drink, fight by fight.

He bled into the underworld of New York like a ghost—haunting dive bars, alleyways, old vampire dens. He wasn’t reckless because he wanted to die. He just didn’t care if he lived. Not without her.

Maia banned him from the Hunter’s Moon after he shattered a mirror in the backroom during a fight with a young vampire—glass flying like shrapnel, his seraph blade buried in the wall, his eyes wild with something that didn’t belong to the Jace they all knew.

“It was like he wasn’t even there,” Maia had told Simon afterward, breathless and shaken. “He didn’t even blink. Just walked out, like the whole thing meant nothing.”

And then came the day Alec finally gave in.

He let Izzy drag him to Simon’s apartment with a spare key and a thudding heart. Izzy’s fingers trembled as she unlocked the door, praying he’d be there—passed out, angry, broken, something.

But the place was hollow. No footsteps. No shadow. Just dust and quiet and absence.

Clothes gone. Weapons gone. Jace gone.

On the TV table sat a whiskey bottle—emptied and half tipped on its side. Beneath it, a folded note. Clipped neatly. The only thing left behind.

Izzy read it aloud, even though her voice cracked halfway through.

“Don’t come looking for me. I’ll be fine. —Jace.”

That was all. No goodbye. No promise. Just those few words, like the world didn’t deserve more.

Alec sat down on the edge of the couch, rubbing his eyes like he could blink the pain away.

Izzy stood there frozen, fists clenched, her lip trembling.

“I told you,” she whispered. “I told you this would happen.”

And Alec, for once, didn’t argue. Didn’t reason. He just nodded, broken, defeated.

Because the truth was:

Cataleya had saved the world and vanished into nothingness. And she had taken Jace with her.

Chapter Text

Christmas came with snow this year—soft and slow, blanketing the hills of Idris in silence.

And with it, came Jace.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t send a message. He just… walked through the doors of Lightwood Manor as if he hadn’t been gone for two months chasing ghosts and lost gods and unspeakable secrets that never wanted to be found.

He looked thinner, like something had been carved out of him and never replaced. His golden hair was longer, messier. His usual weapons were gone—no seraph blades, no throwing knifes. Just a black coat, dark jeans, and silence.

Alec had barely lifted an eyebrow before he said, "We’ve kept your room the same."

Jace had nodded once. That was it.

Izzy cried when she saw him. Not the kind of tears you show. The kind you blink back fast and wipe away while pretending to tidy your lipstick. She hugged him tight without warning, and he didn’t flinch. He even hugged her back.

That alone was enough to bring Robert and Maryse to tears of their own behind the kitchen doors.

They’d spent the next few days dancing around it. Around him. Like he was a fragile thread stretched too thin. They didn’t ask questions. Not about where he’d gone, or what he’d found. Because they all knew—whatever it was, it hadn’t been her.

Cataleya was still gone.

But Jace… he was here. That had to be enough.

Christmas Eve Dinner

Maryse had cooked. Robert had set the table. Max had torn through the halls with makeshift swords and half-broken ornaments. It had almost felt like it used to. Almost.

The food was eaten with soft smiles and forced conversation. No one brought up the Institute. No one mentioned the Clave. Not even Liam, who had been invited but politely declined.

Jace sat at the head of the table, across from Alec, beside Izzy. He didn’t say much, just quietly passed plates and muttered “thanks” when needed. But Izzy noticed—his eyes were alert. Watching. Waiting.

Not broken. Focused. Planning.

When the dishes were cleared, and the warmth of cinnamon and fire settled in the house like a blanket, Jace slipped away.

Izzy, sharp-eyed and sharper still in intuition, followed. She found him in the foyer, reaching for his coat. He didn’t get far.

Without warning, Izzy shoved him back—pinned him hard to the wall with one arm braced across his throat like a blade’s edge. Her black holiday dress swished behind her like battle robes, and her expression was pure Lightwood wrath.

“What is going on?” she hissed, her face inches from his. “You’re up to something—I can smell it.”

For a second, Jace didn’t speak. He just blinked at her, wide-eyed and caught.

Then he smiled. Soft. Real. The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in months. It undid her immediately.

“Iz,” he said gently, almost teasing, “if I tell you everything’s fine, will you let me breathe?”

She blinked at him, mouth slightly parted. That smile. It was him. For a single heartbeat, he was the boy they knew—the boy who always had a smart remark and a thousand secrets under his ribs.

Izzy’s arm dropped. Her heart stayed on high alert. “You’re lying,” she whispered.

Jace stepped away from the wall and fixed the collar of his shirt, that same frustrating, maddening smirk still tugging at his lips.

“Go get my present,” he said casually, ruffling her hair as if they were ten years old again.

But she saw it—that flicker. That shadow in his golden eyes. The moment she turned, it crept back in. Heavy. Haunting. Real.

Izzy watched him retreat into the hallway, heart pounding. Something had changed.

Jace was back. But he wasn’t done.

The halls of the Lightwood estate were silent in the hush of midnight, lit only by the flickering runes etched faintly into the walls. A winter wind whistled softly outside, rattling the old stained glass in the stairwell windows.

Isabelle wandered down the hallway, her fuzzy pink slippers quiet on the cold marble floor. She couldn’t sleep—hadn’t really, not since Cataleya. A low, familiar hunger tugged at her stomach. Christmas cookies weren’t going to eat themselves, after all.

But as she padded past her parents’ old office, she paused.

Rustling. Not the house settling. Not the wind. Someone was inside.

Isabelle pressed a hand to the wood paneling, listening. The sound came again—papers shuffled, books sliding against each other, and then a soft grunt.

She pushed the door open just wide enough to peek in.

The office was dim, lit only by the pale blue glow of a witchlight stone. Books lay scattered across the floor, drawers cracked open, files sprawled across the desk in chaotic spirals.

And in the middle of it all was Jace. Bent over Robert’s desk, wild-haired and restless-eyed, sleeves pushed up, shoulders tense like a wolf on the scent.

Izzy sighed and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, one hip cocked with all the unimpressed force of a lifelong sister.

“What are you doing, Jace?” she asked dryly.

Jace jumped like a guilty teenager caught sneaking cookies, holding a book awkwardly as if it might suddenly disguise itself as a perfectly normal holiday activity.

“Iz—hey, I’m… uh. Nothing.”

She gave him a look. The look. He flinched. “You’re tearing apart Dad’s desk. So either you’ve lost your will to live and plan to drown in paperwork, or you’re looking for something.”

“Izzy—”

“Is that why you came back for Christmas?” she interrupted, voice softening with a sting of hurt. “Because you thought Robert might have something stashed in here that you needed?”

Her silhouette stood tall in the doorway, haloed by the hallway light, her long dark hair spilling down her pink ‘I slay demons before breakfast’ shirt. No makeup, no armor, and still as dangerous as ever.

Jace hesitated, then sighed and dropped the book onto the desk with a thud.

“Yes. And no.” He looked at her finally, his face etched with exhaustion. “I did come to see you. All of you. I swear that’s true. But yeah… I’m looking for something.”

Izzy narrowed her eyes. “Last chance. What are you looking for, or I swear I’ll pin you to this desk and scream bloody murder.”

Jace raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I was trying to find a written permission form. Silent City access. I thought maybe Robert had one lying around. He doesn’t.”

Izzy’s arms relaxed, her glare melting into a frown of concern.

“Why the Silent City?” she asked, stepping in and closing the door softly behind her.

“I need the archives. The deep ones. The kind you can’t access unless you’re basically dead or a Consul.”

Izzy perched on the desk across from him, crossing her legs, still staring him down.

“What for?”

Jace hesitated, then ran a hand through his tousled blond hair.

“I need to find a warlock. A specific one. Old, powerful. Someone who might know how to break a veil anchored by god-spark magic. She’s… out there, I know it. I just need the right trail to find her.”

Izzy exhaled slowly. So that was it. He was still trying. Still chasing the impossible.

“You haven’t asked Magnus?”

He shook his head. “Why not?”

“Because if I ask Magnus, he’ll tell Alec. And if Alec finds out what I’m planning, it’ll turn into another Clave investigation or a full-blown intervention. And I can’t let them stop me. Not now.”

Izzy tilted her head, considering. He was sharper now—focused, hungry with purpose. She hadn’t seen this version of Jace since before Cataleya fell between the realms.

She smiled, quietly proud.

“Okay. So let’s ask Magnus together. But we make him swear not to tell Alec. You know he will if we ask right. Especially if I give him that face he loves.”

Jace lifted a brow. “That face?”

She nodded. “The one I use when I want to buy another pair of snakeskin heels.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled, and Izzy felt her heart warm.

There he was. The real Jace.

“If he says no, I’m going anyway,” Jace warned, pointing a finger like a deadly promise.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Izzy hopped down from the desk, flipping her hair back with drama.

“I’ll go get ready. Meet me downstairs in twenty.”

Jace watched her go, a small smirk lingering.

She paused at the door, looked back once. “Jace?”

He looked up.

“She's fine. She's just waiting for you to find a way.”

His smile faltered, but he nodded, eyes shining faintly in the witchlight.

“I hope so.”

Jace stood at the hearth, the firemessage to Magnus vanishing into crackling amber flames. His back was rigid, one hand curled into a loose fist at his side.

Behind him, boots clicked softly against the floor.

Izzy strode in, dark jeans hugging her legs like a second skin, crimson top dipped scandalously low—not unusual—and her black whip coiled like a snake at her wrist. She held out a gleaming seraph blade, handle-first, smirking as if it were a wrapped Christmas gift.

“Just in case,” she said with a wink.

Jace turned. Something like gratitude flickered behind his golden eyes, just for a moment. He took the blade, tested its weight, tossed it from palm to palm, and finally gripped it tight. The angelic hum pulsed against his skin like a heartbeat—his first in weeks.

The portal opened behind them with a ripple of blue firelight. They stepped through.

They landed in a blur of shimmer and perfume—right into Magnus’s arms. He glittered like the inside of a snow globe: sequined blazer, drink in hand, eyes kohl-lined and sharp as ever. His smile dazzled like a chandelier.

“Aren’t you two the cutest little disappointments. Come in, come in. We’re celebrating!” Magnus practically sang, waving them toward the grand salon behind him.

The apartment had transformed into something out of a faerie daydream: music from every corner, warlocks in velvet and silk mingling with Seelie dressed in frost and starlight. A fountain in the far corner burbled a sparkling blue liquid that looked suspiciously sentient.

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” Magnus said, pointing lazily. “One sip and you’ll be dancing with your own shadow till next Tuesday.”

“Alistair!” he called, spotting a dark-haired warlock across the room. “You made it—darling, find the good wine!”

Then, with a dramatic sigh, he turned back to them.

"Let me guess: you didn’t come for the ambiance.” Magnus arched a brow. “Fine. Come on. Secret lair time.”

Magnus’s Bedroom

The door shut with a click, muffling the party behind them. The room was dimly lit, intimate. A shirt—Alec’s—hung over an ornate Indonesian folding screen, like an unintended shrine.

Jace glanced at it and looked away, clearing his throat.

Magnus, already halfway to an armchair, didn’t waste time. “You found something, didn’t you?” he asked.

Jace blinked. “You were expecting me?”

“Of course. I expected you three weeks ago, actually. After you visited that hag in Nova Scotia—you know, the one who lives in that charming little hellhole cottage with dried demon fingers hanging over the door.” Magnus shivered theatrically. “Utterly repulsive woman. No taste in upholstery.”

Izzy blinked between them. “What hag? What are you talking about?”

Jace sighed. “She wasn’t helpful. Not exactly. But she gave me a name.” He looked to Magnus.

“But before we go any further… you have to promise you won’t tell Alec.” Izzy jabbed a finger in Magnus’s chest. “Swear it. Or I’ll dye your hair neon pink while you sleep.”

Magnus batted her hand away with a dramatic groan. “You want me to lie to my boyfriend about helping you potentially break the laws of time, magic, and reason... again?”

“Yes,” Izzy said sweetly. “You know Alec. He’d chain Jace to the sofa before letting him out the door.”

Magnus pursed his lips. “Fine. I won’t say a word. You’ll ruin my New Year’s Eve, but I do so love enabling chaos.” He flopped into the chair. “Talk.”

Jace hesitated, then slowly spoke. “There’s a warlock I need to find. Someone old. Powerful. One of the last of her kind. The hag mentioned her name—Tessa Gray.”

At once, the air in the room shifted. The smile faded from Magnus’s face. Something softer, weightier, filled the silence.

Magnus sat straighter, the ice in his drink clinking softly.

“Tessa Gray,” he repeated. “That’s not a name you hear lightly.”

“You know her?” Jace asked.

Magnus nodded slowly. “She’s an extraordinary soul. Fierce, gentle, immortal. She was married to William Herondale.”

Jace stiffened, blinking. “Wait—my ancestor? That William Herondale?”

Izzy’s brows shot up. “She married a Shadowhunter? A warlock?”

“Unthinkable back then,” Magnus murmured. “But yes. They loved each other deeply. It was… rare. Painful. Beautiful. I’ve known her for over a century. We fought beside one another. Grieved together.” He looked up at Jace, gaze softening. “She’d like you. You look like him, you know.”

Jace swallowed, caught off guard by the weight of those words. “So where can I find her?”

Magnus glanced toward the window, eyes distant. “These days? She alternates between the Spiral Labyrinth and Cirenworth—the old Carstairs estate in Devon. You won’t get access to the Labyrinth without a lot of magic and probably dying in the process. So your best bet is Cirenworth.”

“Why would she stay there?” Izzy asked, arms crossed.

Magnus didn’t answer at first. A long breath left him. “Because it’s the last place she ever felt at peace.”

A moment passed in silence. Jace nodded. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”

Magnus stood and conjured a shimmering portal in a wave of gold and emerald. “No time like the present. But I’m not coming. My sparkly alibi has a party to maintain.”

Izzy smirked as she stepped forward. “Tell Alec you lost track of us. In the champagne.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Magnus grinned. Then, softer, to Jace: “Good luck.”

Jace gave him a nod, resolute.

The portal shimmered, and with a final glance back, Jace and Izzy stepped through.

Somewhere far beyond, a silver-haired girl waited in stasis between the cracks of time.

And perhaps, just perhaps… a way back was beginning to take shape.

Chapter Text

They stepped out of the portal onto a wind-swept hill crowned in pale gold light, the last of the winter sun spilling over the landscape. Below them, nestled in a quiet valley framed by frost-dusted meadows and leafless, noble trees, lay Cirenworth.

The manor rose like a memory out of time—elegant stonework, ivy clinging to old walls, peaked gables and tall windows that caught the sky like mirrors. The 17th-century estate looked untouched by the chaos of the modern world. Still. Silent.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Jace’s eyes were fixed on the house like it was a threshold to something long lost. Izzy stood beside him, arms wrapped over her coat, lips slightly parted.

“It looks like the past,” she whispered.

“Because it is,” Jace replied. Then he straightened his spine, tucked away the weight behind his eyes, and started down the gravel path with purpose—like a Herondale. Like a soldier.

They were only a few steps from the entrance when the doors flung open with a creak and a gust of wind. A woman burst out, halting sharply on the steps.

She was breathless, as if she'd run from somewhere deep within the house. Her brown hair whipped wildly in the breeze, her white wool coat gripped tightly across her chest, one hand clenched over her heart.

Izzy stiffened beside him. “Was she waiting for us?”

“I guess Magnus sent word,” Jace murmured, but even he sounded unsure.

The woman’s eyes locked on Jace like a ghost recognizing a dream. Her face broke into a shuddering breath, lips trembling as a sob rose unbidden. She stepped down a stair, then another, unable to stop herself.

Tessa Gray stood before them, the centuries wrapped in her silence like secrets. Her steel-grey eyes shimmered with tears.

“You...” Her voice caught, barely a breath. “By the Angels, you look just like him.”

Her hand lifted on instinct, too fast to stop. She reached for Jace like he was a fragile vision. Her fingertips brushed his cheek gently—reverently—as though he might vanish if she blinked.

Jace didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, something fragile flickering in his own.

“Except for the hair,” Tessa whispered, smiling faintly through her tears. “My Will had hair as black as midnight, and eyes blue as the sea. But your face... the way you carry yourself... it’s like looking into the past.”

She brushed a rebellious strand of hair off Jace’s forehead, and for a moment, her hand lingered there. Then—

“That's enough, my love,” came a gentle voice behind her.

Jem Carstairs stepped out into the cold, calm and composed, his presence like the hush after snowfall. His hands came to rest softly on Tessa’s shoulders, grounding her.

“Give the boy a moment to breathe,” he said with a warm tone, guiding her gently back.

Tessa dropped her hand, nodding, retreating into the quiet safety of Jem’s arms. Her eyes never left Jace.

Jem stepped forward then, walking toward Jace with the ease of someone who had seen wars and carried centuries of grief. His disheveled dark hair and kind brown eyes were the picture of quiet wisdom.

“It’s good to see you, Jace Herondale,” Jem said, a smile tugging at his lips as he clapped a hand on Jace’s shoulder. “We’ve heard quite the story.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned slightly and guided Jace with an arm around his back, leading him toward the warm glow of the open doorway.

Izzy stood rooted behind them, blinking. Processing. This was Tessa Gray. She looked barely older than Izzy herself, yet she carried the weight of decades behind her eyes. And Jem—Brother Zachariah—who had once walked the Silent City as a hollowed-out thing of ancient grace, now stood living, breathing, healed… thanks to Jace’s heavenly fire. Fire he hadn’t touched since Clary’s death.

And yet here they were. Living proof of impossible stories.

“Where are my manners,” Tessa said softly, stepping beside her now and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Welcome to Cirenworth.”

Izzy gave her a gentle nod, and together, they stepped inside.

The door creaked shut behind them.

The room smelled of bergamot and old pages. Logs cracked softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the velvet shadows of Cirenworth's drawing room. The wind whispered through the eaves outside, but inside the silence was thick with memories.

Tessa sat lounged in a tufted armchair of faded rose and gold, her delicate hands wrapped around a porcelain teacup, the steam curling near her face like a living thing. Jem stood behind her, one hand resting on the carved back of the chair, his presence calm and grounding.

Jace sat across from them on an antique red-and-gold brocade couch, back ramrod straight, hands clasped tightly in his lap. He hadn’t touched the tea Izzy had poured for him. Beside him, Isabelle sat like a queen—seraph blade in her boot, hair flawless, her presence sharp and still as a drawn arrow.

Jem was the first to speak. “Word travels fast in the Shadowhunter world,” he said quietly. “But not always truthfully. I’d like to hear the real story. From you.”

Jace’s jaw clenched. His eyes remained fixed on the fireplace for a moment. Then, with a voice scraped hollow from use, he spoke.

His words were clipped, clinical. He recounted the battle outside the New York Institute in the other dimension, the tear in the veil, Malachi’s final spell. Cataleya’s sacrifice. Her spark burning out like a falling star to save all realms. His voice never cracked, not even once.

When he finished, the room was deathly silent.  Tessa set down her empty teacup with a small clink. She had been watching him the entire time, not with pity, but with something deeper—recognition. Remembrance. A bittersweet sort of love, not for him directly, but for who he was and what he carried.

She cleared her throat gently. “I knew you would come, one day.”

Jace blinked at her. “You did?”

She nodded, her eyes unreadable. “I know what you’re planning to do,” she said, voice quiet and calm, “The bond still hums in your soul. I can hear it vibrate.”

Jace frowned, startled. “You know about the bond?”

“I do,” Tessa said, her voice taking on a distant note. “I shared such a bond once. A long time ago. With my William.”

She didn’t need to explain further. Her William: William Herondale.

“But… Will died. And you’re still alive,” Jace said slowly, confusion flickering across his features. “I thought—when one dies…”

“Normally, yes,” Tessa murmured, her eyes shining with something old and soft. “But my case was… complicated. Because of my mother, I carried Shadowhunter blood. But my father was a greater demon. The bond never fully manifested—just enough to feel it. Enough to lose it. And I don’t wish that kind of pain on anyone. Especially not you.”

Tears brimming in her lashes, she reached up and wiped them away with elegant fingers. Jem gently placed a hand on her shoulder. She gave him a soft smile before facing Jace again.

Izzy leaned forward slightly. “And what do you know about Cataleya?”

Tessa’s gaze turned distant. “She’s still there.”

Jace’s breath hitched.

“It’s… complicated,” Tessa continued. “But imagine it like a glass room, suspended in the middle of a street. Time moves around it, but doesn’t touch it. That’s where she is. Caged in a kind of stasis. Not asleep. Awake.”

Jace inhaled sharply, his knuckles white on his knees. “Awake?” he echoed. “You mean—she’s been awake this entire time? Chained, alone, for three months?”

Tessa nodded solemnly. “She is. But it's not like you imagine. The stasis… dulls certain sensations, enhances others. I can't explain it to you. Only she could.”

Jace surged forward slightly, raw desperation leaking into his voice. “Can you reach her? Send her a message? Anything?”

“I cannot,” Tessa said gently. “But you can.”

Jace stilled.

“Your bond is still intact,” she said. “Which means you could reach her—if you learn how. Your angelic blood, combined with your connection… you are more angel than most Nephilim. You both are. Through time and realm, there are ways.”

Jace ran a hand through his tousled golden hair, the nervous tic unmistakable. Izzy recognized it immediately.

“And how?” he asked, voice low and urgent.

Tessa looked up at Jem. He nodded. “You need time. But if you’re willing to stay,” she said softly, “I’ll help you. I can teach you. There are methods. Spells. Meditation. Anchors.”

Jace's eyes were glowing now, gold burning bright again for the first time in months. Hope twisted sharp in his chest.

“And once I reach her,” he asked, his voice shaking now, “Can I bring her back?”

Silence fell again. Tessa’s eyes lowered. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Even if you could… you can’t. If she leaves, the veil rips open again. Everything she sacrificed will collapse. Everything she keeps holding together will come undone.”

Jace’s breath stuttered in his lungs. “Unless,” she added, “someone takes her place.”

The words fell like stones in the room. Jace was already nodding. “Then I’ll do it.”

Tessa gave him a sad, knowing smile. “You do love her deeply, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“If you ever questioned it—whether the bond was all that tied you—know this: this love? This is all you. But even with your blood,” she added gently, “you don’t have the magical strength to uphold it. And even if you did… she wouldn’t let you.”

Izzy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You talk like you know her.”

Tessa’s expression softened. “I don’t,” she admitted. “Not truly. But I know what it means to love someone like that. And if Will had tried to take my place, I wouldn’t have let him either.”

Jace swallowed hard, grief and fire warring behind his golden eyes. “Then teach me. Let me reach her. I just want her to know… I haven’t given up. I never will.”

Tessa nodded once, as if this had always been inevitable. “We begin tomorrow. I’ve prepared rooms for both of you. And your companion.”

Jace frowned. “Companion?”

Izzy arched a brow. “What companion?”

Tessa smiled knowingly. She rose from her seat with the grace of ages and walked to the window.       “He’s sneaking through my gardens right now,” she said casually. “We should invite him in. It’ll rain soon.”

Jem sighed with quiet amusement as he followed his wife to the door.

Jace and Izzy exchanged a glance, both sitting upright now, alert.

Izzy tilted her head. “Any guesses?”

Jace smirked faintly. “I have one.”

The rain began to fall. Soft at first—like fingers tapping on the windows. A shadow passed the garden hedges.

Chapter Text

The rain was falling harder now, whispering against the tall windows of Cirenworth. Jace and Izzy stood at the edge of the parlor, eyes trained on the front door just as it creaked open.

A gust of wind swept through as the figure stepped inside, his soaked black hoodie clinging to his frame, boots leaving muddy prints across the tile. Tousled golden hair was plastered to his forehead, and his piercing blue eyes swept the room with precision.

Liam Ballanger had arrived—quiet as always, but unmistakable.

Izzy stiffened at the sight. “Oh, for the Angel’s sake.”

"Yeah, I've missed you too, Isabelle."

Jem stepped forward calmly. “Come in before you catch your death.”

Liam gave a curt nod, shrugging off his drenched hoodie and tossing it onto the chair by the door. His eyes landed on Jace, unreadable.

“I thought you were in Idris,” Jace said, brows pulling together. “How did you—?”

“Magnus,” Liam interrupted simply.

Jace blinked. “He told you?”

Izzy’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, black nails digging into her sleeves. “Excuse me? Magnus promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Liam met her glare with calm indifference. “He didn’t tell Alec. That was the deal. But me?” He shrugged. “We have a separate arrangement.”

Izzy narrowed her eyes. “What kind of arrangement?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs on Jace’s movements since Cataleya’s disappearance,” Liam replied matter-of-factly. “I don’t interfere. I just make sure someone knows where he is in case he does something reckless.”

“Which is a full-time job,” Izzy muttered.

Liam ignored her. “So when Magnus told me he’d opened a portal to Cirenworth, I followed.”

Jace ran a hand down his face. “He really covered all his bases.”

“I don’t let people go chasing after her alone,” Liam said, softer now. “Not when I can help it.”

Tessa stepped forward, her smile warm and curious as she approached. “You must be her brother. The resemblance is there—in the eyes especially. And the jaw when you're trying not to cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Liam replied dryly.

“Of course not,” she said with a knowing smile. “I’m Tessa Gray. You’re very welcome here.”

Liam gave her a polite nod, but his gaze flickered with something more cautious—wary of hope.

Tessa studied him more closely. Something in her demeanor shifted—subtle but piercing. Her steel-grey eyes scanned him like a heartbeat sensed through skin. Her brow furrowed.

“What became of your spark?” she asked suddenly.

Silence fell like a dropped blade. Jace looked up. Izzy’s arms uncrossed. Even Jem turned more fully toward Liam.

“I can still feel it,” Tessa said quietly. “But it’s dim. Like a dying flame.”

Liam hesitated, then exhaled. “She needed more than she had,” he said. “When she sealed the veil... I gave her what I could. I pushed my magic into hers. Enough to keep her going.”

Tessa’s gaze softened. “You sacrificed your strength for her.”

“She’s my sister,” Liam said simply. “It wasn’t a choice. With what I have left,” he continued, “I can’t do much anymore. No flickering between planes, no manipulating veils. Just enough to breathe.”

Izzy stared at him. “You never said anything. Not even when we return with you.”

“She didn’t want us interfering,” Liam said. “She made me promise.”

The weight of his words landed heavy in the room.

“You did something extraordinary,” Tessa said, voice full of quiet reverence. “You anchored her. That may have saved her.”

“She’s still alive,” Jace whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

“She is,” Tessa confirmed gently. “And now, we’ll do everything we can to reach her.”

Liam nodded once, jaw tight. “Then tell me what to do.”

Tessa’s smile returned, soft and determined. “Tomorrow, we begin.”

The morning air was crisp and cold, the kind that bit into your lungs and stung your cheeks awake. Cirenworth’s training yard, encircled by overgrown stone arches and frost-laced hedges, was a place where history and silence had settled like dust. But not today.

Blades clashed in the courtyard, echoing off ancient stone. Liam and Jace moved like twin storms—swift, brutal, and unyielding.

Tessa watched from the arched veranda with a cup of tea in hand, her shawl pulled tight over her shoulders. “They haven’t trained in months,” she murmured to Jem beside her. “A few hours of sweat might burn the sharpness off their grief.”

Jem nodded faintly. “Or sharpen it.”

Jace lunged again, his training sword cutting a clean arc through the air. Liam ducked under it effortlessly, twisting sideways and using the momentum to counter with a brutal sweep toward Jace’s side.

“You’re slower than last time,” Liam called out, breathless but grinning.

Jace smirked. “Still prettier.”

Liam let out a sharp laugh. “Still an arrogant prick.”

He launched forward with a burst of energy, nearly catching Jace by the throat—but Jace twisted, a fluid whirl of motion, and ended up behind Liam in a blink. His training blade pressed flat against Liam’s back, right where his heart would be.

Liam exhaled and let his own weapon fall to the frost-kissed ground with a metallic thud. “So,” he said between breaths, “you want to send her a message?”

Jace lowered his blade, eyes unreadable. “I don’t want to send her anything,” he said, voice low, tight. “I want her back.”

The sudden steel in his voice made Liam’s head lift. His own shoulders tensed, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t you think I already tried?” Liam said, bitterness threading through every word. “You think I just sat at home while my sister was locked beyond the veil, rotting in whatever magic keeps her bound? I’ve done the research. I’ve bled for the answers. And the truth is—we can’t have her back.”

His voice echoed off stone and trees. Silence followed, heavy and cold.

Jace stared at him. Not blinking. Not breathing. Then, slowly, he ran a hand through his damp golden hair, brushing it back with a growing fire in his eyes. He looked up—deadly calm.

“I will never let go of her,” Jace said, voice edged in steel. “So if you don’t believe there’s a way—why the hell are you even here?”

Liam stood motionless, watching Jace like one might a dangerous animal. His gaze dropped for a moment, distant, as if staring through the courtyard into a memory only he could see.

“She’s my sister,” he said softly. “And I won’t give up on her. Not ever. However hopeless it is. Not even if it kills me.”

He looked down at his hand, twisting the silver signet ring on his finger. The Ballanger crest glinted in the pale morning light—a stylized B enclosed by a circle of thorned vines, runes etched along the edge in ancient glyphs: Strength. Endurance.

Liam’s voice softened. “But… before we parted, before she flicked the veil closed… she told me something.”

Jace stepped closer, tension tightening every line of his body. “What did she say?”

Liam looked up from the ring, eyes piercing. He saw it again—so vividly it hurt: her pale wrists raw from magical chains, her breath trembling against his ear, those aching, ancient eyes of hers—like glaciers under the full moon.

“She said,” Liam whispered, “if anyone could find a way —it would be you.”

The words hit Jace like a blade to the chest. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His throat tightened as the cold wind tugged at the edges of his coat. That memory of her—his Cataleya—felt closer now than it had in weeks. And further still.

“I will find her,” Jace said, quiet but unwavering. “No matter the cost.”

Liam gave a slight nod, emotion flickering behind his eyes. “Then count me in.”

Somewhere in a realm that time had long forgotten, a girl with silvery white hair and piercing blue eyes sat slumped against a weather-worn brick wall. Her head tilted back until it rested on the stone behind her, lashes low as she inhaled through cracked lips. The sky above stretched endlessly in hues of stormy grey, and she stared at it like it might offer an answer—or mercy.

Around her, the broken remains of a city clung to silence. Buildings collapsed into themselves, vines snaking through crumbled concrete. The street beneath her was fractured like glass, and yet somehow, the world hadn’t collapsed entirely. Somewhere beyond this place, people were still alive. Life was still moving.

"What if we found someone else to take over?" a gentle voice asked.

Clary sat a few feet away, one knee pulled to her chest, her wild red curls catching in the soft breeze that rustled through the broken ruins. Her green eyes were calm, but behind them lived a thousand questions.

Cataleya didn't turn to look at her. Her voice came out raw, dry as dust. “I don’t think there’s anyone who could.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, like the crumbling sky might break from the weight of them.

Clary had come back after the veil had sealed itself once more, when the magic had settled like ash and silence over the city. She had found Cataleya chained to the center of a cracked street, kneeling on a dais carved with runes so ancient they hummed with power. The bindings had once glowed red-hot, cruel and pulsing, but with time—and sheer force of will—Cataleya had managed to loosen them.

Now, the chains dangled from her wrists like cursed jewelry. She was free to move, but only within the boundary the magic allowed—about a hundred and fifty feet in every direction. Beyond that, the invisible threads of the veil pulled taut, burning through her skin like acid, reminding her she was its anchor. Its prison. Its queen.

Clary had come every day since.

At first, Cataleya had said nothing. Just watched her from the shadows, silent and still as stone. But Clary kept coming back anyway. She talked about the world outside—the Institute, the others, the people Cataleya could no longer touch. She recited small, ordinary things like they were lifelines. Coffee dates. Negotiations between valentine's Army and the Rebellion. Little stories from her day.

Eventually, Cataleya had cracked. Just a little. She told Clary pieces of her story. About Liam. About the war. About what it meant to hold the veil together with your soul.

And somehow, over time, they had become something like friends. Ghosts of girls who were once warriors, once wild and alive, now tethered to ruins and fading magic.

Clary never touched her. She never crossed the invisible boundary Cataleya had drawn in the dirt. She knew better. The chains radiated magic that pulsed through the ground like veins of fire—chaotic, dangerous. Fatal to anyone but her.

But Clary wasn’t afraid. She sat there anyway. Day after day.

Sometimes she played old songs from her phone, their melodies filling the empty space between them like forgotten lullabies. Sometimes she just talked. And sometimes—like now—she sat in silence, her presence a steady echo in a world unraveling.

Cataleya’s eyes drifted back to the sky, searching for something she knew she wouldn’t find. A sign. A message. A break in the clouds. She thought of Liam. Of his steady eyes and the way he always said her name like it meant something sacred.

She thought of Jace. Always Jace.

His voice. His laughter. The curve of his mouth when he smirked. The way his presence once wrapped around her like armor. She tried to hold onto the memory, but it was like sand through her fingers—never enough. Never real.

The ache inside her chest had become constant, dull and sharp all at once. A longing that felt like burning.

The veil never stopped pulling at her. Ripping at her wrists like a child throwing a tantrum, desperate to break free, to shatter everything once again. But she held it. She always held it.

For now.

But even she knew—she couldn’t hold it forever.

And no matter how many days Clary came, no matter how many stories she told or plans she spun—there was no solution. No escape. No end to the unraveling inside Cataleya’s soul.

Still, Clary sat with her. Watching the sky with hope in her eyes.

And Cataleya, despite everything, let her stay.

Chapter Text

After lunch, Tessa led them to a quiet chamber tucked away behind the old library. The room was bathed in soft amber light that shimmered from ornate, Eastern-style lanterns suspended from the ceiling. Rich tapestries muted the walls, and plush cushions in jewel tones were scattered across the wooden floor. It felt like a pocket of calm carved out from the chaos of the world.

“Take a seat,” Tessa encouraged gently, her long skirts whispering as she moved across the room.

Liam and Jace exchanged a quick glance before sinking down onto cushions with varying degrees of awkwardness—both warriors, clearly more at home with swords than spiritual exercises. Izzy, by contrast, sprawled like a cat, elegance in every lazy movement, as if this was her natural habitat.

“The first step,” Tessa said, her voice velvet-smooth, “is meditation. You need to connect to your own magical essence before you can hope to trace the tether that binds you to her.”

Jace shifted, frowning faintly.

“Just close your eyes,” Tessa instructed, folding her legs beneath her and joining her fingers in a serene pose. “Breathe. Look inward. Don’t force anything. Magic responds to awareness, not pressure.”

Liam gave a skeptical snort but obeyed, settling into a cross-legged pose. Jace exhaled sharply, then closed his eyes, shutting out the flickering lanterns and muffled Violin sounds from Jem.

At first, there was nothing. Then frustration. He gave up once. Then again. Each time Tessa gently redirected him, her words like ripples across a still lake. “Return. Try again. Let the silence guide you.”

He tried. And tried again.

Time folded strangely. If the golden light through the window was any sign, they'd been there for hours—four, maybe more. Izzy remained still as a statue, not because she had magic of her own—she didn’t—but because she liked the quiet. The focus. Liam, ever determined, continued to breathe deep, trying to locate even the faintest spark of the power he’d once given away.

Tessa’s voice remained a steady anchor. “If you can find it once, you can always return to it. The first time is the most difficult.”

Jace ground his teeth. Then inhaled. He imagined himself descending inside—through muscle, through bone, through memory. Into the core of who he was. Into the soul.

And then, there it was. A low, golden fire. Not bright and burning, but heavy, molten. Glowing with angelic heat—fierce, ancient, infinite. His lips twitched into a stunned smile.

At the very heart of the flame, something else pulsed—a flicker of blue. Light. Soft and trembling, like a candle in the wind. But alive.

Her.

His eyes flew open with a sharp inhale, chest rising.

Tessa was watching him, a proud smile tugging at her lips. “Well done, Jace. You found it.”

Still breathless, he turned to her. “Now what?”

Before Tessa could answer, Liam huffed from beside him. “Of course you did it,” he muttered. “Golden boy strikes again.”

Jace grinned, his elbow nudging Liam with just the right amount of smugness. “Hey, hey—don’t be jealous. Not everyone can be this incredible.”

Liam rolled his eyes and socked him lightly in the arm. “Arrogant prick.” But he smiled. Just a little.

Tessa stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “Let’s take a break.”

“No,” Jace said quickly, his hand outstretched as if to stop her. “Wait. I’m close. We can’t stop now.”

She tilted her head, calm as ever. “I know the feeling. But you need to eat. Magic takes energy. You need to replenish before the next round.”

Back in the dining room, she laid out plates of fresh sandwiches and poured cold water from a crystal pitcher. At first, both Jace and Liam refused to touch anything. Their bodies were still humming with adrenaline, too focused to register hunger. But the first sip of water shattered something.

The fatigue crashed down in a wave. They devoured the sandwiches in a matter of minutes, chewing with the quiet desperation of men who had forgotten they were starving.

Izzy watched them with a small, amused smirk. “Told you. Tessa doesn’t mess around.”

Liam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then met Jace’s gaze across the table. Neither of them said it aloud, but the message passed between them clearly:

They could do this. They would reach her. They would not give up. 

Tessa had let them return to her meditation room long after the sun had dipped beyond the horizon. The soft golden lanterns overhead glowed like stars in a velvet sky, casting intricate shadows on the floor as Jace, Liam, and Izzy sat cross-legged among the cushions. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood lingered in the air. They had tried—tried for hours—but the link to Cataleya’s magic remained elusive.

At last, when the room had grown heavy with silence and frustration, Tessa rose gracefully and gave a small shake of her head.

“That’s enough for today,” she said gently, her voice warm but firm. “You did well, Jace. Get some rest. We’ll try again tomorrow. You’re closer than you think. With more practice, you may even be able to pass her a message.”

Jace sat still, fists clenched in the folds of his dark trousers. His jaw was tight, his golden eyes shadowed with reluctance.

“But—”

“No,” Tessa interrupted, kind but resolute. “This takes time. You’ve already made progress most wouldn’t in a week. Don’t underestimate that.”

Jace nodded once and stood, brushing his hands off on his thighs without a word. He slipped out the door, the hallway ahead dim and silent. His boots echoed softly on the old wooden floors.

Liam caught up with him a moment later, stretching his arms above his head with a long exhale. “So, pretty boy,” he drawled, falling into step beside Jace, “you really think you can do this?”

Jace didn’t slow his pace. “I have to,” he said. “She needs to know we’re still out here, fighting for her.”

Liam hesitated before speaking again, and when he did, his voice held the weight of a brother who had spent too long in the shadows.

“Listen,” he said, placing a firm hand on Jace’s shoulder, halting him. “I know you love her. So do I. She’s my sister. My blood. But we need to be realistic. What if we can’t bring her back? What if the veil—whatever magic she used—can’t be undone? We need to prepare for that.”

Jace swallowed hard and averted his gaze, unable to meet Liam’s eyes. They were too much like hers—blue and bright, just like Cataleya’s, and filled with the same fire.

“If I can’t free her,” Jace said after a long pause, “then I’ll find another way. A loophole. A hidden passage. A damned back door in the magic. Don’t worry, grumpy cat. I’m not giving up.”

He forced a smirk, but the corners of his eyes betrayed the truth—it didn’t reach his heart.

Behind them, a familiar voice broke through the tension. "You two should get some sleep,” Izzy said, striding up with quiet grace. She looped an arm around each of them like a bridge between worlds. “Or someone might think you’re growing fond of each other.”

Liam cocked his head and gave her an unabashed once-over. “I’m already rather fond of you.”

Jace’s head whipped toward him. “Hey!” he barked. “That’s my sister. Don’t look at her like that!”

Izzy laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “Like what?” she asked innocently, raising a brow.

“Like he wants to... Know what, doesn't matter. Just stop,” Jace growled.

Liam didn’t miss a beat. “Ley is my sister. Didn’t stop you from sharing her bed.”

Izzy groaned and shoved both men apart, putting a hand on each chest like a referee calling time out.

“Okay, enough testosterone, thanks,” she said. “Take a breath.”

But Jace wasn’t finished. His voice dropped, sharp and low.

“You played dead for years,” he snapped at Liam, eyes narrowed. “Now you show up and start pretending you’re the devoted big brother? I was the one who protected her. I stayed, even when she  pushed me away because of you. I was there. You don’t get to waltz in and pretend like your absence didn’t break her.”

Liam flinched, visibly stung, but didn’t back down. His shoulders squared and his voice came out quiet but steady.

“You’re right,” he said. “I wasn’t there. I should have been. But I’m here now—and I’m not leaving. So you better get used to me, because I’m not stepping away until she’s free again.”

The air between them crackled like dry lightning. It was Izzy who stepped in, grounding it.

“Wow,” she said, voice dry as sand. “That was almost sweet. Sounds like the beginning of a very awkward bromance to me.”

Jace rolled his eyes while Liam chuckled. The tension began to dissolve, just slightly, fraying at the edges.

“Go to bed, both of you,” Izzy said firmly. “We try again tomorrow. And maybe next time, keep your swords and your hormones in check.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared into the shadows.

Jace and Liam exchanged a glance. A beat passed in silence.

“...so she gave you hard time, did she?” Liam asked.

Jace groaned and walked faster. “Don’t push it.”

Liam smirked and followed. “Just saying. You’ve got guts, golden boy.”

Jace didn’t sleep.

He sat on the edge of his bed, arms braced on his knees, the moonlight bleeding in through the tall windows behind him. The house was quiet, resting in its midnight hush, but inside him, there was no peace. His chest was a battlefield.

Again and again, he reached inward, clawing through the layers of his magic—past the runes, past the training, past the scars. Deep into the core of himself where the bond to her still flickered like a half-remembered dream.

There. That spark. Faint. Fragile. But there.

He tried to touch it, tried to coax it closer. He pushed magic into it. Pulled it toward him. Nothing.

Again. And again. And again. Each time the spark retreated, slipping through his grasp like mist between fingers.

But when he was about to give up—his shoulders trembling, sweat beading along his brow—he reached out one final time, breath catching...

And it flared. Just for a second. Alive.

“Cataleya,” he gasped, eyes flying open as the connection bloomed in his chest like firelight in the dark. But just as quickly as it came, it vanished.

The bond flickered out, and the silence roared back in. The strain was too much. His head hit the pillow before he could process the loss, and sleep claimed him like a wave dragging him under.

Far away, in a realm untouched by time, Cataleya sat watching Clary.

Clary knelt on the concrete floor of their in-between prison, quietly drawing meaningless patterns in the dust with the edge of her hand. Pebbles shifted beneath her fingers like tiny bones. The realm was always gray here. Always quiet. Always still.

Cataleya stood nearby, arms folded, her expression unreadable. She’d watched Clary do this every day. Every day since they’d both been trapped.

But suddenly, Cataleya jolted upright as if struck by lightning. Her hands flew to her chest and her mouth opened wide, gasping like she had just broken the surface of deep water after being submerged far too long.

Her eyes were wide, wild. Her breath ragged. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

And then—she heard it.

A whisper.

A breath.

Her name.

“Cataleya…”

Jace.

Cataleya’s knees nearly buckled. Her hand gripped her chest, pressing hard as though she could hold the sound inside her forever.

“Jace!” she choked out, voice trembling, heart racing. “Jace?”

She didn’t know if he could hear her. Didn’t care. She whispered again anyway, desperate. “Jace!”

A single tear broke loose and slid down her cheek, catching in the curve of her lashes.

Clary watched her with concern, reaching out instinctively—but remembering at the last second that she couldn’t touch her. Her hand dropped uselessly to her lap.

“Are you okay?” Clary asked gently.

Cataleya didn’t answer right away. Her whole body felt like it had just been kissed by lightning. She let out a shaky breath.

“He’s still looking for me,” she whispered again, voice breaking. “He hasn’t given up.”

And for the first time in what felt like eternity, she allowed herself to believe—maybe she could still be found.

Chapter Text

Jace awoke to a soft, persistent clicking sound echoing through his room. Blinking blearily, he sat up, still groggy, his body aching from the night before. Then his gaze dropped to the end of the bed.

Someone was standing there.

“What the—?” Jace jerked upright, nearly falling backward off the mattress. “What the fuck?”

There, arms crossed and expression thunderous, stood Alec Lightwood.

Alec didn’t say a word. He simply stared at Jace with the kind of intensity that made demons flinch. His dark hair was wind-tousled from a recent portal, his boots still damp, and his face… well, his face said he hadn’t come for a reunion.

“Alec?” Jace swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrambled for a shirt. “What are you doing here?”

“You mean here as in your bedroom,” Alec said slowly, “or here as in Devon?”

“Uh... both?” Jace offered, grabbing his gear shirt and tugging it over his head.

Alec’s jaw ticked. “I realized you went on a secret mission with my sister in the middle of the damn night. So I started digging. And guess what I found?” He began pacing the room in deliberate, stormy steps. “Portal residue. In the bloody salon.”

Jace winced.

“Only one person could’ve helped you do that. Magnus.”

Jace gave a weak shrug. “To be fair, he swore not to tell you.”

Alec stopped mid-step and raised a sharp brow. “Actually, he didn’t.” His voice lowered with irritation. “I traced your parabatai rune when it started shifting. Then I called Magnus and had him send me here... so I could kick your ass.”

Jace ran a hand through his tangled golden hair and sighed. “Yeah, I figured you’d be mad.”

“Mad?” Alec echoed, voice rising slightly. “You didn’t just run off on some Clave-forbidden personal quest—you dragged Izzy into it.”

“I didn’t drag her—” Jace began.

“You let her come,” Alec snapped. “That’s bad enough. You know she’d follow you anywhere. But you’re supposed to be smarter than this. You should’ve told me.”

Jace looked down, tightening the laces on his boots. “You would’ve freaked out.”

“Of course I would’ve freaked out!” Alec threw his hands up. “You’re Jace Herondale. You specialize in breaking rules and nearly dying for people you love. Which is noble and infuriating.”

Jace rose, brushing his shirt down. His expression turned more serious—hurt, even. “I didn’t ask you to come, Alec. I didn’t want you to get dragged into a mess I kicked loose. But I won’t stop. I won’t let her go.”

Alec inhaled deeply, dragging a hand over his face before pinching the bridge of his nose like he was getting a migraine. “Listen. I get it, alright? You don’t have to ask me for anything. We’re parabatai. I would go with you to the end of the world.”

“You did go with me to the end of the world. Twice,” Jace muttered with a half-smile.

Alec ignored that. “You just need to trust me. That we can do this together. But we have to be smart. The Clave just let us off the hook after Malachi. I’d prefer we not end up in the Gard this time.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded document, tossing it on the bed.

“I pulled strings. Got us personal leave clearance. For the three of us. A little vacation. But we need to be back in New York by January 1st.”

Jace looked down at the form. Stared at it. Then looked up.

“You serious?”

“Do I look like I came all the way to Devon to joke?” Alec deadpanned.

Jace laughed, full and free, and crossed the room in three quick steps. He pulled Alec into a fierce, grateful hug, clapping him hard on the back.

“Thank you. And... I’m sorry. And you’re right.”

Alec stepped back, one brow cocked high. “Hear, hear. Jace Herondale just admitted I’m right. Mark the date, engrave it in stone, throw a bloody parade.”

Jace rolled his eyes, smirking.

And suddenly, the tension broke. The air shifted. There was no distance, no lingering anger. It was just them. Parabatai. As it had always been. As it would always be.

Jace and Alec descended the spiral staircase into the salon, their steps echoing against the polished stone.

Jace froze halfway down.

Alec, close behind, walked straight into his back and muttered a sharp curse. “What the—?”

The room was already full. A dozen gazes turned to meet theirs. The air was charged with anticipation, tension humming beneath polite smiles.

“You brought Liam?” Alec’s voice dropped low, disappointment etched deep in his brow as his eyes locked onto Liam.

Liam gave a lazy two-fingered wave from the velvet sofa and shot Alec a smirk. “Good to see you too, Lightwood. I figured as brother-in-law, I’ve earned a spot at the table.”

Jace groaned audibly. “I didn’t bring him.”

Alec narrowed his eyes. “Brother-in-law? Okay, did I have a seizure or wake up from a coma? When did that happen?”

“He’s messing with you,” Jace said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He followed us. Same as you did.”

Izzy stood by the far wall, far too close to Liam for Jace’s liking. She wore an amused smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Before Alec could form another protest, the double doors on the other side of the salon burst open in a flourish of glitter and silk.

“Oh heavens, I almost thought I’d be late to the party,” Magnus announced, entering like a storm of confetti and charm. He waved with his cocktail, rings glinting, but his gaze wasn’t on Alec or Jace.

It was fixed behind them.

Jace and Alec turned simultaneously—just in time to see Mira stroll into the hallway, her boots clicking confidently on the marble. Beside her was Simon, grinning like this was just another casual Tuesday.

“Wouldn’t want you to have all the fun without us,” Mira said with a grin, her curls bouncing as she moved into the room like she owned it.

Simon lifted a hand in greeting. “So! Demon world expedition or just another run-in with a psychopathic warlock today? I didn’t pack a toothbrush, but I’ve got stakes and sarcasm, so I’m good.”

Jace stared at them all, rubbing his temple like the pressure of the entire room was trying to crush his sanity. “By the Angels, what is wrong with you people? Do none of you understand what uninvited means?”

Behind them, Tessa appeared with the grace of an old soul and the smile of a patient mother watching children argue over toys.

“It’s so lovely to have you all gathered here,” she said warmly, as if they were attending a dinner party rather than assembling a war council. “We haven’t had this many guests in years.”

Jace turned toward her slowly, still processing the chaotic circus that had just entered his life.

Alec crossed his arms. “This is spiraling. Fast.”

Magnus took a delicate sip of his drink and winked. “Darling, when does it not?”

Izzy laughed softly and leaned back against the mantle. “Well. At least now it feels like home.”

And for a single heartbeat, Jace felt it too—the madness, the mayhem, and the love stitched between every sarcastic comment and reckless arrival.

They all came for the one person that was missing. Cataleya. 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing golden light across the ornate salon. Outside, the twilight deepened into night, but within the walls of the mansion, a quiet moment had carved itself into time.

Magnus sat beside Tessa on the tufted settee, a tumbler of something amber and expensive in one hand, his other resting lightly on his knee. He turned his head to her with a smile full of warmth and old affection.

She hadn’t aged a day. Not surprising, really—not with demon blood running through her veins. But it wasn’t just her youthful face or luminous eyes that held him captive tonight. It was the quiet sorrow beneath it all. The kind only immortals knew.

“How are you, sweetheart?” he asked gently, his voice touched with velvet and memory.

Tessa gave him a soft smile. Her eyes dropped from his face to her folded hands in her lap, fingers twisting absently.

“To see him… Jace…” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. “It was both wonderful and achingly painful. He looks so much like him.” A pause. A breath. “It broke my heart all over again… in the most precious way.”

Her voice cracked as unshed tears gathered, shimmering at the corners of her eyes. Even after a century, her grief hadn’t dulled. Not for her William.

And Magnus understood. More than he cared to admit.

One day, Alec would die. And he would not.

“I see it too,” Magnus said quietly. “The resemblance. It’s… uncanny. That same impossible arrogance. The same stubborn tilt of the chin. And the way he hides his pain—carries it all on his shoulders and tells no one. Just like Will.” He swallowed. The firelight shimmered in his eyes, reflecting ghosts. “I miss him too.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the soft crackle of fire, the hush of a house brimming with sleeping warriors and restless hearts.

Tessa let out a breath of laughter, fragile and real. “He would’ve liked Jace, wouldn’t he?”

Magnus’s smile returned, bittersweet. “Definitely. Who wouldn’t fall for that pretty face and cocky grin?”

Tessa gave a teary chuckle, brushing at her cheek. Magnus reached across and took her hand in his, fingers warm and steady.

“You had everything you wished for,” he said softly. “For a while.”

“I did.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “And I’ll be forever grateful. But because of that… I know exactly what Jace is feeling. I can see it in him—that ache, that longing. I can’t let him drown in it, Magnus. He doesn’t deserve this. No one does.”

She straightened, wiping her tears with grace.

“You’ve always been too kind for this world, Tessa Gray,” Magnus said. And he meant it.

They sat there, hand in hand, two immortals holding on to love long lost, bound by the ache of outliving those who once made them feel human.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.

And somewhere deep in the Institute, Jace slept restlessly, unaware that two ancient hearts had just made a silent vow—

They would not let him break.

The fire crackled softly in the grand salon of Cirenworth Hall, its light casting amber flickers across the high ceilings and old portraits. The scent of cedarwood and old books lingered in the air, woven through with something faintly floral—perhaps from the vase of white lilacs Tessa had arranged on the windowsill.

Liam sprawled along the arm of an oversized chaise lounge like it was his personal throne, golden hair tousled, blue eyes gleaming with mischief. Across from him, Isabelle Lightwood reclined in a brocade wingback chair, one leg crossed over the other, all shadows and elegance in her fitted black gear and crimson nails. She pretended to be indifferent—but her eyes kept sliding back to him, almost involuntarily.

“You know,” Liam said, swirling the tea in his cup with a silver spoon he clearly had no intention of using, “you’d look good in a crown.”

Izzy arched an eyebrow. “I look good in everything.”

Liam’s grin widened. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say."

She tilted her head, letting her gaze trail down his relaxed posture, slow and deliberate. “You flirt like you’re used to getting away with it.”

“And you deflect like someone who’s tempted to let me.”

“I’m not tempted,” she lied smoothly.

Liam chuckled. “If you say so, Lady Lethal.”

“I do. And keep calling me that and I’ll show you how lethal I can be.”

His smirk didn’t falter. “Promise?”

Across the room, Mira flopped down beside Simon on one of the overstuffed sofas, her eyes rolling so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall right out of her head.

“Gods, can someone gag him with a throw pillow?” she muttered, grabbing one for emphasis.

Simon laughed and took a sip of the hot cider in his hands. “Don’t waste the good pillows on him. He’d probably enjoy it.”

"I would,” Liam called from his perch without missing a beat.

“Gross,” Mira said, tossing the pillow harmlessly at Simon instead, who dodged it with the ease of a long-practiced roommate.

“Hey, remember that hotel in Galway?” Simon said, nudging her. “When you fried the toaster because it wouldn’t stop beeping while I was trying to make pancakes?”

Mira snorted. “It was beeping. For, like, twenty minutes. I thought it was possessed.”

“You thought I was possessed,” Simon said with mock indignation. “You threw a runestone at me!”

“You were humming show tunes while whisking eggs. I had to do something.”

Izzy raised an eyebrow at Mira, amused. “You destroyed an entire toaster because Simon was being annoying?”

“Correct,” Mira said unapologetically. “It sparked once and I took that personally.”

“Sounds justified,” Liam added helpfully.

“Oh, and that dryad you tried to flirt with,” Simon said, nudging Mira again and pointing to Liam. “Also in Galway.”

Mira groaned. “Don’t remind me. He asked her if her dress was made of actual moss.”

“She said yes,” Simon replied, grinning. “And still gave him her number.”

“I think I blacked out from second-hand embarrassment,” Mira muttered into her cider.

Liam stretched, glancing toward Izzy again with that same magnetic smirk. “Jealousy suits you, Mira. But if I remember correctly, you told the dryad she needed exfoliation.”

“She did,” Mira deadpanned. “She had lichen in unfortunate places.”

Simon nearly spit out his drink laughing.

Izzy finally let a soft laugh escape, shaking her head. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you,” Liam said, sliding off the chaise to kneel beside her chair in a surprisingly graceful motion, “are dangerously enchanting.”

He picked up her hand, brushing a warm kiss over her knuckles.

Izzy’s heart did something traitorous in her chest—but her expression stayed cool. “Do that again and I’ll break your fingers.”

Liam looked up at her through his lashes, blue eyes glinting with delight. “Worth it.”

She yanked her hand back with a glare—but didn’t move away.

In the flickering firelight, the four of them settled deeper into the old salon—playful banter, low flirtation, and old friendships weaving something fragile but real. 

Beyond the veil, the air shimmered with a strange stillness. The sky hung low and unmoving, painted in a bruised violet hue that never truly turned to night or day. Clary sat cross-legged on the cracked pavement of the street, scowling as she tossed another pebble aside.

Cataleya watched from her usual spot—half-shadowed against the worn brick wall of an old building, wrists shackled loosely in celestial blue, their weight now familiar. She tilted her head at Clary’s frustration, silver-blonde hair falling over one shoulder like liquid moonlight.

"Has the pebble done anything to you?" she asked dryly, not bothering to move.

Clary sighed and gathered the pebbles again, letting them click together in her palms. “You know I can literally design runes. But I can’t find one that fits this prison. Nothing works. Nothing sticks.”

At that, Cataleya straightened, gaze sharpening. “Why would you even try?”

Clary let the pebbles fall from one hand to the other, refusing to meet her eyes. “My Jace wasn't anything like the one you talk about. But from what I’ve gathered… yours won’t stop looking for you.” Her voice softened, almost apologetic. “And you don’t deserve to be locked up here. So I thought maybe... maybe I could craft a rune. Something to undo this. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Cataleya said, softer than she expected. But her expression quickly shut down again, mouth twitching into a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But really, Clary—thank you. For trying. Still…” She waved a hand at the empty, endless street, a faint clink echoing as her chains shifted. “I’ve got the view. I’ve got lovely jewellery.” She lifted her shackled wrists and gave a sardonic shake. “I’m fine. Don’t bother.”

Clary’s last pebble dropped from her fingers, landing with a soft thud on the ground. She looked up, green eyes luminous with something that wasn’t quite pity—but close. “You don’t have to do that,” she said suddenly, her tone cutting through the haze like a blade.

Cataleya blinked. “Do what?”

“Pretend. Convince me that you’re fine. That this doesn’t absolutely suck.” Clary stood and gestured sharply to the empty street, the lifeless sky, the heavy chains.

Cataleya pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin atop them, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “It sucks,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “It really, really does. But I chose this.”

Clary didn’t sit. She just stood there, silent and restless.

Cataleya’s eyes flicked up to her. “If anything, you should find a way to revive your Jace. You deserve that chance.”

“There is no way,” Clary muttered, scuffing her boots against the gravel like a defiant child trying to stay angry. “But there could be for you. If I just—”

“Don’t.” Cataleya’s voice was sharp now, cutting through the quiet like shattering glass. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t give me that pathetic flicker of hope when there’s nothing left. I’ve just come to terms with all this.” She gestured again to the chains, the street, the nothingness. “This is it. I’m fine. I really am.”

Her voice tried to sound resolute—but the tremble beneath it betrayed her.

Clary didn’t argue. She just nodded once, slowly, and sank back to the ground beside her. The pebbles clinked in her palm as she quietly began arranging them again, forming symbols that dissolved moments after they appeared.

They sat together in silence, side by side on the edge of a world that didn’t belong to them. The street stretched on in both directions, quiet and endless. Neither of them said another word.

Because in that place—between what was and what could never be—there wasn’t much left to say.

Chapter Text

Three days. Three days of meditation, of brutal training sessions, of reaching deep into the well of his power and pulling nothing but silence in return.

Jace was growing restless.

He paced the Carstairs library, the wide room dimly lit by the golden light slanting in through high stained-glass windows. Ancient tomes and weathered scrolls littered the floor around him like the aftermath of a storm. He dragged his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath.

Another book. Another dead end.

With a low growl, he slammed it shut and pressed his palms to the tabletop, his head hanging over the spine like the thing had personally offended him.

“I’m guessing that one didn’t have the answers either?” came a soft voice from behind.

Jace didn’t turn. “Nothing,” he bit out. “You’d think centuries of knowledge would hold something—anything—remotely useful. But no. Just more obscure languages and broken theories.”

Jem Carstairs stepped into the room without a sound, as if the quiet itself welcomed him.

Jace hesitated, then asked, “You were a Silent Brother for decades. Don’t you know something—anything—that might help?”

He had considered asking Jem before. Many times. But he hadn’t, because Jem hadn’t chosen the Brotherhood willingly. He had taken the transformation to survive, not out of duty.

Jem rubbed a hand over his face and sank into the armchair across from Jace. Despite the centuries, he still looked impossibly young.

“I do,” Jem admitted. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Jace’s head snapped up.

“It’s a terrible idea,” Jem continued, eyes grave. “Dangerous. Almost certainly forbidden. And if the Clave finds out…”

Jace stepped around the table, golden hair falling into his eyes. “You know I don’t care about danger.”

“That,” Jem said, a wry smile tugging at his lips, “is very much a family trait. Will never cared either. Especially not when someone he loved was involved. Reckless. Stubborn. Always choosing the path with the most fire and the least safety.”

“He was your parabatai, wasn’t he?” Jace asked, perching on the edge of the desk.

Jem nodded. “The best I could have asked for. But he didn’t think about consequences. Just like you.” He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Which is why, if I told you this idea… I’d have to live with knowing you'd try it. And if you died—Tessa would murder me. With her bare hands.”

“She doesn’t have to know it came from you,” Jace said with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. “I could pretend I came up with it all by myself.”

Jem chuckled. “She’d still know. She always does.”

He stood and moved to one of the older shelves, reaching high before drawing down a thick, red leather-bound volume. The kind of book that looked like it hadn’t been opened in a century.

Jem handed it to Jace and met his gaze. “Let’s say you stumbled across this by accident,” he said. “And I just helped you interpret it.”

Jace took the book, heart already pounding with something close to hope.

They sat side by side at the long table, the candlelight flickering across faded ink and forgotten truths, as Jem opened the book to a page that held the shadow of a plan.

Something dangerous. Something impossible.

But maybe—just maybe—something that could work.

Back in the kitchen of Cirenworth, chaos was already brewing—though not in the usual way.

Magnus was dramatically clutching his face, fingers spread over his cheekbones as if shielding himself from a personal tragedy. “Isabelle, darling, please… you’re offending my very existence. My smelling senses are being assaulted. This—” he waved a hand toward the stove as though it were a crime scene “—this is outrageous.”

Isabelle stood at the stove, wearing a pristine white apron over her black training gear, aggressively stirring a bubbling pot of… something. Whatever it was, it looked vaguely sentient and absolutely hostile.

“Magnus, stop being dramatic. I followed the recipe exactly. The smell will fade—eventually,” Izzy snapped, leaning over the pot and coughing lightly as a wisp of steam hit her nose.

“Oh hell no,” Alec’s voice cut through the air as he walked in, stopped dead in the doorway, and stared in abject horror. “Who let you in the kitchen?”

Izzy turned, one hand on her hip, spoon still dripping greenish sludge. “I’m trying to do something nice for all of us. A family dinner. Friends. Unity. Togetherness. That kind of thing.”

“And you thought the best way to do that was to poison us?” Simon asked as he strolled in, Mira beside him with a can of soda in hand.

Izzy glared. “Would you all just shut up? I’m not trying to kill anyone.”

“Oh God, what is that?” Liam groaned as he stepped in behind Mira, waving a hand dramatically in front of his face. “It smells like something died in here, not very recently.”

Izzy’s nostrils flared. “Scratch that. Maybe I do want to kill someone.”

Liam grinned like it was a compliment. “Aw, you do care. I knew you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”

He took a few flirty steps toward her—then stopped mid-stride and gagged slightly as the scent hit him full-force. “On second thought, love is not worth that.”

Alec crossed his arms, radiating big brother menace. “Step away from my sister or I’ll kill you myself.”

“Whoa, okay—what did I just walk into?” Jace asked as he appeared in the doorway, blinking at the scene.

“Your brother-in-law has a death wish,” Alec said flatly. “And Isabelle is trying to fulfill it. For all of us.”

Jace looked at Izzy, at the pot, then back at everyone else. “Didn’t we literally promise her she wasn’t allowed near stoves anymore? Like, as an official House Rule?”

Izzy slammed the spoon onto the counter with a splatter of green goop and yanked the apron off. “You are all awful! Absolutely awful!”

She whipped the apron across the room and stormed out, black hair flying behind her like an angry curtain.

“She meant you three, by the way,” Liam said helpfully, pointing at Alec, Simon, and Jace. “I’m pretty sure she secretly loves me.”

Mira leaned against the wall, smug grin tugging at her lips, sipping from her soda in silence. She wasn’t about to join the war.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“So…” Jace finally asked, tilting his head, “no dinner, then?”

A soft voice cut through the room like a blade of silk. “I’ll handle it.”

Everyone jumped. Tessa stood in the corner, seemingly having materialized from nowhere, calm and regal in her long cardigan. She looked entirely unfazed by the disaster before her.

“You lot,” she added, turning toward Jace with a raised brow, “go find Isabelle. And apologize.”

Magnus sighed with relief and snapped his fingers to clean the mess. “Thank the Angel. Someone competent.”

Jace and Liam sat cross-legged on the rug in one of Cirenworth’s quiet drawing rooms, their hands resting on their knees, eyes closed, the late afternoon light casting golden streaks through the tall windows. Meditation wasn’t exactly Liam’s thing—but after everything, they had to try again.

Another attempt. One more try before the infamous dinner.

Liam exhaled sharply, clapping his hands to his knees in irritation. “I can’t see shit,” he muttered. “It’s like staring into fog. Black, bloody fog.”

Jace remained silent, still in his trance. His breathing was steady, his pulse low—but his mind… his mind was pushing deeper. He could feel the edges of it now. The well. The tether. The spark.

Cataleya’s spark.

With sudden, desperate determination, Jace pushed harder. The world around him buckled.

And then—

It shifted.

He was no longer in Cirenworth.

The cracked concrete of the other realm stretched out before him, cast in desaturated greys and eerie shadows. The air tasted different. Old and wrong. But he knew this place.

And there—

There she was.

Cataleya.

She sat against a crumbling brick wall, the gleaming blue chains still bound to her wrists. Her head tilted toward the bleak sky, as if she were listening. Or waiting. Like she always did—hoping.

“Ballanger,” Jace whispered, breath caught in his throat.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. She gasped.

Could she see him?

“Can you hear me?” he asked, louder this time. His heart thundered against his ribs.

Cataleya crawled forward on her knees, hesitant. Then she stopped. Sat back on her heels, hands fluttering up to her mouth as tears spilled freely down her face.

“That’s not real,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”

He wanted to reach her—every fiber of his soul burned with it—but he couldn’t move. He was just… present. Caught between worlds. Between breath and memory.

“I’m coming for you,” Jace said, voice thick with emotion. “You hear me? We’re coming for you. Just hold on a little longer, okay?”

She shook her head, sobbing, fingers outstretched.

“Jace?” she cried. “Jace!”

He felt her slipping. The vision, the plane, the connection—it was weakening.

No. Not yet. Not now.

He slammed his will against it. Held on with every ounce of strength he had left.

But she was already fading. Her voice growing distant.

“Jace!” she screamed, arm outstretched, panic in her eyes.

And then—

Black.

Jace gasped, lurching upright with a violent breath, as if torn from underwater. He was back. Back in Cirenworth. Lying flat on the wooden floor, the ceiling spinning overhead. Liam knelt over him, slapping his cheek with worry.

“Jace! Hey—Jace, come on, talk to me!”

Jace coughed, breath shuddering. “I saw her,” he said hoarsely. “I think she saw me too.”

Liam froze, eyes narrowing. “She saw you?”

Jace nodded, heart still hammering in his chest. Her voice still rang in his ears. “She saw me. She heard me,” he whispered. “She was there… and she knew it was me.”

Chapter Text

Cataleya’s hand dropped, trembling, into her lap.

He had been there. She was sure of it. His voice, his eyes, the way he said her name—it had felt real. As real as the ache in her chest now. As real as the silence that swallowed her the moment he disappeared.

But then came the doubt.

What if it wasn’t real?

What if it was just another illusion? A cruel echo born from her own desperate mind? A mirage spun from longing—a heart’s desire conjured to break her a little more?

She drew in a breath, deep and ragged, filling her lungs until it hurt. Then she exhaled all at once, and the dam cracked.

Cataleya buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. She cried—silent and raw, the kind of weeping that cracked through the soul and spilled out in broken pieces. The glowing chains at her wrists clinked with every shudder, a cruel reminder of where she was.

Still here.

Still trapped.

Still chained.

As if she would be forever.

Her heart ached violently in her chest, like it wanted to claw its way out—tear through her ribs, scream into the sky, Find me. Save me. Please. But the sky didn’t listen.

Her fingers eventually dropped to her lap, limp and bloodstained. Empty.

She stared at the ground, her eyes landing on the small, scattered pebbles—Clary’s pebbles. The ones she sorted every day into shapes and symbols. Useless distractions. Until now.

They had once formed a rune from her last attempt. A fragment of hope.

Cataleya blinked slowly. Clary isn’t the only one who can create runes. The thought landed like a flare in the dark. Burning. Wild. Desperate.

She scrambled forward, chains scraping across stone, and began again. Hands shaking, she shifted the pebbles, rearranging them—circle, line, spiral. Again. And again. It made no sense. Nothing felt right. The pebbles mocked her with every failed attempt. Her frustration boiled over.

With a cry, she shoved them across the concrete, pebbles scattering. Some vanished down deep cracks in the ground. Others just… lay there, like dead stars. Cold and useless. But something inside her screamed not to stop.

What if Clary was right?

What if there could be a rune? One that hadn’t existed until now?

So she tried again. And again. Until her fingers bled. Until the edges of her mind blurred. Until her body gave in. She had no chalk. No stele. Just pain. Just blood. So she used that.

She scrawled symbols across the cracked stone—runes that didn’t belong to any book, any language, any history. They were hers. Born from memory, anguish, instinct. Her wrists throbbed as the shackles bit into torn skin. Her arms burned with exhaustion. But she kept going.

She had to.

By the time the pale, false daylight returned, her vision had dimmed, her lips chapped and bleeding from muttered prayers.

And when Clary came, she froze in place. Her eyes widened in horror.

Cataleya lay curled in the dust, unmoving. Her chains lay in a pool beside her, wrists torn and bleeding. Her body was covered in ash, blood, and exhaustion. And around her—drawn across every surface—were runes.

Runes in her own blood. Different. Unfamiliar. New.

Clary staggered forward, her voice barely a whisper. “Ley… what did you do?”

They sat around the table, plates half-empty, silverware clinking softly. The air was thick with tension, made worse by Izzy’s glare — sharp enough to cut glass.

“Come on, Isabelle. You do have other qualities,” Liam offered with mock-innocent charm, hoping to ease the mood.

“And what would you know about that?” Alec snapped, leaning forward, his elbows digging into the table.

“Oh please, Alec,” Izzy sighed, rolling her eyes as she swirled her glass of water dangerously close to spilling. “Not everything he says is a personal attack.”

“Yeah, Alec,” Liam added with that signature smirk of his. “Relax.”

But then Jace spoke—and everything froze. “I made a connection today.”

All movement at the table stopped. Even the cutlery stilled. Everyone froze—except Liam, who quietly continued eating.

Jace didn’t wait for them to react. “I saw her. She’s still there. Right where we left her.”

Izzy gently set her glass down, her eyes wide.

“I knew you would. That’s… extraordinary,” she whispered, voice trembling between awe and disbelief. “Did she see you?”

“She did,” Jace said, rubbing his temples. “I think so. But it only lasted a minute, maybe less.”

Tessa, seated beside Jem, nodded slowly, as if this were just a mundane detail in a day full of miracles. “Still, that’s progress.”

Jace hesitated, glancing between the faces around the table, nerves creeping into his voice. “And… I found something worth looking into. A plan, maybe.”

“Spit it out,” Mira said, finally breaking the silence. “What kind of plan?”

“I, uh…” Jace cleared his throat, glancing at Tessa before looking away a little too quickly. “I found a book. In the library. About summoning angels.”

A pause. And then: “So I thought… what if we could summon Raziel?”

The words dropped like a stone in still water. No one breathed. No one blinked. Even Liam finally stopped eating. Only Tessa moved. She exhaled, slowly, like someone trying not to shout.

“Where did you read about such a thing?” she asked sharply. Her voice, for once, was not calm. It was incredulous. Her eyes darted to Jem, whose face tried—and failed—to look convincingly surprised.

“I told you. It was just there,” Jace said. “A dusty old thing about angels and rites. I thought—Raziel created the Shadowhunters. If anyone could fix the Veil, it’s him, right?”

Tessa’s expression hardened. “Perhaps. But summoning an angel—especially Raziel—without his consent? That could kill you. Or all of us.”

“I know,” Jace said firmly. “But it could also work. And if it could work, then isn’t it worth trying?”

Silence again. The kind that weighs on shoulders. Hopeful… but terrified.

Tessa turned to Jem, narrowing her eyes. “This wouldn’t happen to be your idea, would it?”

Jem’s smile was unconvincing. “No, no, my love. Certainly not.”

She stared at him for one long, knowing moment. “You’re lying,” she muttered, massaging her forehead.

“I would need your help,” Jace said, his voice quieter now. “To perform the summoning. To make it work.”

“My help?” Tessa raised a brow. “You want me to summon Raziel? Or any angel? I assure you—I can’t protect you from divine wrath.”

Jem leaned forward, nearly knocking over his water glass in his enthusiasm. “What if you didn’t summon Raziel?” he suggested, his eyes alight. “What if we summon Ithuriel?”

Tessa let out an annoyed huff. “Jem.”

“He’s helped Clary before,” Izzy said, finally emerging from her stunned silence. “He’s less likely to… incinerate us.”

Tessa didn’t look convinced. “Fine,” she said after a moment. “If you manage to reach Cataleya again—truly reach her—and if she agrees to the plan… then, and only then, I’ll try. But there’s no guarantee Ithuriel will come. Or that he’ll help.”

“Fair enough,” Jace said with a nod.

And just like that, the table returned to silence.

Only this time, a sliver of hope sat between them—quiet, but undeniable.

That night, the friends gathered in the grand salon of Cirenworth Manor. The fire cracked gently in the hearth, casting gold-tipped shadows on the polished wooden floors and the carved edges of the furniture. The atmosphere was heavy with unresolved questions, yet there was a fragile sense of unity, too—like something fractured was starting to rejoin.

“I should be insulted you didn’t ask me,” Magnus announced dramatically as he sank into a velvet armchair near the fire, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, a crystal glass in hand that shimmered with something decidedly not wine. “But if anyone has a chance of convincing Ithuriel, it’d be her.”

“Why?” Mira asked from where she was draped comfortably across Simon’s lap on the long couch. His posture was stiff, a blush creeping up his neck. They hadn’t exactly made their relationship official, and being sprawled together in plain view was apparently still a bit too public for him.

Magnus took a long sip, then rolled his eyes like the burden of explaining history to children weighed heavily upon him.

“Always forget you weren’t around back then. So—long story short—Tessa was kidnapped by a madman. The pendant she wore? Surprise. It contained an imprisoned angel. Ithuriel. He protected her from the inside out, eventually saved her, and she freed him. There’s a bond there, a history. One he might actually honor. Better odds than sending in a cocky Nephilim with entitlement issues.” He gestured lazily at Jace.

“Right,” Simon said, tone dry. “So the plan is: we summon an actual celestial being who could implode our skulls just by thinking about it, and hope he has nostalgic feelings about his hostage situation with Tessa? Yeah. Solid plan.”

Mira elbowed him immediately. “Ow! What was that for?”

“For being pessimistic,” she snapped. “We’ve summoned worse things. Remember the bone spider in Ireland?”

“Exactly my point,” Simon muttered.

Magnus smirked over the rim of his glass. “Love your chemistry. Like watching disaster flirt with catastrophe.”

Across the room, Alec sat in silence, shoulders tight, jaw flexing. Jace wasn’t even sure the man was breathing.

“Alexander,” Magnus said, voice edged with warning, “could you please stop brooding and say something? I don’t want you to explode on me later.”

Alec let out a deep sigh, clearly annoyed. “This is a suicidal plan that could get us front-row seats at the Gard’s prison block,” he finally muttered. “But it also sounds like the only plan we have. So… I’m in.”

Jace let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and clapped Alec’s shoulder with a grateful nod. “Thank you, brother.”

“Should we… I don’t know, have a drink or three to celebrate the fact we actually have a plan?” Simon suggested, lifting a brow.

Magnus grinned like someone had just given him a kitten. “Brilliant idea, Simon Lewis. Cocktails, coming right up!”

As he strode toward the bar with flair, the others slipped into more relaxed conversation, laughter rising in pockets around the room like the first warm breeze after winter.

Izzy wandered over to Jace, who leaned silently in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the flickering firelight reflect off the cut crystal decanters on the sideboard.

“We’ll get her back,” she said softly, brushing his arm in a quiet gesture of comfort. “You saw her. That’s a good thing, Jace.”

He gave a small, tired smile. “Guess it is.”

Just then, a cool glass was pushed into Izzy’s hand from behind. “Saved you one, love,” Liam purred over her shoulder with a teasing smirk.

Jace frowned instantly. “Don’t—just don’t call her that,” he snapped, flicking his fingers dismissively.

“What? Love?” Liam replied, completely unfazed. “How about my queen, my beauty, oh I know!—my one and only, precious?” he continued, following Jace like a cat toying with a hound.

Izzy laughed, sipping her cocktail with exaggerated elegance. Liam and Jace had a special kind of friendship—half rivalry, half reluctant alliance, all wrapped in sarcasm.

“Please stop licking your spoon so obnoxiously, Liam. You’re giving me the creeps,” Simon called out, shielding his eyes with a groan.

“You know nothing, Simon Lewis,” Liam said dramatically, twirling the spoon between his fingers. “That, my friend, is an erotic display for the lady.”

“Dear God,” Simon moaned. “I swear, if I ever witness another of your ‘displays,’ I’m gouging my eyes out with a butter knife.”

Mira burst into laughter, nearly spilling her drink.

“Why can Izzy do that but not me?” Liam said, pointing accusingly as Izzy popped a cherry into her mouth, lips curling around it before she drew the stem out clean.

“Because she’s a gorgeous woman,” Simon said, deadpan. “You’re… you.”

“She is stunning,” Mira added, fluttering her lashes at Izzy, who winked in return.

Laughter filled the salon, blending with the crackle of the fire and the glint of candlelight. Jace just watched his friends with a smile. 

Chapter Text

Another day. Another failure.

Jace sat cross-legged on the floor of the meditation room, a cushion beneath him, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows across his clenched jaw. His breath was uneven, his fists balled at his thighs, his golden hair a wild mess from having raked his fingers through it for the hundredth time.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, voice laced with frustration. “You said if I found it once, I could return to it. So why isn’t it working?”

Tessa watched him from across the room, her posture poised, calm—but her eyes softened with quiet concern. She folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head slightly.

“Are you feeling… scared, Jace?” she asked gently, as if afraid the word itself might shatter the fragile hope he still held onto.

Jace looked up sharply. “No. Of course not. Why would I be?”

The edge in his voice cut through the silence, his agitation slipping into anger with frightening ease.

Tessa didn’t flinch. She only sighed, folding her hands tighter.

“Sometimes,” she said softly, “the closer we get to what we love… the more terrified we become. What if we fail? What if we touch it—only to lose it again? That fear… it hides itself in pride, in anger. But it still blocks us. Blocks you.”

Jace stared at her. He didn’t argue. Didn’t speak. Just… thought. Her words echoed inside him. Were they true? Was it fear—deep, hidden fear—that pulled him away from the path to Cataleya every time?

And if so… how the hell was he supposed to fight it?

On the other side of the veil…

Cataleya could still hear him.

Cataleya! I’m coming for you!

The words were burned into her soul. Etched into her bones. His voice played over and over in her head, more haunting than any curse and more powerful than any rune. She felt him—near, yet unreachable. Her body trembled with exhaustion, but she refused to stop.

She crouched on the cold concrete, surrounded by streaks of blood and half-dried runes smeared across the floor. Her arms were torn open from wrist to elbow, slashed again and again to draw fresh blood, her healing skin ripped apart the moment it tried to mend.

Rune after rune, symbol after symbol—none of them held.

But still she drew. Still she believed.

Chains clattered as she moved, dragging behind her like echoes of failure. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her silvery hair was matted to her face with sweat and blood, and her lips moved in silent desperation.

Clary stood nearby, frozen in horror.

She had come to check on her, only to find… this.

Cataleya—once poised and radiant—now a shell of blood and madness, feverishly tearing at her own skin, scrawling rune after rune like a woman possessed.

“Ley…” Clary said softly at first, unsure if she should even speak. “Ley, you have to stop.”

No response. Cataleya didn’t look up. Didn’t hear her.

Clary took a step closer. “Ley. Please. Stop it. Stop.”

Still nothing. Cataleya shook her head violently, her voice a hiss between gritted teeth. “I can do this. One more. Just one more. I’m close. I know I am.”

She was trembling now, on her knees, the chains rattling with her every move. Blood soaked the floor in thin lines and splattered circles—failed runes that had dissolved into ash and nothing.

Clary swallowed hard. Fear twisted in her stomach. What if she lost herself completely? What if she already had?

“No,” Clary whispered, steeling herself. Then louder, firmer: “Cataleya, stop!”

Clary lunged forward, grabbing her friend’s wrist mid-stroke—just as a rune began to glow beneath Cataleya’s torn skin.

Cataleya froze.

The light hummed faintly, and this time… it didn’t flicker out.

Clary’s hand was still gripping her, tightly. Her fingertips dug into Cataleya’s wrist with force, but she didn’t burn. She wasn’t thrown back. She didn’t scream. She just… held on.

Cataleya’s wide eyes locked on the place where their skin touched. Then she looked up, her voice barely a breath.

“How is this… possible?”

Clary’s smile was faint, relieved. Her eyes were brimming with emotion, but steady.

“Your rune,” she said, nodding to the one etched in blood. “It worked.”

Cataleya turned to see the rune glowing softly on the concrete floor—a symbol foreign and entirely new. It didn’t break her chains. It didn’t open the veil.

But it held. It glowed. Progress. She sat back, eyes wide, heart thundering.

A sob left her throat—half pain, half victory—as her body sagged in exhaustion. But through the haze of blood and dust, a spark lit in her chest.

She had done it. She was closer.

Izzy lounged in the armchair nearest the fire, a glass of wine resting elegantly in her fingers, her posture regal without trying. The flames cast golden light across her dark hair, setting the strands aglow where they spilled over her shoulder. Her skin shimmered with warmth, and her lips, slightly parted, gleamed like red velvet.

Liam leaned against the doorframe behind her, silent. She hadn't looked at him yet—but somehow, he knew she felt his eyes on her.

“You keep staring like that, and someone might think you’re a serial killer stalking their next victim,” Izzy murmured without turning, a smile ghosting her lips.

Busted.

Liam grinned and pushed off the frame, whiskey in hand. “Even if I were, I doubt I’d stand a chance of sneaking up on you.”

Izzy finally looked at him, her gaze half-lidded, playful. “No, you wouldn’t. But by all means—try. I love a challenge.”

Liam halted beside her chair, the firelight catching the edge of his cheekbone. For a second, he just looked at her.

“You’re stunning, you know that?” he said plainly.

Izzy tilted her head, clearly amused. “Flattery. Classic.”

“I mean it.”

“You always do,” she said with a sigh, then took a sip of her wine.

Liam nodded toward the flames. “So, what’s with all the dramatic fireplace brooding?”

“I’m not brooding,” Izzy replied too quickly. “I’m relaxing. People drink wine by the fire to relax.”

Liam raised a brow. “I know a few ways to help you relax. Want to compare notes?”

Izzy gave him a look over her glass. “Do those lines actually work?”

He dropped into the armchair next to hers, his whiskey sloshing a little. He didn’t even blink at the spill. “You’d be surprised,” he said with a golden grin.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.

“True,” he said. “But not always. Sometimes I mean what I say.”

There was a shift in the air between them. Liam leaned back, tilting the glass between his fingers, his voice softer now. “So. What’s actually going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Izzy hesitated. For once, she didn’t know how to dodge the question. She stared into the fire, gathering her thoughts. “I was just thinking… we should’ve been back at the Institute by now. The Clave isn’t going to love how long we’ve been gone.”

Liam shrugged. “Another problem for another day.”

There was a beat of silence. The flames popped in the hearth. Izzy's thoughts drifted off to other secrets she recently had learned.

Izzy glanced at him. “You gave up your spark. That’s not nothing.”

He turned to her sharply, some of that teasing glint gone. “Never said it was. It was necessary. To keep her alive. I’d give anything for Ley. So would Jace.”

The conviction in his voice struck something in her. She looked at him—really looked. Beneath the easy charm, the crooked smile, there was something far more enduring. Something wounded, yes. But loyal, and whole in ways most people weren’t.

“You must miss her,” she said gently.

Liam ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. “I’ve missed her for years. I can get through a few more days. She’s all I have.”

Izzy hesitated. The wine in her hand felt heavier than before. “I never asked you but… you lost both your parents. You basically killed them. I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”

His face changed. The playfulness vanished, replaced by something hollow and raw.

“My father beat me. Told me I was worthless. My mother stood by and watched. Said nothing. Did nothing.” His voice cracked, not from tears—but from the weight of memory. “They were liars. Cowards. I don’t miss them. Not for a second.”

Izzy tensed. She set her glass down and leaned forward, reaching for his hand. He let her.

“Whatever your father did… you didn’t deserve that. And your mother… maybe she was scared too. Maybe she wanted to help, but didn’t know how. I’m sure—”

“She left us,” Liam cut in, voice low and dangerous. “When she thought I was dead, she didn’t come back for Ley. She left a child to survive on her own. And she never looked back.”

Izzy said nothing. She only tightened her fingers around his.

There was silence, long and crackling. The fire hissed softly as a log settled.

And for the first time, she truly saw him.

Not the reckless flirt or the charming rogue. Not the warrior, not the boy with broken jokes and glinting eyes.

But the boy Cataleya had mourned. The one she’d never stopped trying to save.

He was broken—but beautiful. Not because of the damage, but because of how fiercely he still held on.

Izzy gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I see you, Liam Ballanger,” she whispered.

And for once, he didn’t flirt back. He just held her hand. And let himself be seen.

Liam slammed the door behind him as he entered his room, the sound echoing off the stone walls like a shot. He hadn’t meant to lose control. Not in front of Isabelle. But her words had cracked something open inside him—something dark and locked away for years.

He paced, back and forth, hands trembling slightly. His breath came fast, too sharp in his lungs.

Memories surged. His father’s fists. The sickening crunch of bone. The dull pain that lingered for days. The copper taste of blood on his tongue. The way his body curled reflexively when the shouting started, like muscle memory burned into his bones.

And then there was his mother—always there, always watching. Crying sometimes. Silent always. Frozen in the doorway like she was the one being hurt. Like her pain justified letting it happen.

She never stepped in. Not once.

And yet, she never let their father touch Ley. Not even raise his voice. Cataleya had been the golden one—his father's prize and his mother's purpose. Untouchable. Unscarred. And Liam had never, not once, envied her for it.

He had loved her all the more. Protected her fiercely. Because she was everything he wasn’t—sweet and radiant and unbroken.

He stopped pacing, bracing his hands on the edge of the dresser, knuckles whitening. His reflection in the mirror above looked pale, haunted. A flicker of something twisted behind his blue eyes.

He wasn’t angry at Izzy. He wasn’t even sure he could be. Not when she had touched his hand so gently, as though he wouldn’t shatter. Not when she had looked at him—not like a joke, not like a project. But like a person. Like he was worth seeing.

Isabelle Lightwood.

Fierce. Brilliant. Unapologetically bold.

He had always thought she was beautiful. Impossible not to. But now… it was something else. Something deeper. The way she listened. The way her voice had softened when she said he didn’t deserve what had happened to him. It had lit a spark in the dark corners of his chest he didn’t realize still held kindling.

She had seen him. Not the charming mask. Not the reckless jokes or the glint in his smile. Him.

And still… she hadn’t looked away.

He leaned back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his arms draped loosely over his knees. He didn’t know what this was—this ache in his chest that had nothing to do with bruises. But he knew one thing:

He didn’t deserve her.

But God, he wanted to try.

Chapter Text

“You’re up early,” Simon said, glancing up from his seat at the kitchen table. He sat in the shadows, arms folded, the half-empty cup in front of him long gone cold. His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes told another story—one that remembered London mornings, Cataleya’s humming, the clink of mugs, and sunlight streaming across hardwood floors.

Jace didn't answer right away. He just walked in, sharp-edged and rumpled, like sleep had fought him all night and nearly won. He froze mid-step when he saw Simon, then scoffed lightly.

“And you’re back to creepy,” Jace muttered. “Don’t you have a girlfriend now to be obsessed with?”

Simon blinked. “She’s not… I mean, we’re not—uh—officially…” He fumbled the words, scratching the back of his neck like it might produce a better excuse.

Jace waved a hand dismissively, already walking to the cupboards. “Don’t care. Keep the tragic romance monologue to yourself. I came for tea, not a debrief on your love life.”

He yanked open a cabinet, grabbed a mug, and filled it with the ever-brewing enchanted tea—still hot, always ready. The silence stretched as he stood there, staring into the cup, his jaw tight. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, footsteps soft but swift.

Simon let out a breath and muttered to the empty space, “Nice catching up.”

The meditation room welcomed him like it always did: cool stone, quiet light, a circle of cushions at the center. Jace set his tea down at the edge and took his place, cross-legged, palms open on his knees. He closed his eyes.

He reached. He dug deep—deeper than the surface of his thoughts, deeper than breath or heartbeat. He passed through memory, past grief, past guilt, until he reached it. The tether. The spark. Still there, anchored in the pit of his soul like a brand.

Cataleya.

The bond pulsed gently, warm and alive. Unbroken.

He exhaled and reached for it—and the world around him blurred.

The room fell away like sand slipping through his fingers, and when the haze cleared, he stood on that street again. The one scorched into his mind. The street of blood and silence.

There she was.

Cataleya sat cross-legged in the center of a small dais, runes etched in ancient precision beneath her. Blood painted the stone beneath her hands, streaking her arms, glistening in the silver of her hair. A single rune glowed faintly at her feet. She fidgeted with a smooth stone in her fingers, her expression distant.

She didn’t see him. Not yet. “Ballanger!” he shouted, desperate.

Her head snapped up. For one raw moment, she was sunshine incarnate. She smiled like she hadn’t seen anyone in a thousand years—like seeing him made everything bearable again.

“Jace,” she breathed, hoarse and cracked. “You made it.”

She was transparent. Glimmering like smoke. A ghost of herself.

Jace tried to run to her. His body didn’t move.

“What the fuck happened here? Are you hurt?” he called, voice full of fire and fear.

Cataleya shook her head, her smile brittle but bright. “I’m fine. I just… went a little mad for a while. But Clary—”

Jace froze. "Clary?" The name hit like ice water.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Clary. She comes by every day. Keeps me sane, mostly. I can see why you all loved her so much.”

Her voice was carefully light, but he could see it—her mask slipping at the edges. She was fraying. Fast.

He looked around—at the blood, at the faintly pulsing rune. “What’s that rune?” he asked, pointing with his spectral hand.

Cataleya brightened, proud despite everything. “I made it. Doesn’t do much. But it broke the ward dome around me. Now Clary can touch me when she visits. Not much use, huh?” She flipped the stone between her palms like it might distract her from the weight of her own despair.

Jace stepped closer, voice low and urgent. “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying. But I’m not here to waste time. I don’t know how long I can hold this link, so listen to me: I’m going to get you out. I’ll summon an angel if I have to.”

Cataleya looked up from her stone, eyes locking on his.

“You want to raise Raziel?” she asked softly, like it was nothing.

Jace shook his head. “No. Tessa—long story. Doesn’t matter. Just know this: I will find a way. So don’t go insane on me, alright? I don’t want to bring you back just to check you into the nearest asylum.”

He smiled then—that crooked Herondale smile. Full of bravado and promise. It made something inside her flutter.

“Let me know when you plan to drop by,” she said with a quiet laugh, eyes sparkling like crystal in sunlight.

“You can leave?” he asked, eyes widening.

Cataleya grinned and raised her shackled hands, giving the chains a sharp jingle. “No, dummy. That was a joke.”

Jace chuckled despite himself. But he could feel it—the tether fraying, his body pulling him back.

“Hold on, Ballanger,” he said, stepping forward but getting nowhere, ghost-hand reaching. “I’ll be back in no time.”

She stood, walking until the chains yanked taut. She reached for him, fingertips brushing his—ghostly against ghostly, and where they met, something sizzled. Smoke curled from the contact.

“Not like there’s any time in my lovely prison,” she said, joking—but beneath it, he heard the plea. Please hurry.

He gave her a wink. “Guess I’ll see you around, Ballanger.”

“Guess so, Herondale.”

Jace’s body slammed back into the meditation room like he’d been thrown through dimensions.

He gasped, blinking against the sharp sting of reality. The cup of tea still steamed beside him.

Tessa knelt at his side, hand hovering just above his shoulder, afraid to touch.

“Well done, Jace,” she said softly, her ancient voice filled with quiet awe. “Ready for summoning an angel?"

Alec stood by the tall windows of the manor's drawing room, phone pressed to his ear, trying to keep his voice even.

"Yeah, Izzy just… happened to sprain her ankle," he said, cringing at his own words. "She tripped. And well, now we’re nurturing her back to health."

From the nearby sofa, Magnus let out a theatrical sigh and buried his face in his hand. “You told her Izzy tripped?” Magnus hissed, exasperated. “That girl could walk across broken glass in stilettos and not blink.”

From the phone, Maryse’s voice exploded like a thunderclap. “Izzy tripped?” she barked. “That girl doesn’t trip. Not even drunk. And you know as well as I do that a healing iratze takes care of a twisted ankle in two minutes, Alexander!”

Magnus couldn’t take it anymore. With a dramatic flick of his fingers, he snatched the phone from Alec’s hand.

“Maryse, darling! Lovely to hear your voice. How’s your new job at the institute?” he said smoothly, his voice dripping charm. “Now, listen, we just had a bit of an... inconvenient run-in with a rogue vampire on the way to the Louvre. You know how these things go. Alec, ever the hero, tried to mediate and now he's just keeping everyone calm.”

“The Louvre?!” Maryse shouted. “I thought you went to Romania! What are you doing in France?”

Magnus winced. “Ah. Yes. Romania. Well, we did head that way, but honestly, the weather was appalling. I needed sun. The light in Paris is much better for my skin. But don’t worry, we’ll be back in—say—a week?”

“A week?” Maryse’s voice shrieked through the speaker. “You are not cleared for that! They’re already over their authorized leave! I want all of you back in New York by tomorrow morning!”

Click.

Magnus stared at the phone. “Well, that was unpleasant.” He handed it back to Alec with a flourish. “So dramatic.”

Alec slumped into the nearest armchair and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Tomorrow? How are we supposed to prepare a summoning ritual, summon an angel, convince him to tear open the Veil again, rescue Cataleya, and get back to New York before sunrise?”

Magnus looked far too calm for Alec’s taste. He adjusted his cuffs and offered his loved one a winning smile. “Yes, yes, when you say it like that it sounds... utterly impossible. Which is perfect, really, because ‘impossible’ is my middle name. Don’t worry, Alexander. I’ll handle it.”

With a swirl of his velvet coat, Magnus walked off, humming a Sinatra tune under his breath.

Alec watched him go, then dropped his head back against the chair, groaning. “We are so dead.”

Izzy padded into the room with a cup of tea and sat down gracefully beside her brother.

“One more day,” she said softly. “Just one more, Alec. And we’ll have her back.”

Alec gave her a sidelong look. “And then what? We just stroll into the Institute with a girl the Clave wanted arrested and pretend nothing happened?”

“She was wanted,” Izzy corrected brightly. “Past tense. They cleared her of all accusations, remember?”

Alec stared at her like she’d grown horns. “They cleared her because they think she’s dead, Izzy. Dead. What exactly do you think will happen when she shows up alive? They’ll throw a parade?”

Izzy sipped her tea, unbothered. “Well. Maybe not a parade. But I’m not going to let you ruin this moment. Not for me. Not for Liam. And definitely not for Jace.”

Alec stared at her a moment longer. “You are so annoyingly optimistic right now.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said, smiling sweetly. “It’s a survival trait.”

Tessa had moved gracefully through the wide salon of Cirenworth all morning, her skirts whispering against the polished floors as she laid out vials of her blood, burned incense, and rune-etched parchment. Beside her, Jem had worked silently, his calm energy a contrast to the tension rising in the room like storm-thick air. They left soon after that for the Lake.

Jace paced the length of the hearth, his boots scuffing against the stone, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His golden hair was tousled from running his hands through it too many times, and his jaw was tight, eyes unreadable.

Liam stood at the tall windows, arms folded, staring into the dusk beyond. But he wasn’t seeing the sweeping gardens or the path down to the lake. His mind was miles away—lost somewhere in the static space between this moment and the one he ached for: the moment he would see her again.

Mira entered with her usual brisk energy, her arms full of neatly folded clothing. Simon trailed behind her, juggling a basket filled with bread, flasks, and wrapped parcels from the kitchen.

“I packed some clothes for Ley,” Mira announced as she stepped into the center of the room. “And food. If she’s been trapped in a realm without time, she’s probably starving. And—if I know her—very cranky about it. So I thought we should bring all of it down to the Lake."

Her eyes landed on Liam, who hadn't moved or acknowledged her. She narrowed her gaze.

"You do that," Liam said vaguely, not even glancing her way.

Mira blinked once, then crossed the room in three quick, sharp strides and grabbed Liam by the shoulder, yanking him around to face her. With one hand, she caught his jaw, her fingers digging in just enough to make her point.

“Absolutely not,” she said, voice low and flinty. “You don’t get to do the brooding-silent-warrior routine right now. We don’t have time for your ‘grumpy hero having a crisis’ act. Are you scared? Fine. Then be scared. But don’t you dare shut down on us. On her.”

Liam blinked at her, surprised by the fire in her tone.

“If you're having cold feet,” Mira went on, “then put on some damn socks. Because we’re doing this. All of us. Together.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Then Liam’s mouth curved into a crooked grin.

“Yes, sir,” he said with a mock salute, eyes gleaming faintly now with gratitude beneath the sarcasm.

Mira smirked, satisfied, and released him.

“Good. Now grab what you need. Tessa’s already at the lake drawing the concentric circles. Let’s go.”

Simon adjusted the basket in his arms, peering over the edge of it. “Wouldn’t want to miss an angel smiting Jace or Liam for poor etiquette,” he quipped.

Jace, who had momentarily stopped pacing, shrugged into his black leather jacket and brushed a hand through his hair. His face was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. He adjusted the strap of his blade and ran his hand down the front of his already immaculate shirt.

“Nervous, Herondale?” Liam asked, watching him with an amused smirk.

“That’s not a trait I own,” Jace replied dryly, without missing a beat.

Their eyes locked for a heartbeat. Then, almost in sync, they both burst into laughter—sharp, relieved, frayed at the edges.

Jace clapped a hand to Liam’s shoulder, and for a brief moment, the heavy weight of fear and anticipation between them cracked, letting something warmer in.

“Let’s go get my girl,” Jace said.

No one argued. Together, weapons slung, hearts braced, they stepped into the twilight and made their way through the thick forest trail that would lead them to the lake—where the lines between realms would blur, and fate would demand its due.

Down by the lake, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Tessa stood at the center of a wide clearing, the grass pressed low beneath salted concentric circles now glowing faintly with latent energy. Though the sun still hung in the sky, Jem had lit dozens of candles around her, their flames flickering strangely—as if aware of what was about to happen. The scent of sage and myrrh drifted through the trees, mingling with the breeze.

Izzy moved quietly around the perimeter, spreading incense with practiced grace, her face calm but her eyes sharp with tension.

Mira and Simon lingered in the shade of a pair of twisted ash trees, their basket of supplies cradled between them. Mira’s arms were folded, her jaw set. Simon shifted his weight back and forth, knuckles white around the handle of the basket.

“It’s ready, my love,” Jem said, lighting the final candle with a whispered spell. His fingers lingered at Tessa’s wrist, a silent exchange of trust and sorrow between them.

Tessa nodded once, then turned to the others. “Jace, Liam—you should draw protection runes. They won’t stop an angel’s awakening... but they might soften the blast. Hopefully.”

Jace and Liam exchanged a look but didn’t question her. Wordlessly, they knelt to carve protection runes into stones and tree bark, their strokes swift but steady.

When they finished, Tessa stepped back into the center of the circles, a slim leather-bound book open in one hand, a pair of blood vials clasped in the other. She looked out across the lake, its surface still and glass-like, holding her breath.

“Everyone ready?” she asked without turning.

No one spoke. They only nodded.

Tessa inhaled deeply, her fingers tightening around the vials. Then she began to chant—low and melodic—reciting words in an ancient language that most Shadowhunters had never heard, let alone spoken. The runes around her ignited in response, glowing red-hot, like they were being etched into the world by fire itself. A crackling hiss filled the air as the symbols scorched themselves deeper into the earth.

Then, as if someone had plucked the sun straight from the sky, the light vanished. A shiver ran through the trees. Shadows closed in.

Only the candle flames remained, tiny points of resistance in a growing darkness. The burning runes along the ground glowed brighter, casting eerie halos across everyone’s faces.

Tessa’s voice rose to a crescendo. She uncorked the vials and spilled her blood across the ground before her. It hissed as it hit the glowing earth, smoke curling into the air.

Then—

Silence.

So thick it felt like a physical pressure. A quiet that pressed against their chests and dulled even the wind.

And then, with no warning, a surge of divine power exploded outward. The protective runes shimmered and flickered under the weight of it. Floating above the lake, a form appeared.

Wreathed in radiant light and shadow, Ithuriel hovered a few feet above the water—tall, ageless, and otherworldly. His golden hair whipped in a breeze that didn’t touch the trees. His robes billowed as if reality bent around him. His eyes—brilliant and unblinking—scanned the gathering like they were made of molten starlight.

When they landed on Tessa, something almost human flashed across his expression. A memory? Recognition? The smallest curve of a smile.

But then his gaze snapped to Jace. Golden eyes met golden eyes.

“Jace Herondale,” Ithuriel said. His lips never moved—the voice echoed in every head, ancient and melodic, like the forgotten notes of a song sung at the dawn of the world. “Summoning angels is becoming a habit of yours.”

Jace took a step forward, steady and sure. “Thank you for answering the call, Ithuriel.”

Tessa bowed low. “We ask your aid, Great One. For a favor, in hope of your endless mercy.”

Ithuriel turned his head slightly, golden gaze flicking between her and Jace.

“Is it not his favor that draws me here?” he said, and his voice, though celestial, held the faintest trace of dry amusement.

Tessa stepped back and nodded toward Jace.

Jace stood tall. He met the angel’s gaze without flinching. “It is. I ask for your help.”

Ithuriel tilted his head, studying him. “You wish to free the girl trapped in the veil.”

“Yes,” Jace said. “She’s my bonded mate.”

That made Ithuriel pause. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. “She is? How rare. How extraordinary.” But then the light in his eyes dimmed a fraction. “But I cannot help you, Shadowhunter.”

Jace flinched as if struck.

“What? But... why? There must be something we can do. Anything—” His voice cracked, the Herondale pride slipping. All that remained was raw desperation.

“I said I cannot,” Ithuriel echoed, his voice sorrowful. “But Raziel... he waits. He expected your call before you even made it. I shall let him know of your request.”

He turned to Tessa, and something like warmth returned to his features. “Know this, dear girl. Your beloved watches you. Even now. He sees your bravery.”

Tessa’s breath hitched, but she said nothing. And then, in a swirl of light and ash, Ithuriel vanished. The candles guttered out in unison. A breeze swept the clearing, scattering smoke like mist over the lake.

The sun returned—bright and bold, as if reborn. It shimmered across the water, dazzling the group with its sudden brilliance.

No one moved.

Simon let out a breath. “Well,” he muttered, “that was... holy.”

But Jace didn’t speak. He just stared at the empty air where Ithuriel had been, his fists clenched at his sides.

He wasn’t done yet.

Chapter Text

Back at the mansion, Magnus — the only one who hadn’t joined them at the lake — waited in the foyer. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He could see it on their faces the moment they stepped inside: disappointment, quiet fury, and despair etched into every line.

Without a word, he lifted a silver tray holding small crystal glasses filled with glittering, strong-smelling liquid. The contents shimmered like liquid starlight — comfort in a glass. He handed them out wordlessly.

Jace didn’t take one. Instead, he walked past everyone, his steps heavy, and made his way out to the training courtyard. The others watched him go in silence.

In the courtyard, Jace leaned against a cold stone column, his forehead resting against it. The air was thick with the scent of moss and iron, the distant chirping of birds long silenced by the fading sun.

He heard footsteps behind him but didn’t turn.

“I’m sorry he couldn’t help you,” Tessa said gently, stopping a few feet away. “But that’s not the end of it, Jace. Raziel, he—”

He spun around so fast she nearly flinched.

“Raziel won’t help us.” His voice was sharp, hoarse with held-back emotion. “He’s not the benevolent type. I’ve seen him once, remember? He isn’t a savior. He’s a weapon. A storm in a vessel.”

Tessa's mouth opened, but he kept going.

“What do you suggest now, Tessa? That we summon him? That we keep trying again and again until there are no angels left to call? Until there’s no one left alive to call them?”

His voice cracked under the weight of months of restraint. It wasn’t just frustration now — it was grief, helplessness, and a deep, spiraling fear.

“I’m sorry,” Tessa said softly, her voice trembling. “I know you wanted a different outcome. But Ithuriel said he would tell Raziel. He already expected your call. That has to mean something. We just have to be patient.”

Jace slammed his fist into the stone column beside him. The impact echoed sharply through the air. His knuckles split open on contact, blood dripping onto the marble floor.

“I’ve had enough patience,” he rasped. “I’ve been patient for four months. I’ve watched her fade — do you understand? Fade. Her light is dimming. I saw it, Tessa. I felt it.”

His shoulders shook slightly, the fury in him folding into something broken and raw.

Tessa stared at him for a long moment. Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

He didn’t move, didn’t hug her back — just stood there, bloodied fist trembling, breath shallow.

“I promise you, Jace Herondale,” she whispered into the golden strands of hair that fell across his brow, “I’ll do everything I can. But you have to trust me.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Jace exhaled slowly, his body slumping just enough to show he was letting go — not of the fight, but of the rage.

He didn't say anything. But the storm inside him quieted, just for a breath.

A storm was brewing outside. Thick snowflakes hurled down like shards of glass, the wind howling low and restless beyond the frost-bitten windows. The once-tranquil gardens of the mansion were now veiled in white, their statues half-buried and trembling in the gale.

Inside the salon, the hearth cracked and sputtered, throwing shadows across the velvet wallpaper and shelves of arcane books. Simon and Mira lounged on one of the long sofas, half-curled under a shared throw, the basket of untouched pastries on the table beside them growing cold. Liam sat alone by the wide bay window, long legs stretched out, chin resting in his palm, watching the snow gather like dust on a forgotten world.

Magnus and Alec had long since vanished to the far end of the mansion—for privacy, they’d said. No one asked questions.

“We missed New Year’s Eve,” Mira muttered, pulling the blanket higher over her knees. Her voice was tight, sulking in that way only she could manage after surviving near-death magical battles and still mourning the lack of a champagne toast.

Simon stroked her cheek with two fingers, featherlight. “I’ll throw you your own party when this is done,” he said softly. “Fireworks and everything.”

“Ugh,” Liam groaned from his post at the window. “Please don’t say in your bedroom. And—wait. Which bedroom are you even using back on London? Hopefully not mine.”

Mira smirked, flashing her teeth in a grin that was gone in seconds. “The one your sister gave us.”

Simon raised both eyebrows, smug. “Big bed. Balcony view. Pretty romantic.”

“Gross,” Liam muttered, making a gagging sound. “You’re both insufferable.”

Outside, a low rumble trembled through the clouds.

“There’s a storm coming in,” Liam said, pointing toward the window with two fingers. “Anyone want to bet it’s not just weather but some ethereal aftermath? Because I swear those clouds are looking way too biblical.”

“I really hope not,” Simon said. “I’m not into this whole angel-on-a-killing-spree thing. And let’s not forget I’m technically a vampire. A demon of the night. The angels won’t like me even if I am the funny one.” He grinned, glanced around. No one laughed.

Liam turned slowly, raising his fingers one by one like he was counting sins. “One: you’re a demon of the night as much as I’m a fashion icon in Paris. Two: angels don’t go on killing sprees—they just obliterate things. It’s more efficient. And three: you’re not that funny.”

Mira snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

Simon sighed theatrically. “You’re all monsters. Literal and emotional.”

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and then Jem stepped into the salon. His expression was wary, one hand still brushing snow from the sleeve of his coat.

“I think Liam might be right,” Jem said quietly, crossing the room to the fire. “About the storm. Something’s coming.”

They all stilled. Even the hearth seemed to quiet for a heartbeat.

“Something angelic?” Mira asked warily.

Jem didn’t answer immediately. His silver eyes turned to the window where clouds churned like a black tide. “Or something sent in answer to one.”

More than one thing stirred that night.

While the storm tore through the sky like a living beast, a man walked alone through the snow—unhurried, untouched by the bitter wind. His long black coat fluttered at his ankles, its hem wet with frost, though he didn’t seem to notice. Gloved fingers curled with ease at his sides, and his golden-blonde hair was bound back in a sleek ponytail, sharp against the pale line of his jaw.

He wore sunglasses, though the sky was ink-black and raging, the kind of glasses that did nothing to hinder his vision—and everything to shield others from it.

He reached the crest of the hill and paused, staring down at Cirenworth Manor nestled in the distance. Its windows flickered like tiny stars against the snow-laced gardens. A crooked smile curled over his lips—feral and knowing.

“Found you,” he murmured.

Far beyond that world—far beyond any sky or snowstorm—Cataleya gasped.

The stone beneath her pulsed faintly. She clutched her chest, fingers trembling as the sudden pull tugged hard at her ribcage, like a thread had been yanked through her soul.

“Ley? You okay?” Clary’s soft voice broke the silence beside her. She had been sorting smooth pebbles again, drawing runes in the dust like a child making constellations.

Cataleya didn’t answer at first. Her ice-blue eyes blinked rapidly, staring through something Clary couldn’t see. Her breath came fast, shallow. In her mind’s eye, a figure had risen in the dark—blurred, distant, but pulsing with malice.

“Something’s moving,” Cataleya whispered finally, her voice so thin it barely stirred the air.

Clary frowned. “Moving? Like what?”

Cataleya’s gaze stayed locked on some invisible horizon. “Something pushed through the Veil… far beyond even this realm. I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s dark. And hungry.”

Somewhere else, in a village asleep beneath the weight of snow, something stepped into the world that should have rejected it.

A black hooded figure appeared, slipping through a swirling rift of shadow that snapped closed behind it with a hiss. The street was deserted. Old gas lamps flickered against the storm, but their light stopped short of touching it. The wind diverted. The snowflakes veered off course, too afraid to brush it's skin.

It tilted his head, breathing in the air like it was wine.

Then it grinned.

“Oh,” it whispered, it's voice a velvet threat. “This is going to be fun.”

And then it melted back into the shadows, vanishing like it was never there.

Chapter Text

Jace couldn’t sleep. He twisted and turned beneath the sheets, heat clinging to his skin like fever. When he finally gave up, heart racing like he’d just run a marathon, he kicked off the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

A hoodie. Joggers. Bare feet padding over cold wooden floors. He slipped into the dim hallway, where soft white lights flickered every few feet like watchful stars. The old manor slept around him.

Almost. Down the hall, someone already stood in the shadows—motionless, waiting.

Liam.

The same face as Jace. The same jawline, the same stormy quiet. But where Jace was a soldier, Liam carried chaos like it was stitched into his spine.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Liam asked, voice low.

“Not really,” Jace muttered, walking toward him.

Liam nodded. “Me neither.”

Without another word, the two descended the stairs together. Silent. Like they’d done this before in some other life. Familiar and foreign all at once.

In the kitchen, Jace moved on instinct. Two mugs from the cupboard. The tin of magical tea Tessa always left behind. He poured water into the kettle, trying not to think too hard. Just move. Just breathe.

“I take mine with sugar and milk,” a voice said from the salon.

Deep. Calm. Ancient. Jace froze. So did Liam.

"Keep moving,” the voice said—not threatening, but commanding. And they did. Jace poured the tea. Liam added sugar and milk. Their hands trembled only slightly as they stepped into the salon together.

The fire was low. The shadows flickered. And in Izzy’s usual chair by the hearth sat a stranger.

He wore a black coat tailored like armor, gloves on his hands, legs crossed like a king waiting for his audience. His sunglasses didn’t belong in this hour—yet somehow didn’t look out of place. Golden-blonde hair, slicked back into a man bun. Pale skin like carved marble. He sat as if the world belonged to him.

Liam shoved Jace softly forward. Jace swallowed hard and offered the tea. The man took it with one hand, graceful and slow. Like it amused him.

“Who are you?” Jace asked, not sitting. His stance was straight, alert, every part of him prepared for an attack. Soldier to the core.

The man’s lips curled. “Come now, Jace Herondale. You called for me. And I came.”

Jace blinked, stunned. The hairs on his arms stood on end. There was something about this man—something not mortal. He carried weight like gravity, shimmered faintly with something not-quite-light.

“Jace?” Liam murmured behind him. “Who did you call?”

Jace couldn’t tear his eyes away. His lips parted, breath catching.

“Raziel,” he said, the name a whisper. Sacred. Reverent.

The man smiled, tapping his gloved finger toward Jace. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Raziel. The Angel. The Angel—walking in flesh, sitting by a fire, drinking tea. The surrealness of it hit like a wave.

“You…” Jace stammered. “You came down here? Why?”

Raziel lifted the cup, cradling it in his hands but not drinking. “You called for me,” he said simply. “You sent my brother, Ithuriel, pleading for help. And now I’ve come. Because, for once, our wants align.”

Jace narrowed his eyes, mind catching up. “So you decided to walk the earth and drink tea with me?”

“I didn’t come for tea, boy.” Raziel’s voice turned steely. “Sit. Talk.”

Liam’s mouth had dropped open some time ago. He looked like a child meeting a legend and forgetting how to breathe. Jace shoved him, and Liam stumbled into the sofa, stunned. Jace sat across from the angel.

“You know what I’d ask of you,” he said quietly.

Raziel nodded. “I do. I’ve been there. I saw her for myself.” Cataleya. “I told her I want her out.”

The words landed like thunder.

Jace leaned forward, tea forgotten, his eyes never leaving Raziel’s face. “Why?”

Raziel glanced at Liam, then pointed toward him with a gloved hand. “Because I gave her—and him—the spark. The spark that made them what they are. My mark is in their blood. And I had plans for them.”

Liam pointed at himself, dazed. “Me?”

Raziel didn’t even blink. “There are things coming the Shadowhunters can’t face alone. Without her, your world will fall. So yes, I’m willing to help you.”

Jace held the angel’s gaze, fingers tight around the mug. His voice dropped low, steady.

“I’m listening.”

And then—he did.

The morning began with chaos.

A sharp, metallic clang echoed through the hallways of Cirenworth House—followed by another, and another. The relentless ringing cut through sleep like a blade.

Isabelle stumbled out of her room, hair askew from the messy knot she’d tied the night before, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Her fluffy bunny pajamas did little to add to her usual intimidating grace. She squinted at the hallway, rage growing with every chime.

“What in the Angel’s name is wrong with you?” she hissed.

There stood Liam Ballanger, bright-eyed, infuriatingly chipper, and holding a large brass bell he shook with glee. He paused mid-ring and grinned.

“Well, well,” he said, eyes flicking over her outfit. “Isn’t that cute? I think I’ll start calling you my sweet bunny from now on.”

He reached out and pinched her cheek, only to be met with a slap to the back of his hand.

“Touch me again and I’ll carve your name into the wall with your own bones. I am not your bunny, psycho.”

Liam clutched his hand dramatically. “Violent little thing, aren’t you?” But his grin only widened. With a wink, he turned and continued down the hall, the bell ringing like a war cry.

“You want to see what’s down there, believe me,” he called over his shoulder.

Groggy and confused, one by one the rest of the household emerged. Mira, her hoodie half-zipped, yawned as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. “What’s the bloody fuss?”

They all gathered sluggishly—Simon rubbing sleep from his eyes, Magnus impeccably dressed as always, Alec behind him with a blade at his belt just in case. Even Jem and Tessa had come, curiosity drawing them like moths to flame.

In the center of the kitchen stood a man none of them recognized—at least, not at first glance.

He was seated at the long table like it belonged to him. Sunglasses obscured his eyes despite the morning gloom, and a long black coat draped over his shoulders. His posture was regal, legs crossed, hands resting on the arms of the chair like a throne. His golden hair was tied back into a neat bun. He radiated something... unnatural.

“Welcome, my children,” he said smoothly, raising his arms in an overly theatrical gesture. “I see you all made it down.”

Izzy blinked. “Who’s the creepy guy?”

Simon elbowed Magnus, pointing at the stranger. “You’re really not gonna say anything about his sunglasses? You roasted me for weeks over mine.”

Magnus swatted the back of Simon’s head. “You don’t want to comment on anything about this man.”

The stranger turned his head slowly. “The demons may leave.”

Simon froze. “Wait—what?”

“They stay,” came Jace’s voice, firm, unshaken. He stepped into the kitchen beside the stranger, already dressed in black gear. Arms crossed. Unmoving.

“Don’t... Jace, please don’t argue with him,” Liam muttered, appearing behind him. His usual ease was gone. He looked pale. Tight-jawed. Also dressed and ready for battle.

Tessa broke through the group then, her eyes locked onto the man’s face.

“That can’t be,” she whispered. Her voice was fragile. Hopeful. Terrified.

The man tilted his head. “Ah, Tessa Gray,” he said with something like fondness.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“This is impossible...” she murmured, stepping closer, trembling hands rising like she might reach out to touch him.

“There is nothing impossible for me, child,” the stranger replied. He removed his sunglasses.

His eyes were a molten gold—swirling, eternal, inhuman.

Tessa inhaled sharply. “Raziel,” she breathed.

Everyone froze.

Simon’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my gosh... That’s... Oh... wow. My mom would die to be here, she’s obsessed with—”

“Silence, abomination,” Raziel hissed, his voice cutting across the room like a blade.

Simon clapped both hands over his mouth. His eyes bugged.

Magnus grabbed his arm, whispering low and fast, “That is an angel in the flesh.”

“No, no, like, a real one? Not a projection?”

“A real one.”

Simon stared, speechless at last.

Raziel’s attention turned back to the others. “We have much to discuss. Come. Now.”

Tessa straightened, still visibly shaken, and turned to the group. “Into the salon. All of you.”

No one argued. They followed—half-stumbling, bleary-eyed, stunned. Chairs scraped and couches groaned as they squeezed in together, eyes fixed on the being before them. Silent.

Jace took the seat directly across from Raziel, like a soldier reporting to his general. Liam stood behind him, hands clenched at his sides. The others arranged themselves wherever they could, the usual banter and sniping completely absent.

Raziel folded his gloved hands in his lap.

“I walked the Veil,” he said. “I saw her.” The silence deepened. "And I intend to bring her back.”

Jace's eyes darkened. “Tell us what we need to do.”

And Raziel began to speak.

The room still hummed with the echo of Raziel’s presence, even though the angel himself had long vanished.

They had all drifted back to Jace’s room after the meeting, silence clinging to them like dust. Now, Mira sat cross-legged on his bed, her arms folded behind her head, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“Well, it does sound pretty easy to me,” she said at last, her voice casual. “Walk through a magical portal, defeat the shadows of death, bring back the girl, and not die in the process. Light work.”

Simon, seated on the edge of the bed beside her, frowned like an offended child. “The angel insulted me. Directly. Like I was some... mutated pigeon.”

Mira snorted. “Oh, come on. You’re already dead. He can’t kill you again.”

She jabbed an elbow into Simon’s side, and he swatted her away with a scowl.

“Technically,” Simon muttered, “he could smite me into dust, which is worse. You ever seen dust try to flirt? Doesn’t work.”

They all ignored him.

“So,” Mira continued, leaning forward now, “he wants us to follow him back into the Veil so he can bring Ley out. But why us? Why all of us?”

“He doesn’t,” Jace said from where he stood by the window, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Only Liam and I are going.”

Mira’s brow rose slowly. “And what exactly does he need you two for?” Her tone was cool, but there was suspicion threading underneath—sharp and knowing.

Jace didn’t answer at first. Neither did Liam, who stood against the far wall with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, jaw tense.

“He didn’t explain,” Jace said eventually. “Just said we were needed. I’m sorry I didn’t press the almighty celestial being for further clarification.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Simon chimed in, still sulking. “He might’ve insulted you next.”

Mira rolled her eyes.

Magnus, who had remained quiet until now, finally stepped forward. He wasn’t smiling. “Raziel is dangerous,” he said flatly. His gaze flicked to Liam. “Yes, he may have created you—especially you—but don’t mistake that for affection. Angels aren’t sentimental. He is wrath given form. And mortals? They're less than ants to him.”

Alec nodded in agreement from his spot by the dresser, arms crossed, his face unreadable. “He could throw a godly tantrum and vaporize you just because he’s bored. I’ve seen Jace nearly die for less.”

Jace didn’t flinch. “We go. That’s decided. But none of you have to follow. Liam and I will do this. We’ll bring her back.”

“Or you won’t come back at all,” Isabelle snapped, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her voice was colder than usual, and her eyes lingered on Liam a beat too long.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Jace said firmly. “This is our only shot. You stay. We go.” The room fell into a loaded silence.

Simon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know, my mom would be so disappointed to find out that the angels she adored so much are... celestial bullies.” No one laughed.

They all just sat there, the silence speaking louder than anything else.

Because deep down, they knew: Jace wasn’t coming back without her.

And maybe... he wasn’t coming back at all.

Chapter Text

Jace strapped weapons to his gear with mechanical precision—blade, seraph dagger, witchlight. The faint glow of it shimmered against the inner lining of his coat as he shoved it into his pocket. His fingers trembled once, only slightly, but he clenched his fist to steady them. They were leaving in less than half an hour.

This was it. The only chance. Cataleya's life—her soul—hung in the balance.

He paused at the window, watching as the wind tousled snow over the grounds of Cirenworth. His thoughts dragged him back to the night Raziel first spoke the full truth.

“You did right to give her your spark,” Raziel had said, calm and cruelly unaffected. His golden hair was bound neatly, and his sunglasses still on despite the night. “She can hold the Veil for another millennia, perhaps. But she will lose herself doing so. Her body and soul will be devoured by the current of magic she channels. In time, she will fade... until nothing remains of her but pure energy.”

Liam had stared at him like Raziel had voiced every nightmare he’d never spoken aloud.

Jace had rubbed his temple, the pulse of urgency pounding through him. “Then we go as soon as possible.”

Raziel had tilted his head, as if studying him with more than just eyes. “I will take you there. I will tear her from the Veil. But—” his gloved hand rose, index finger suspended in the air, “—the moment she falls from it, the shadows in limbo will come. They will try to claim her. Your mission is to keep them off her.”

Jace had nodded without hesitation. “Done. What about her? Will she—” His throat caught. “Will she even be herself?”

Raziel’s silence stretched like a blade. “There are... outcomes. She could awaken with no memory. Or stay in stasis forever. She may already be consumed by hate and rage. If so... what returns may be no longer Cataleya, but a soulless wrath.”

Liam had dropped his face into his hands, trying to breathe, trying not to break.

The memory splintered like frost underfoot, and Jace shoved it aside. He hadn’t told the others. Not because he didn’t trust them—but because if he said it aloud, it might become real. No. He believed in her. Cataleya was stronger than all of them. Stronger than him. She would make it back. He told himself that again and again like a mantra, like a prayer.

Down the hall, Liam was securing the last of his weapons. He slid the Ballanger family signet ring onto his finger—the cold metal a familiar weight. He reached for his coat when the sound of heels tapped against the marble floor.

Isabelle stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips uncertain. “So... you’re getting ready?”

“Yeah,” Liam said, turning to face her. “We leave soon.”

She nodded, eyes scanning the room like she might find something else to say in the shadows. “I—uh... I just came to wish you luck. Or say goodbye. Or something between.”

Liam’s blue eyes met hers—bright and unguarded. “Would you do me a favor, Isabelle?”

She blinked. “Sure. What is it?”

He stepped closer, slipping the ring from his finger and holding it out to her in his open palm.

“Take this. If I don’t come back... but Jace and Ley do, give it to her. And if none of us come back...” He paused, the smile on his lips tight and brave. “Keep it. As a memory.”

Her breath caught as she took it, her fingers brushing his. But before she could pull away, he gently closed both of his hands around hers.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and it sounded like a goodbye.

Izzy flinched at the finality in his voice. She swallowed and slowly pulled her hand free, slipping the ring into her coat pocket.

“What if you do come back?” she asked, trying to smile. “Want me to return it?”

“Would be nice. But if you get attached, you can keep it,” Liam said, matching her smile with a flicker of warmth.

She hesitated, then unclasped the delicate necklace from around her neck. A thin silver chain fell into her palm, dangling the Lightwood crest—a flame, elegantly simple.

“Then let’s make a deal,” she said. “This is my family crest. Take it. And bring it back.”

She pressed it into his hand, but he tried to give it back.

“Don’t do that, Isabelle,” he murmured. “What if I don’t make it?”

She closed his fingers around the necklace and held his hand tight. “Then you’d better make sure you do.”

And before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth—soft, warm, and fleeting.

She turned quickly, black hair swaying behind her like a banner. Liam stood frozen, the silver chain clenched in his hand, his breath held like a vow.

Outside, the wind howled across the moors. And the clock kept ticking.

The portal Raziel had summoned didn’t resemble the ones Magnus conjured. There was no shimmer of blue or sparkle of magic. No glimmering ripples in the air. This was something older—deeper. It looked like a window torn into the fabric of existence itself, a boundary blurred into shifting mists, hiding a realm not yet seen.

“Time to go,” Raziel said calmly, standing beside the portal, arms crossed over his long black coat.

Jace and Liam exchanged a look before turning toward their friends. The others stood gathered just behind them. No one spoke. The silence was too heavy for words.

Izzy and Mira stood close, arms wrapped tightly around each other, trying to hold back tears that shimmered in their eyes despite every ounce of control. Alec’s jaw was clenched tight. Simon shifted anxiously from foot to foot. Even Magnus looked uneasy, fingers twitching by his side.

Tessa stood nearby, her presence poised and watchful. Jem at her side, arm around her waist and face void. Raziel turned, stepped beside her, and whispered something low—something only she could hear. Whatever it was made her eyes darken with quiet understanding.

And then Raziel stepped through the portal.

Jace followed without hesitation, Liam right behind him.

The world around them fell away.

They plummeted through limbo, suspended in a blur of colorless light and weightless motion—until the moment they hit the ground with a brutal thud. Cracked concrete met their bodies, jarring their bones and shattering the stillness.

Chains clinked in the air.

Cataleya shot upright, shackles binding her wrists, tangled in the dim magic of this place. She stared at the figures rising from the ground—and the moment she recognized them, a familiar smirk tugged at her lips.

“Well, well,” she said, breathless. “Herondale, haven’t seen you that stiff in a lifetime.”

Jace staggered up, brushing off dust. The sound of her voice nearly broke him. Her smile—the blaze in her glacial eyes—it was her.

“Never seen you this messed up, Ballanger,” he shot back, breathless, heart racing, already moving toward her.

Behind him, Liam stumbled to his feet, groaning like he might throw up.

“I see you brought my brother looking like a drunk,” Cataleya said, shielding her eyes. “And… who’s that grumpy face?”

“I promised,” Raziel said simply, his voice calm, unwavering. “If only one would call on me—I would come.”

The realization hit her like a blow. Her smile faltered. Her whole body seemed to pause mid-breath.

“You… I…” Her voice cracked. “Raziel.”

Jace reached her—arms outstretched, but unsure. He hesitated.

Cataleya didn’t.

She launched herself into his arms with enough force to knock the breath out of him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms curled around his neck, and her fingers tangled in his golden hair. The chains rattled in protest, a metallic chorus to her heartbeat.

“You found a way,” she whispered fiercely against his throat. “You extraordinary, beautiful, stupid—”

“Enough flattery, Ballanger,” Jace said, grinning. “We’ve got somewhere to be.”

He held her tightly, unwilling to let go. After all these weeks—months—of aching emptiness, she was in his arms again. She still smelled faintly like magnolia, wild and soft and entirely her.

Cataleya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and then she kissed him.

It was a kiss filled with everything they’d lost. Everything they’d fought through. Desperation and fire and longing collided as if the two of them could stop time just by holding on tight enough.

A sharp cough broke the spell. Liam cleared his throat louder this time. “Raziel came all the way from Heaven to break your chains, little sister. Maybe let’s not waste his divine schedule.”

Cataleya laughed against Jace’s chest. “Still dramatic, I see.”

Raziel smiled faintly, the gesture strange on his otherwise ethereal face.

“You know what you have to do,” he said quietly, eyes on Liam.

Liam nodded, drawing his blade in a smooth, practiced motion. The edge shimmered in the veil’s light—silvered and sure.

Jace gently set Cataleya down, the loss of her warmth immediate, like frost spreading under his skin. She looked up at him, calm despite the shadows lingering just beyond the edge of this place.

“We’ll go home, Ballanger,” Jace said. “Just give us a few minutes.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on him like a promise.

And then they got to work.

Raziel stepped forward in long, graceful strides.

Jace instinctively stepped back, his seraph blade unsheathed, eyes narrowed and watchful.

The angel ignored him.

Raziel crouched beside Cataleya and gently stroked the sticky strands of hair from her face with gloved fingers, the gesture eerily tender.

“Be free, my child,” he said softly. “There is much to come.” He smiled down at her.

Cataleya simply looked at him, silent. Her lips were chapped, blood smeared across her cheek, but her eyes still burned with something fierce and human.

Raziel removed his gloves. His pale hands pulsed with glowing blue energy, veins humming like starlight. He let the gloves fall to the floor, then slid off his sunglasses and blinked down at her.

His eyes. Now it made sense. Twin infernos of gold—cosmic, blinding—swirled in his gaze. Light poured from them, streaking down to the Veil itself, illuminating every chain that bound her. The heavenly fire in his stare reflected off the ground, the walls, the realm itself.

With one glowing hand, he grasped the first chain. He glanced at Cataleya, gave her a slight nod, and then—

Power surged.

The chain lit up with a violent blue blaze. Magic shrieked. Cataleya’s body jerked back as a scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. She convulsed, hunched over as if her spine was shattering, still suspended in the air by the chains.

“What’s happening? You’re hurting her!” Liam shouted, rushing forward. His face was pale with panic, eyes locked on his sister.

Raziel didn’t look up. “It must hurt,” he said calmly. “She is not merely chained to the Veil. She is the Veil. Ripping her from it will break pieces of her soul.”

Liam’s fists clenched, blade trembling in his hand. Still the angel burned.

Cataleya screamed like the world was ending. Until—at last—the chain cracked, split, and dropped to the ground with a final hiss. Her wrist fell limp to her side. She sagged, gasping, rubbing the raw skin where the shackle had been.

Tears glittered on her cheeks. The broken cuff dissolved into dust, carried away by a sudden breeze.

“One more to go, my little spark,” Raziel said, voice quiet and almost human. There was something ancient in his tone—fondness edged with pain.

Cataleya blinked slowly, nodding. She raised her chin and locked eyes with him. “Do it.”

Raziel gave a small nod, then glanced over his shoulder. Liam and Jace met his gaze, already moving, already prepared.

The Veil rippled.

From its surface, shadows spilled out—faceless and hungry, formless creatures drawn by pain and power. They lunged toward her.

Liam and Jace sprang like twin storms, blades a blur of silver and fire. For every shadow they cut down, another surged forward, but they didn’t falter. The ground turned slick with ash, their movements seamless, deadly.

Raziel bent down to Cataleya again. “Listen carefully, my little spark,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear.

She froze. Whatever he said made her eyes widen in shock. Her lips parted, a tremble overtaking her, and she began to shake her head—no. Her voice broke, a silent protest. But Raziel only smiled that same quiet, fatherly smile. “You’ll be fine, my child. I’m placing all my faith in you.”

And then he pulled. The final chain screamed louder than the rest.

Cataleya cried out—a sound of pure agony, unfiltered and animal. Her body arched, suspended by the last restraint in Raziel’s hands, her face a twisted mask of pain. Her scream echoed across the broken realm, louder than thunder.

With a metallic crack, the final chain shattered.

Cataleya collapsed forward, hitting the cracked concrete in a thud. She caught herself on trembling hands, gasping for air, shoulders heaving.

But she was free. She was free.

The Veil trembled above, groaning like a dying beast.

Raziel stepped onto the dais she had once sat on and gathered the severed chains into his hands. He looked back once—eyes glowing, ageless—and pulled the chains tight with inhuman force.

The Veil snapped shut behind him. Chains binding the angel in place.

Liam stood frozen, breath caught in his throat. An angel had taken her place. A sacrifice beyond anything he’d ever imagined. It stunned him to the marrow.

And in that single moment of awe—

A shadow slammed into him.

The impact drove him hard into the stone floor. His breath left in a wheeze. On his chest, a small silver chain rattled loose—Izzy’s necklace. It fell like a memory, like a promise.

“Liam!” Cataleya screamed, stumbling toward him. She tried to run, but her legs gave out and she crawled, blood mixing with tears.

The shadow hovered over him, clawed fingers pulsing with cold. It had no face, but Liam could feel it smiling somehow. Knowing.

He heard her scream.

He heard Jace shout his name.

And then the claws ripped into his chest.

Pain burst behind his eyes. And there was blood. Everywhere.

Chapter Text

Isabelle paced the  foyer of cirenworth manor like a caged storm, one hand clutched over her chest, the other raised to her lips, fingers gnawed raw from worry. Biting her nails—an old, vicious habit she thought she’d broken. But now, in the thick silence between breaths, it returned like a ghost.

“They’ll come back, Iz,” Alec said from the staircase, his voice steady but tight with tension. He stood with arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the banister like a statue holding up the ceiling. “I can still feel Jace. He’s alive. He’s alright.”

Mira sat a few steps below him, her knees pulled up, a scowl etched on her face that had nothing to do with boredom. Simon stood behind her, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Magnus lingered in the doorway to the salon, silent for once, his magic simmering just beneath the surface of his sharp, watchful gaze.

A single breath passed. Then another. Outside, snow whispered against the stone walls like secrets being kept. The world held its breath.

Izzy didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Thank the Angel, Jace was alive—but something still twisted in her gut like a blade. Not everyone who left would come back whole. Or at all. She glared at the door, willing it to swing open, to give her proof, not promises.

Then it came—a ripple in the air, a pulse felt more than heard. And with it, a sharp pop.

Muffled voices. Screams.

Isabelle was already moving, her body reacting before her mind caught up. She threw the door open so violently it groaned on its hinges, snow flurrying inside like a swarm of white moths.

There, in the moon-washed dark, stood Jace. His shoulders rose and fell with labored breath, dust and blood smudging his face. His coat hung in tatters. His gaze was fixed downwards.

Kneeling in the snow before him was Cataleya. Her hair clung in matted tangles to her bloodstained cheeks and bare shoulders. Her skin was mottled with cuts and grime, jeans torn at the knees, tank top ripped and hanging off one shoulder. Her wrists were ringed with bruises so dark they looked like shackles.

But none of that stopped Izzy in her tracks. No. It was the boy Cataleya held in her lap. The one who writhed, gasping, in the crimson-stained snow.

“Liam?” The name broke from her lips like the first crack in ice, barely audible.

She stepped out into the night, down the steps, boots crunching through layers of blood and frost. She didn’t feel the cold. Didn’t feel anything but the way her heart thundered against her ribs.

Liam lay sprawled in the snow, his chest torn open in a brutal slash, his own hands hovering above it, trembling. Blood poured down his side, soaking into the white, painting it the color of wine and endings. His face was pale, eyes wide, teeth clenched against a pain too large for words.

Izzy dropped to her knees beside him. She didn’t remember falling. One moment she stood, the next she was there, snow soaking through her leggings, hands shaking, breath catching. Her red lips parted, trying to shape words—but none came.

Liam looked at her through the haze of agony and offered a fragile, broken smile. “I made it back, Isabelle,” he rasped.

In his bloodied palm rested a necklace—the one she’d given him before he had left, a necklace that had become a promise.

He held it out to her like an oath.

A tear spilled from her lashes, suspended on her cheek for a heartbeat before falling like a raindrop into the snow. She took the necklace, her fingers trembling, unable to speak around the pressure in her throat.

“Liam! Liam!” Cataleya’s voice rose into the night, panic and pain lacing every syllable. She cradled his head, cupping his face like she could hold his soul in place with her palms.

“I’ll give it back to you,” she whispered, her voice a honeyed echo. “You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Liam only nodded. His jaw clenched, eyes scrunched shut, enduring another wave of agony. He was slipping.

Cataleya acted fast. Her hands glowed with soft, crackling light as she pressed them to his cheeks, drawing her spark—the one he’d given her long ago—back into his body. Her head fell back, eyes wide open Illuminated by a blue glowing light.

The light surged through him. Tiny blue veins lit beneath his skin, flickering across his chest and arms like threads of lightning in water. It poured into the ragged wound on his chest, knitting torn flesh, fusing broken muscle and skin until, slowly, the bleeding began to stop.

Izzy fell back into the snow, her breath catching, then bursting into laughter—strangled and joyful. Her hands covered her mouth, tears hot against her cheeks.

He wasn’t dead. He would be fine.

She looked down at the necklace in her hand—now sticky with his blood—and clutched it to her chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Liam would live. They all would, for now.

Izzy paced the hallway outside Liam’s room, her boots echoing softly on the hardwood floors of Cirenworth. She passed the door again and again, biting at the chipped remnants of her nail polish—another nervous habit she thought she’d broken years ago. But this was different.

They had carried Liam into bed after the Veil shattered and the snow turned red. His wound—ragged and terrifying—was healing, slowly. Too slowly for her heart.

She stopped in front of the door, raised her hand to knock.

Paused. Inhaled deeply. Let her hand fall again.

She chewed the inside of her cheek and resumed pacing, her spine tight with tension.

A few minutes later, she found herself in front of the same door again. Same posture. Same hesitation. Same raised hand.

But before she could knock—

The door cracked open.

Liam peeked his head out, wearing a crooked, smug smile. “You gonna come in, or are you planning to pace a trench into the floorboards all day?”

Izzy froze, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “How did you—”

“I heard your heels,” he interrupted with a teasing glint in his ice-blue eyes. “You’ve been pacing for an hour now, Isabelle.”

His hair was tousled, falling messily into his eyes. Bare-chested, his skin was still pale from blood loss, the healing wound across his chest barely sealed. Faint bruising still lingered, like ghostly fingerprints.

Izzy blinked. Bit her lip. Then smiled, batting her dark lashes with practiced elegance. “Would you step aside, then?”

Liam stepped back, swinging the door open wider. She brushed past him into the room, the air immediately smelling like him—clean, warm, with a subtle hint of cedar and something sharper. Beneath it lingered the scent of herbs and dried teas—Tessa’s doing, no doubt.

The bed stood unmade under the window, sheets kicked aside. His bloodied and torn clothes had been tossed into a loose heap near the wall. He wore soft grey joggers that dipped low across his hips, revealing the carved V of his lower abdomen, but her eyes flicked quickly away.

Books were scattered across the side table and floor, some open mid-page—half-research, half-distraction.

“I just wanted to see how you’re feeling,” Izzy said finally, gesturing vaguely, her voice wobbling between casual and don’t-sound-nervous. Her gaze darted from his bare chest to his face, then dropped to the floor.

“I’m doing okay,” Liam said, grunting slightly as he bent to retrieve his shirt.

Izzy moved on instinct, crouching to grab it before he could. She held it out—but froze when their hands nearly touched. Her breath hitched as he took it from her, flashing that smile—the one with the dimples, the one that made her knees feel like liquid.

“Thanks,” he said, voice soft.

She laughed awkwardly, suddenly aware of how schoolgirlish she sounded. Her cheeks flushed.

“That’s good. I mean, I’m really glad you’re okay.” Her voice was thin, breezy. Internally, she screamed at herself for sounding like a teenager. You nearly watched him die, Izzy. You’re allowed to feel things.

Liam turned, limping slightly back to the bed, the white shirt now in hand. He tugged it over his head, letting it fall loosely around him. Gone was the bare skin, but her eyes still lingered for a second too long.

Izzy slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled something out—the ring he had given her, warm from her touch. She held it out in her palm.

“I came to give this back,” she said, quieter now.

Liam exhaled, tilting his head slightly as he took it from her. “Thank you,” he said. “I almost thought you’d keep it. Wouldn’t have blamed you. I wouldn’t have asked.”

Izzy blinked. “Why wouldn’t you?”

He met her gaze, his voice like silk and steel. “It looked good on you.”

She couldn’t breathe. The air thinned between them.

Liam slid the ring back onto his finger, watching it settle into place. His expression softened—as if feeling whole again with that one small act.

“You really gave me the chills,” Izzy said suddenly, her voice small. “When you came back all bloody and—”

“Stop talking, Isabelle,” Liam interrupted gently.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward, cupped her jaw with one strong hand, and kissed her.

Her world exploded.

Her heart stopped—then surged forward like wildfire.

Her lips responded instantly, her eyes fluttering closed. One of her hands slid up to the back of his neck, fingers weaving through his hair, gripping him tightly like she might disappear if she let go. She kissed him with the kind of desperate, burning intensity she’d never known she possessed. Not with Meliorn. Not with anyone.

Liam’s hand never left her jaw. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, pressing her body to his like she was gravity itself—anchoring him to this world.

She forgot everything—who she was, where she was. There was no past. No heartbreak. No fear.

There was only him. He was fire and thunder, starlight and storm. He was chaos, safety, temptation, and truth all at once.

And in that kiss, Izzy finally admitted what

her soul had known far longer than her heart: She didn’t want to let go. Not ever.

Chapter Text

They gathered in the kitchen area—worn, disheveled, but together.

Simon sat at the edge of the long wooden table, sipping from a blood ration like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mira stood behind him, one arm draped lazily over his shoulder as she popped grapes into her mouth one by one, chewing dramatically like she was above the tension in the room.

Magnus leaned against the counter, perfectly put together in shimmering emerald robes that contrasted Alec’s stern presence beside him. Alec stood with arms crossed, expression unreadable, except for the sharp glint of concern in his eyes.

Cataleya perched on the opposite countertop, her legs swinging freely as Jace leaned between them, back resting against her chest. She absentmindedly played with a strand of his golden hair.

Izzy leaned over the table, chin propped in her hand, the other picking distractedly at her nails. She glanced up.

“So,” she said, her voice cutting the silence. “What exactly are we going to do now?”

All eyes turned to Alec.

He sighed. “We’ve got a situation. This one—” he pointed toward Cataleya, “—should technically be dead. Or fused into the Veil like a celestial security system.”

“And this one—” his finger shifted to Liam, who stood casually in the doorway like he wasn’t listening, “—is still wanted by the Clave for desertion and suspected dark alliance.”

Simon raised his drink in a mock toast. “Love being off the list for once.”

Mira patted his cheek fondly. “That’s my non-fugitive vampire.”

Alec ignored them. “We were supposed to return to the Institute two weeks ago. They’ll be sending inquiries any day now.”

“No.” Mira snapped before anyone else could respond. “We can’t just go and hand them over like that.”

“You know what they’ll say if we tell them the truth,” Jace added grimly, his arms folding tighter against his chest. “They’ll throw her back into a cell—if not something worse.”

Cataleya didn’t flinch, but her expression hardened.

Izzy exhaled and rubbed a hand over her face. “The Clave won’t let this go. Even if we manage to convince them she’s back by some miracle, they’ll want to know how. And why.”

Magnus waved a hand dramatically as he stepped forward, a glittering distraction in the room full of static tension. “Alright, everyone breathe. Let’s not spiral yet. First, we need to get back to the Institute. After that, then we figure out what story to spin.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to say?” Cataleya snapped, her fingers tightening on the countertop. “That I just… fell out of the Veil one Tuesday morning, fresh from a nap?”

“Maybe try saying it with less attitude and more narrative finesse,” Magnus offered, not missing a beat. “Add a few metaphors. Some dramatic flair. You’ve got the hair for it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further.

Izzy sighed. “If we tell them the Veil is intact and functioning without her, they’ll start poking. If they figure out that an actual angel sacrificed himself to get her out—” her voice dropped, eyes sweeping the room—“we’re screwed. Officially. Eternally. Screwed.”

“No pun intended!" Izzy said with a smirk.

Cataleya smirked right back. “None taken.”

Liam, still leaning against the doorway, finally pushed off the frame with a sigh. “So we lie.”

“No,” Alec said immediately. “We don’t lie. We just… curate the truth.”

Jace looked up at Cataleya. “We’ll protect you. Both of you,” he added, nodding toward Liam. “Whatever the Clave wants to throw at us, let them. We’ve handled worse.”

Cataleya looked around the room—at Mira and Simon, leaning together like something out of a war poem. At Alec and Magnus, standing united even when the world threatened to fracture. At her brother, who’d nearly died for her. And finally, at Jace.

She nodded slowly. “Alright then. Let’s curate some chaos.”

As the sun began its slow descent over Cirenworth, the group found themselves packing their belongings with a mix of anticipation and unease. Cataleya folded her clothes carefully into a bag, the motions almost meditative. Jace, on the other hand, moved quickly, tossing gear into his duffel without much order.

"Do you think they'll be waiting for us the moment we step through?" Cataleya asked, not looking up from her task.

"Knowing the Clave? Absolutely," Jace replied with a half-smirk. "But hey, at least it’ll be interesting."

Across the hall, Izzy and Alec were having a more pragmatic conversation. Alec’s face was set in a stern expression as he zipped up his bag. "You know Mom’s going to lose it when we show up like this, right?"

Izzy rolled her eyes, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "When is she not losing it over something? Besides, we’ve done crazier things."

Magnus, ever the picture of calm elegance, floated into the room with a flourish of his hand. "Ready, darlings? Idris awaits, and so does a very irate Maryse Lightwood, I’m sure."

With a final glance around the mansion that had been their refuge, they stepped through the portal Magnus conjured, and in an instant, found themselves back at the familiar grounds of the New York Institute.

The Institute stood unchanged, its gothic architecture as imposing as ever. But the air around them buzzed with curiosity and caution. Shadowhunters passing by gave them curious glances, whispers trailing in their wake.

No sooner had they arrived than Maryse Lightwood appeared, striding toward them with a face like thunder. "What on earth were you all thinking?" she demanded, eyes narrowing at each of them in turn. "Do you have any idea how reckless and dangerous this was?"

Magnus opened his mouth to interject, but Maryse silenced him with a sharp look. It was Jace who stepped forward then, his demeanor calm but resolute. "We did what we had to do. And now the Clave wants to see us, so we’ll have to continue this conversation later."

Maryse’s expression softened, if only slightly, and she gave a curt nod. "Very well. The portal is ready. The Clave won’t appreciate waiting."

With a sweep of her hand, the portal shimmered to life, and Jace, Izzy, Cataleya, and Liam stepped through, leaving the others behind.

The stained-glass windows of the Hall cast a kaleidoscope of fractured light across the ancient marble floor. The circular dais was filled with seated Clave members in dark ceremonial robes, many bearing the runes of high authority. The air buzzed with tension, murmurs rising as Cataleya, Liam, Jace, Izzy, and Alec stood in the center under scrutiny.

The Inquisitor, a sharp-jawed woman with silver-threaded hair pulled tightly back, stood first. Her voice rang cold and clear.

“Cataleya Ballanger. You were declared dead—swallowed by the Veil. And yet here you stand. Reeking of forbidden magic and celestial interference.”

Cataleya didn’t flinch. She stood straight, her silvery-blonde hair neatly braided, her icy blue eyes steady. “I was part of the Veil. Raziel pulled me out himself.”

A thunder of murmurs spread through the Clave like wildfire.

One of the older Consuls slammed a palm against the desk. “Raziel appeared to you? Do you take us for fools?”

“No,” Jace said sharply, stepping forward. “She’s not lying. Raziel came—he came in the flesh.”

“This is sacrilege!” barked another member. “Raziel does not walk among mortals! This is manipulation. A demon cloaked in angelic light, perhaps. Or worse—”

“Enough.” Alec’s voice cut clean through the room. Calm but commanding. “We saw him. He glowed with heavenly fire. He knew things only Raziel would. You weren’t there—we were. He made his choice. He freed Cataleya himself.”

There was silence. Then a younger Clave scholar, perhaps no older than twenty-five, stood timidly.

“If… If Raziel truly intervened, we must ask why,” she said. “Would he save her without cause? Would the angel we worship choose wrongly?”

A man with a long scar down his temple scoffed. “Then what—do we reward her for binding herself to forbidden realms and drawing celestial attention?”

“We don't imprison those chosen by Raziel,” the younger woman continued. “Unless you mean to stand against him.”

The council shifted uncomfortably.

Cataleya’s voice broke through like cracked ice. “He told me to return. That I’m needed for what’s to come. I didn’t ask for his help—but I won't ignore it now.”

Murmurs again, this time more thoughtful.

The Inquisitor’s jaw tightened. “Fine. You will not be imprisoned. But you are not free. You are to remain at the New York Institute. No missions. No field work. Daily check-ins. Any deviation, and we will come for you.”

Cataleya nodded once. “Understood.”

Then eyes turned to Liam, who shifted under their collective gaze but lifted his chin.

“I didn’t grow up in your system,” he said. “Never stepped inside an Institute. My father made sure of that. Because he feared what I could become. What we could become.”

“Why reappear now?” another councilman asked. “After hiding for so long?”

Liam’s blue eyes burned, eerily similar to his sister’s. “Because the Veil was cracking. Because our world was falling apart. And because I chose to fight for the Shadowhunters. I let my sister sacrifice herself to save you all. I thought I’d lost her. But I stayed in the fight.” He paused. “If that earns me prison, then so be it.”

There was a silence that weighed heavy.

Then the scar-faced man muttered, “He did help save the Veil.”

The Inquisitor sighed, tapping her quill against the desk.

“You will be allowed to stay in New York under one condition: you will officially join the ranks of the Nephilim. No more hiding. No more drifting. You will train, report, and live as one of us. Under supervision.”

Liam exhaled slowly. “Fine. I accept.”

A murmur of assent passed through the chamber.

Then the Inquisitor looked at the others. “As for the rest—Alec Lightwood. Isabelle Lightwood. Jace Herondale. You three are granted operational clearance. Starting with the Seelie queen and a breach of her borders.” She narrowed her eyes. “But you will report daily. If we sense anything suspicious—one unauthorized step—you will be pulled back. Even you, Herondale.”

Jace smirked slightly. “Noted.”

Cataleya leaned close and whispered just loud enough for her brother to hear, “And they say angels don’t cause trouble.”

Liam chuckled under his breath. The Inquisitor raised her hand.

“This meeting is concluded. May the Angel watch your steps—because we certainly will.”

And with that, the Clave dismissed them.

Outside the Hall — Idris Courtyard

The group stepped into the crisp air, the tension still hanging like a second skin.

“Think that went well?” Simon asked, appearing from the shadows with Mira at his side.

“They didn’t kill us. That’s a win,” Cataleya replied dryly.

Jace nudged Liam. “Welcome to the Institute.”

Liam groaned. “This is going to be weird, isn’t it?”

“Excruciating,” Izzy said with a smirk. “But you’ll get used to it, bunny.”

Cataleya grinned. “He will. Or he’ll die trying.”

Liam muttered, “Maybe prison would’ve been easier.”

And together, they walked toward the portal Magnus conjured—headed back to New York.

The halls of the New York Institute were quiet—but not with peace. It was the silence after a storm. The kind that hangs thick in the air, fragile and waiting to break.

Simon slung his satchel over his shoulder with a lopsided grin, already backing toward the double doors of the entrance.

“Right. Apparently I’m not welcome here unless I sprout a pair of glowing runes overnight,” he said, eyes flicking to Cataleya. “You’ll miss me.”

“Doubtful,” she smirked from the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. Her silver-blonde hair was damp from a recent shower, the fresh bruise on her jaw already fading under layers of healing.

Mira was on his heels, ignoring every glance thrown her way.

“You didn’t even wait for instructions,” Alec called dryly from the ops stairwell.

“I don’t do well with rules,” Mira called back. “Or... orders. Or being left behind. So—ta.”

Simon glanced at her. “We doing this?”

She sighed dramatically. “I guess I’m stuck with you again. Try not to spill blood on my boots this time, daylighter.”

“You really do love the boots,” Simon muttered as they exited, their bickering fading down the corridor like a strange kind of rhythm.

Inside the Institute, everything fell apart—only to be put back together again.

Cataleya stood at the edge of the grand hall, staring up at the vaulted ceiling like she had forgotten how much space this place really held. After months of confinement in the Veil, the air here was too sharp, too bright. Her fingers itched, unconsciously brushing at the scars on her wrists where Raziel had burned the chains away.

Beside her, Liam craned his neck toward the stained-glass angel over the arch.

“Home sweet home,” he said, voice edged with uncertainty. “First time I’m allowed inside one of these. What’s the protocol? Shake hands with every rune on the wall?”

Cataleya snorted, grabbing his wrist. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour. You’ll get lost otherwise.”

“I like getting lost,” Liam muttered as they ascended the spiral staircase.

She didn’t say it aloud, but she was grateful. For him. For this moment. For anything that wasn’t steel chains or screaming shadows.

In the Ops Center, tension vibrated off the walls like a pulled bowstring. Alec, Izzy, and Jace stood before the main holoscreen as it glitched through magical interference.

“The breach came through the western corridor of the Seelie Court,” Alec said, arms folded, his jaw tight. “Two guards decapitated. Four others—unconscious, poisoned. Queen’s unharmed but furious. Seven dead.”

Jace narrowed his eyes, scanning the map overlay. “And she didn’t name a suspect?”

“Only that they bore runes.” Izzy tapped a finger against the glowing projection. “Carved into their skin. Like warpaint. No gear. No allegiance she could identify.”

Jace exhaled sharply, a flicker of unease crawling up his spine. “A rogue Shadowhunter?”

“Or someone trying to look like one,” Alec said grimly.

Behind them, Magnus appeared with the soft shimmer of a portal closing.

"I’m retiring to the loft. My wards are flickering again. And frankly, I’ve had enough of angel politics for one century.”

“Don’t you always?” Alec muttered.

Magnus gave him a kiss on the temple and a wink before turning. “Be careful in faerie. The Queen’s in a mood, and I’d prefer not to have to resurrect anyone again this week.”

Later in the Armory

The familiar scent of oiled steel and rune smoke filled the space as weapons were strapped on, buckles fastened, gear adjusted.

Izzy pulled her whip from its place on the wall, wrapping it neatly around her waist.

Alec checked his bowstring with a surgeon’s focus.

Jace stood still. He held his seraph blade, but his mind was elsewhere—two floors above, behind a closed door.

"You’re hesitating,” Izzy said without looking.

He blinked. “I’m not.”

"You’re thinking about her.”

Jace looked away. “Of course I am.”

Alec turned, voice steady but softer now. “She’s safe, Jace. She’s within the Institute. Wards are strong. No one’s coming for her.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Jace muttered. “I just got her back.”

Izzy stepped closer, hands tightening the straps of her gauntlets. “Then do what you always do, Jace. Protect her by doing your job. Like you’ve done for all of us.”

He nodded, slow. The warrior in him knew she was right. The man in him hated every second of it.

In the hallway, Cataleya opened the door to her  room and turned to Liam.

“You think they’ll really let us stay?” she asked.

Liam leaned against the wall, flipping the Lightwood crest necklace Izzy had given him between his fingers.

“They will. Because we’re necessary now.”

Cataleya smiled faintly. “You sound like Raziel.”

“I am his spark, remember?” Liam winked.

Just then, Jace appeared at the stairwell in gear, the blade clipped at his back, the witchlight flickering in his pocket. His golden eyes locked with hers.

“We’re heading out.”

Cataleya’s smile faltered. “Of course you are.”

He crossed to her in long strides, cupped the back of her neck, and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better. Or I’ll come looking.”

His lips curved. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Then he kissed her—brief, urgent—and turned toward the door, his figure merging with Alec and Izzy’s as they disappeared into the light.

Cataleya stood there in silence. Liam stepped beside her, watching the door close.

“So… pancakes?” he said.

Chapter Text

Central Park was quiet beneath the soft veil of early dusk. The bridge arched gently over the still water, a strip of calm between two worlds.

Jace stood in the middle of the path, glancing between Alec and Izzy.

“You ready?” he asked, golden eyes sharp beneath the dying light.

Alec nodded once, hands already gloved and relaxed near his weapons. Izzy gave her whip an idle flick, the coils humming like a serpent eager to strike.

“Born ready,” she said.

Together, the three of them stepped forward, shadows dissolving as they passed over the bridge. The moment their boots left stone, the portal bloomed beneath them—a ripple of green and gold, like sunlight caught in leaves—and they vanished.

Not far behind them, hidden in a thicket of bushes, a figure crouched low in the dark. Watching. Waiting. A faint smile tugged the corner of unseen lips. And then, silent as smoke, the figure slipped away in the opposite direction.

Back at the New York Institute, Cataleya leaned against the kitchen counter, elbow perched as she balanced a fork over a plate of pancakes. Across the kitchen, her brother was an absolute menace to culinary dignity.

“Careful with that apron, Liam,” she said, grinning as he flipped a pancake dramatically into the air, Izzy’s frilly white and pink-stitched apron tied snugly around his waist. “You’re making enemies.”

“Enemies?” Liam scoffed, catching the pancake midair with casual flair and plopping it onto a plate. “I’m a culinary gift. Shadowhunters should thank me for this kind of morale boost.”

“You're a walking scandal,” Cataleya muttered with a smirk, eyes drifting to the few Shadowhunter girls lingering just outside the archway. They giggled, whispering behind cupped hands.

Cataleya didn’t miss the way their eyes followed Liam. Nor did she miss the glint of silver at his collar—the Lightwood crest, half-hidden beneath the neckline of his shirt.

“So,” she drawled, accepting the plate he handed her. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood. Anything you want to share with your very observant sister?”

Liam chuckled. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

She arched a brow and tore into her pancake like it owed her money. “Not much.”

Liam tapped the pendant absently, then let it fall back into his shirt. The conversation might have gone further—but then came the alarm.

The shrill wail of the ward sensors tore through the Institute, red sigils lighting up along the corridor walls.

“Breach detected. Unidentified presence inside perimeter!” Archer’s voice barked over the intercom, already in a panic. “Level One alert!”

Cataleya’s plate clattered onto the counter as she bolted. She sprinted past a stumbling Archer, who clutched his control tablet like it was the only thing keeping him from imploding.

Liam caught the seraph blade she tossed back without looking, twirling it once in his grip.

“Really hoping this is just a false alarm,” he muttered, following close behind.

Cataleya didn’t answer. She stormed into the Ops Center, the room bathed in flickering red light. The other Shadowhunters flooded in behind her, barely catching up.

And then—the intruder stepped into view.

A hooded figure, small and slender, stepped through the threshold like it had been waiting. The flickering lights cast strange shadows across the cloaked form, the air humming with a sickening, foreign magic.

Cataleya didn’t raise her blades yet—but she didn’t lower her guard either. Her braid slid over her shoulder like a silver whip as she tilted her chin.

“You better have a damn good reason for disturbing my dinner,” she said, voice low and lethal.

The figure stopped.

Then—with a snap—the hood was flung back. Cataleya’s breath caught.

“…Clary?” she whispered.

But no. This wasn’t the Clary who used to curl up beside her with books or gently fix her braid with soft fingers. This version had blackened veins running up her throat, her once-bright eyes now a seething, corrupted storm.

This Clary was a ghost—reborn in rage.

“Well look at you,” Dark Clary sneered, voice rasped and cruel. “Back from your little prison. I came to welcome you.”

“I’m flattered,” Cataleya said coolly, even as her stomach twisted. “You should’ve sent a card.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd behind her. But no one moved.

Dark Clary stepped forward, boots silent on the stone. “Did you know? When you entered the Veil, you erased every other version of you across every plane. Poof. Gone. Just like that.  Which means—” she smiled, teeth bared, “—you're version of my world took everything from me. And you took my chances of revenge. So I'll figured I should take my revenge on you."

Cataleya’s fingers tightened around her hilts.

“I don't know what you've done to piss myself off in another world,” she said coldly. “But I won’t apologise for it.”

“No,” Dark Clary purred, “you’ll do something far more fitting. You’ll suffer. Starting with your pretty brother.”

The room shifted like a storm cloud was building.

Cataleya’s expression turned to stone. Her stance changed—not just ready to fight, but ready to kill.

“You can touch anything in this world,” she said. “But if you so much as breathe wrong near my brother—” The lights flickered again. Liam stepped forward, his blade drawn, the pendant at his neck gleaming like a promise.

“Then I suppose,” he said, tone deceptively light, “this counts as a welcome party.”

The cold light of the Ops center flickered overhead as Clary stepped forward, her boots dragging trails in the dust. The black veins on her neck pulsed with every breath. Her blade—thin, elegant, rune-carved—gleamed like it had tasted blood many times before.

Cataleya held her stance, double seraph blades in each hand, loose at her sides. Her heartbeat thundered, not with fear—but fury.

Liam stood just behind her, tense, hands at his belt. His gaze never left Clary.

"Step aside, sister," Clary said coolly, circling. "I'm not here for you." Cataleya didn't move. "I mean it. You want to live, you'll let me pass."

"Over my dead body," Cataleya said.

Clary smiled. "That can be arranged."

And then she lunged.

Their blades collided with a metallic shriek. Sparks flew, their silhouettes moving like ghosts through lightning. Cataleya twisted, blocking the downward strike, her braid spinning behind her like a whip. She ducked under a swipe and countered with a swift thrust at Clary’s ribs—missed by a hair.

"You came through the Veil?" Cataleya asked, breathless, sidestepping another strike.

"Through the ripples of magic, yes," Clary gritted out. "Tore through time and space with a scream. You left a scar in the world when you sacrificed yourself—and I crawled through it."

Their blades locked—face to face.

"I can see," Clary whispered, her black eyes gleaming, "why he liked you."

Cataleya bared her teeth. “Don’t speak his name.”

“Jace,” Clary hissed, and broke the lock, slicing her blade across Cataleya’s forearm. Blood welled instantly.

Liam moved forward. “Ley—”

“Stay back!” she snapped, spinning and forcing Clary toward the wall.

Clary shifted, drawing a rune mid-air with burning fingers. It flared, giving her unnatural speed—she blurred, then reappeared behind Cataleya, blade aimed at her neck. Cataleya twisted, just in time, and blocked. The blades screamed again.

Clary’s fury had sharpened her. She fought with a reckless, feral energy—swinging wide, leaping forward, twisting between strikes.

"I’m going to kill your brother," Clary growled, driving her blade down toward Cataleya’s thigh, “and then... I’m going for Jace.”

That was the moment something snapped. Cataleya’s expression hardened. Her eyes glinted with cold, glacial blue fire.

“You don’t touch them.”

She surged forward—spinning, dodging, and with one clean, searing slash—cut through Clary’s thigh. Clary let out a guttural cry, stumbling, blood spilling down her leg.

Cataleya stood over her, blades still raised, breathing heavy. Behind her, more Shadowhunters poured in—drawn by the alarms. The circle tightened.

Clary’s eyes flicked around the room, calculating. Her breathing was sharp and ragged, but her lips curved in a vicious smile.

"Bold of me, wasn’t it?" she rasped. "But this was only the beginning."

She reached up and carved a portal rune through the air. The space trembled, light folding in on itself as the portal swirled open behind her. She limped backward, one step at a time.

“We’ll see each other again, Cataleya,” Clary promised, eyes gleaming with something unholy. “Sooner than you think.”

Then she vanished into the portal. It sealed shut like a wound across reality—gone in a blink.

Cataleya stood frozen, her hands shaking, blood trickling down her arm. Liam stepped beside her at last, his voice low. “Ley... what the hell was that?”

Cataleya looked toward the place the portal had closed.

“Something that should’ve stayed dead,” she whispered. “And now it’s coming for everything I love.”

The Institute was in chaos.

Wards crackled brighter than before, glowing like caged lightning along the perimeter windows. Red alarm lights pulsed down the halls in time with the echoing shouts of Shadowhunters rechecking every barrier, every camera, every rune.

In the ops center, Archer hunched over the console, fingers flying across keys as camera footage flickered on the surrounding screens—streets, rooftops, alleyways. His face was tight with focus, his shoulders drawn high.

Beside him sat Cataleya, silent, holding a bloodied cloth to her arm. Crimson seeped steadily between her fingers, staining the linen. Her silver braid was loose, her shirt torn at the sleeve.

Jace stormed through the doorway, breath catching as he saw her.

"Cataleya!" he barked, crossing the room in three fast strides. He dropped to a crouch beside her, his hands already reaching for her injured arm. "What the hell happened?"

Cataleya didn't flinch—except for the hiss that slipped between her teeth as he peeled the cloth away.

"Apparently," she said with an icy edge, "I pissed off a very unhinged version of Clary from some alternate universe. And now she's here to kill all of us."

Jace blinked. "What?"

Behind him, Alec’s voice rang out sharp. "What do you mean—Clary?"

Cataleya shot them both a deadpan look. "Oh, I don’t know, Alec. Maybe the redhead who just breached the Institute, tried to murder my brother, and told me I’d ‘wiped out every version of myself’ in the multiverse. That one."

Jace swore under his breath and drew his stele. He gripped her forearm tighter as he etched a precise iratze into the skin above her wound. A low glow shimmered beneath her skin as the healing rune activated.

Izzy pushed past Alec, her eyes already narrowed. “Why Liam?” she asked, voice low and clipped.

Cataleya looked at her, something shadowed in her eyes. “She didn’t say. Only that some version of me took everything from her—and when I sacrificed myself to the Veil, I supposedly deleted every Cataleya in every realm. I’m the last one left.” She exhaled bitterly. “So she’s here for revenge. Starting with Liam.”

Across the room, Liam leaned forward against the ops table, jaw tense. Izzy  looked from Cataleya to him. “Any idea why she’d go for him first?”

“No. And I didn’t have time to ask while we were sword fighting,” Cataleya muttered, wincing as the last of the pain drained away from her arm.

Jace stood, still positioned between her and the rest of the world, hands clenched at his sides. “The Queen,” he said suddenly. “The breach report—it was fake.”

Liam turned sharply. “What?”

Jace nodded grimly. “When we got to the Seelie Court, she was laughing. Said no such attack had happened. No missing guards. No request for help. She didn’t even know about the message.” He ran a hand through his hair. “She was amused, said she’d never bother with an official report for something so trivial. And she sure as hell wouldn't ask us.”

“So we were lured out,” Izzy said, a dawning horror in her voice.

Alec’s arms folded across his chest, his voice cool with realization. “It was a diversion. Clary wanted us gone. She didn’t want you out of her sight, Cataleya—she wanted us out of the way.”

"And it worked," Jace said bitterly. "She knew you have no mission clearance."

Cataleya flexed her hand, her voice distant now. “So the question is—what did I do to her? And how the hell did she get here through the Veil?”

Silence fell for a beat. The hum of the Institute’s systems throbbed in the background, broken only by Archer cursing softly under his breath as he flipped through camera feeds, searching for a ghost.

Izzy’s eyes gleamed, her mouth set in a grim line. “we have to find her. Before she does some real damage.”

Cataleya nodded once, her gaze hardening. "Next time, I won't let her get away."