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Storm and Shadow

Summary:

As Clary and Jace dig into the mysteries behind her abilities, Jace meets Albert Nightstorm, a quiet, brilliant Shadowhunter with a tragic past and hidden depth, and his curiosity about the other boy is sparked. When strange demon attacks occur in Manhattan, Jace finds himself needing Albert's help.

Notes:

So this story was inspired by a deleted scene from "Iron Sisters", and from American Horror Story: Coven. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Shadowhunter Chronicles or anything related to it.

Chapter Text

The hum of computer screens and the clicking of keys filled the Institute’s operations room. The air smelled faintly of coffee left too long on a burner, mixed with the sterile tang of fresh rune ink. Jace Herondale pushed open the glass door with a shoulder, the folded scrap of paper clenched tightly in his hand. Clary’s rune. It felt heavier than it should have, like it carried all the weight of questions he didn’t want to ask out loud.

He crossed the room, head high, casual in that way that made people think he had nowhere else he’d rather be. The truth was he wanted answers—and quickly. He stood at one of the terminals, typed his username and password across the login pad, and waited. A red line blinked on the screen.

ACCESS DENIED.

Jace stared at the message. A muscle in his jaw twitched. After everything, after the City of Bones, after being cleared—his access was still revoked?

He looked up, scanning the room. Most of the Shadowhunters were buried in their own work—eyes locked on reports, voices murmuring updates about patrol routes. Nobody paid him any mind. Nobody except the quiet figure sitting apart from the others.

Albert Nightstorm.

Jace had seen him around before—pale, dark-haired, always scribbling in notebooks or hunched over a computer. Right now, Albert was bent over a star chart, methodically plotting constellations in careful ink strokes, as if the night sky itself were a puzzle only he could solve. He looked out of place among the bustle of the ops room, but maybe that was why Jace’s gaze lingered.

He straightened, folded the rune into his pocket, and walked over.

“Hey Albert,” Jace said, standing in front the desk as though he’d been invited, “I saw you working on your spin kick the other day. You know if you add a left hook, you’ll be unstoppable.”

Albert blinked up at him, startled. For a second, it was as if he couldn’t quite believe Jace was speaking to him. A faint blush rose across his cheeks. “You act like it’s easy.”

Jace gave a crooked half-smile. “You just haven’t found the right sparring partner yet. I could teach some moves if you want.”

Albert’s blush deepened. His voice, when it came, was small but steady. “Yeah. I’m… I’m down.”

For a moment, Jace saw it clearly—the surprise in Albert’s eyes, the way he seemed unaccustomed to being noticed, let alone complimented. And guilt prickled in Jace’s chest, sharp and fleeting. He wasn’t here to make friends. He needed something. He pushed the guilt aside.

His tone sharpened back into business. “Hey I’m having some trouble logging in. After I was released from the City of Bones, they should’ve restored my clearance, but you know how slow IT can be around here. Wanna help me out?” 

Albert hesitated, eyes flicking toward the other Shadowhunters, then back up at Jace. Jace gave him a dazzling smile—one of those smiles, the kind he knew could unravel resistance, the kind that could make anyone do almost anything.

Albert swallowed, then nodded. “Okay.”

The two of them walked to the terminal together. Albert sat, fingers moving quickly over the keys. Within seconds, the system opened, layers of data blooming across the screen.

“Thank you,” Jace said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Albert gave a faint nod, retreating to his desk as if the short interaction had been more spotlight than he was used to in a year.

Jace unfolded the paper and placed it carefully on the scanner pad. The rune seemed to pulse under the light, its dark lines sharp and alien, even among the thousands he already knew.

He searched the Clave’s main database first. Line after line scrolled past. Nothing.

He switched to the Iron Sisters’ archive. Runes from the dawn of the Shadowhunters filled the screen, each catalogued with history and meaning. Still nothing.

Last, he tried the Silent Brothers’ records, their exhaustive chronicles of runic knowledge spanning centuries. He leaned closer to the monitor as the search processed.

And again—nothing.

The screen stared back at him, blank but heavy, as though the silence itself carried an omen.

Jace exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the monitor. It didn’t make sense. Every rune they used, every line and curve etched on their skin, came from somewhere. From history. From Heaven. Runes didn’t just appear.

Unless they did. Unless Clary’s gift—if that’s what it was—was rewriting the rules of what it meant to be Nephilim.

He thought of her face as she’d sketched it, how natural it had seemed, like she was remembering something she’d never been taught. He should’ve been relieved. Maybe even proud. But instead, unease coiled low in his stomach.

If the Clave had no record, and the Iron Sisters had no knowledge, and even the Silent Brothers had nothing—then this rune wasn’t just rare. It was impossible.

And impossible things came with consequences.

Jace folded the paper again, slipping it inside his jacket. As he did, his gaze flicked back to Albert, hunched over his star charts in the corner. The kid hadn’t even hesitated, not really. One smile, one compliment, and he’d opened the door wide for Jace.

The pang of guilt returned sharper this time. Albert didn’t deserve to be used—not for favors, not for secrets Jace didn’t even understand himself. But guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not now.

Still, as he walked back to his room, Jace knew he’d remember the look on Albert’s face for a long time.

Whatever this rune was, whatever it meant—it wasn’t going to stay secret for long. And when the truth broke, it wouldn’t just change Clary. It might break the people closest to her, too.

---------------------------------

The halls of the Institute were quiet by the time Jace reached their room, his footsteps softened by the familiar rhythm of home. He pushed the door open without knocking, the faint creak of hinges echoing in the dim light.

Clary was already there, curled cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook balanced on her lap. The soft lamplight gilded her hair in warm copper. She looked up as he entered, her pencil pausing mid-line.

“Well?” she asked, searching his face.

Jace dropped the folded paper onto the dresser with more force than he intended. “Magnus didn’t find anything?”

Her lips tightened. “Nothing. He said he’d seen a lot in his lifetime, but not this. It… unsettled him.” She closed the sketchbook, fingers lingering on the cover. “What about you?”

He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “I searched everything I could—Clave records, the Iron Sisters’ archives, even the Silent Brothers’ vaults. There’s nothing. It doesn’t exist.”

Clary drew her knees up, resting her chin on them. “Except it does. I drew it. I didn’t make it up, Jace. It came to me like every other rune has.”

“I know.” His voice softened, though the weight never left it. “That’s what scares me.”

Her green eyes flicked to his, sharp but uncertain. “You think it’s dangerous.”

“I think,” he said carefully, “that something this new, this… untraceable, doesn’t come without a price. We’ve seen what happens when power gets ahead of control.” His hand brushed over the paper in his jacket pocket, as though it burned even through the fabric. “And I don’t want you paying that price.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the muted hum of the city beyond the Institute’s walls.

Clary shifted closer, her hand sliding over his. “Maybe it’s not about danger. Maybe it’s about change. What if the Angels are showing us something new? Something meant for us?”

Jace studied her, the conviction in her voice warring with the unease twisting inside him. She always had this way of believing—of making impossible things seem inevitable. He wanted to believe, too.

His fingers tightened around hers. “If that’s true, then we’ll face it together. No matter what it means.”

Relief softened her expression. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. Jace let his eyes close, the lines of tension in him finally slackening.

Her breath mingled with his, warm and steady, before her lips brushed his in a kiss that carried both promise and uncertainty. For a little while, the questions fell away, leaving only the quiet assurance of being in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

The smell of fresh coffee and toasted bread drifted through the Institute’s dining hall, a rare moment of normalcy Jace almost didn’t trust. He sat at one of the long oak tables with Clary beside him, Isabelle across, and Alec nursing a mug of something black and bitter that passed for coffee.

“So Magnus had nothing?” Isabelle asked, twirling her fork idly over her plate, dark hair spilling over her shoulder like a sheet of ink. “That’s unusual. He usually knows everything before anyone else.”

Clary sighed, pushing scrambled eggs across her plate without eating. “He said he’s never seen anything like it. That it felt… outside the runes.”

“Outside the runes?” Alec echoed, his voice carrying the clipped tone of someone already compiling worst-case scenarios. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does a rune that doesn’t exist in any archive,” Jace muttered. He didn’t look up from his coffee. He could still feel the weight of the folded paper in his jacket pocket like a stone pressing against his ribs.

“So what does it mean?” Isabelle pressed, leaning forward, eyes sharp with curiosity.

“It means,” Jace said, setting his mug down a little too hard, “that Clary’s in the middle of something no one understands. And that’s not a place I like her being.”

Clary bristled, but before she could respond, the doors at the far end of the hall opened. Jace turned his head, more out of instinct than interest, and saw Albert Nightstorm walk in, his arms stacked with several heavy-looking books. He kept his gaze fixed low, shoulders rounded as though trying to disappear into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling.

Behind him, Mars Pangborn strolled by with the lazy confidence of someone who’d never been told no. As he passed, he let his arm swing wide, “accidentally” swatting the stack of books from Albert’s hands. They hit the floor with a sharp slap, pages fluttering and scattering across the stone tiles.

Laughter rippled through the hall. Not everyone joined in, but enough did to make the sound sting. Albert froze, his face pale, eyes darting to the floor as though debating whether to vanish entirely or pick up the pieces.

For a heartbeat, Jace thought he’d crumble. His throat tightened at the raw look of humiliation in Albert’s eyes, the way he blinked too fast, as though holding back tears. But then Albert swallowed hard, drew in a shaky breath, and crouched down. He gathered the books quietly, methodically, tucking them back into a stack without a word.

When he straightened, his movements stiff, he didn’t look at anyone. He simply carried his books to a corner table, set them down, and went to fetch breakfast like nothing had happened.

But Jace saw the tightness in his shoulders. The silence that wrapped around him. The way humiliation clung like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Jace’s jaw tightened, the coffee in his cup suddenly bitterer than before. He wanted to stand, cross the room, and put Pangborn in his place. Wanted to tell the laughing Shadowhunters to choke on their amusement.

But he didn’t.

He sat there, still as a blade sheathed, and watched Albert fold himself into the corner like furniture. Quiet. Invisible. Carrying the weight of it alone.

Clary shifted beside him, frowning. “That was cruel.”

“Typical Pangborn,” Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. “He’s been like that since we were kids. A bully who hides behind the family name.”

Alec sipped his coffee, unimpressed. “And the others laugh because it’s easier than standing out.”

Jace forced himself to look away, back to his siblings. “It shouldn’t be that easy,” he said, his voice sharper than he meant.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Izzy asked, tilting her head, her gaze cutting right through him.

For a second, Jace didn’t answer. The truth sat bitter in his chest: because stepping in would’ve made people notice. Would’ve drawn attention to Albert, to why Jace was even talking to him in the first place. Because last night, he’d already used the kid, and guilt was a heavier chain than pride.

Instead he shrugged, playing it off. “Because Pangborn’s not worth the breath.”

Alec raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe you’re losing your edge.”

Jace shot him a look, but Alec only returned it with calm, steady eyes. The kind of eyes that always saw more than Jace wanted him to.

Isabelle leaned back in her chair; her expression caught somewhere between disdain and thoughtfulness. “Still, I feel bad for him. Albert’s not exactly built for this life, is he? He’s smart, but…”

“…but brains don’t stop demons from tearing your throat out,” Alec finished.

Jace stayed quiet, his eyes straying back to the corner of the hall. Albert was moving mechanically through the breakfast line, loading his tray as though nothing had happened. But Jace could see the tight set of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders.

He told himself it wasn’t his problem. That he had bigger things to worry about. That he couldn’t afford to get tangled in something small when Clary’s rune could unravel everything.

But the truth clung to him like a burr he couldn’t shake: a few nights ago, he’d used Albert Nightstorm. And today, he’d watched him suffer for nothing.

And he hated himself for both.

Clary reached for his hand under the table, her thumb brushing his knuckles. “Jace, don’t get distracted. The rune is what matters. We need to figure out what it means before the Clave catches wind of it.”

He let her touch steady him, but his gaze drifted back to Albert anyway.

Izzy followed his line of sight and gave a low hum. “You feel bad for him.”

Jace’s head snapped around. “What?”

“You do,” she said, smirking, though her eyes were sharp. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen that look on your face before. You used to get it when you saw Simon struggling with a blade.”

“That was different,” Jace muttered.

“Was it?” Alec asked quietly. He leaned his elbows on the table, studying Jace like he was one of his bow targets. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks the same. You see someone weaker, someone the others dismiss, and you can’t help but notice. You can’t help but care.”

Jace bristled, swallowing back the instinct to argue. Caring was dangerous. Caring got people killed. But Alec’s words lodged in him all the same, in a place he couldn’t shake.

Across the hall, Albert sat alone, sliding into his corner seat with his tray. He opened one of the books as if burying himself in its pages could shield him from the rest of the room.

“Albert Nightstorm,” Isabelle said, twirling her fork. “Quiet. Awkward. Smarter than half the ops team combined. And no one gives him the time of day.”

“Except Pangborn, apparently,” Alec added dryly.

Jace’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to look away, to keep his expression even. “We don’t have time to play schoolyard politics. We’ve got bigger problems.”

Clary nodded firmly, missing the subtext between the Lightwood siblings. “Exactly. We need to go back to Magnus or maybe ask Luke if he’s ever seen anything like it. Someone must know.”

Isabelle’s eyes lingered on Jace a little too long before she said, “Maybe.”

Alec didn’t say anything, but Jace felt his brother’s gaze like the point of an arrow pressing between his shoulder blades.

He stared down at his plate, appetite gone. Because Alec and Izzy were right. He did care. He cared more than he wanted to admit. And it was already gnawing at him.

---------------------------------

The next morning, the dining hall buzzed with an energy that had nothing to do with the coffee or the bacon. Conversations hushed, then spiked into murmurs as Mars Pangborn pushed through the doors. His nose was swollen and stuffed with gauze, one eye purpled and puffed nearly shut. The swagger he usually carried was gone, replaced with an awkward stiffness as he marched toward the food line under the weight of countless staring eyes.

“Bloody hell,” Isabelle muttered under her breath, watching him with a mixture of delight and disgust. “Looks like someone finally taught him a lesson.”

“Yeah,” Alec said dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Question is—who?”

Whispers spread like wildfire.


Caught him outside training last night.

No, it was in the armory.

Saw him limping from there.

Bet it was someone from the Prague Institute. They hate him too.

Jace stayed quiet, spoon idly stirring his oatmeal though he hadn’t taken a single bite. Across the room, Mars caught his eye for a flicker of a moment, scowling darkly before dropping his gaze. Jace’s lips curved into a small, knowing smirk. He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny. He let the rumor grow roots of its own, settling back in his chair as though he were entirely uninvolved.

At the far corner, Albert sat rigidly at a small table, a book cracked open beside his tray of toast. He had been in mid-bite when Mars entered, and now the food lay forgotten. His eyes tracked the bully’s ruined face with stunned disbelief, then flicked away quickly, almost guiltily, as though afraid someone might catch him watching. Relief softened his expression for only a second before worry crept in—shoulders tight, fingers clenched around his cup. He kept his head down, but the slight twitch of his jaw betrayed the storm beneath the surface.

Clary tilted her head, studying Jace. “You seem… pleased about something.”

Jace only shrugged, finally lifting his spoon. “Breakfast is better when it’s quiet.”

Albert glanced once more at Mars, then toward Jace, as though some silent suspicion had crossed his mind. When Jace’s smirk lingered, Albert looked away sharply, eyes dropping to his plate. The truth hung in the air, unspoken, sharp as a blade left just out of sight.

Chapter Text

The dining hall was alive with chatter and the clatter of silverware against plates. Jace slipped in late, the smell of roasted lamb and garlic bread lingering in the air. He paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room out of habit. His eyes caught on Albert almost immediately.

The boy sat near the far wall, hunched slightly over his meal as though trying to make himself smaller, a book propped open beside his plate. He chewed methodically, gaze fixed downward. No one sat with him. No one even looked his way.

Jace lingered a moment longer than he intended, then forced his legs to move. He slid into a seat across from Alec and beside Clary, Isabelle already perched at the edge of the bench with a goblet of wine.

“Do either of you know much about Albert Nightstorm?” Jace asked casually, keeping his tone even.

Clary looked up mid-bite, an amused spark in her eyes. “Why? Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on him.”

Jace shot her a look, but she only smirked and returned to her plate.

Alec frowned, shaking his head. “Not really. He doesn’t talk to anyone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit at a table with other Shadowhunters. Always keeps to himself.”

“Yeah,” Isabelle added, twirling a fork between her fingers, “he’s smart, but… fragile, in a way. I mean, not physically, but emotionally. You can tell he’s used to being ignored or left out.”

Jace frowned, leaning back slightly, trying to reconcile the quiet, almost invisible figure with the careful skill he’d glimpsed before. “And… why is he alone? There’s gotta be a reason.”

Isabelle leaned in. “He’s… half-fey, half-Shadowhunter. Was raised in Faerie until he was ten. That alone makes him stand out—doesn’t really fit in fully anywhere. And his parents abandoned him after he received his first rune in Alicante. He was found wandering the streets by Jia Penhallow. No family, no guidance, no one really looking out for him.”

Clary’s teasing grin faded into something softer, but it was Izzy’s eyes that held the weight of the story. “I think he never really shook it. The feeling of being unwanted. I don’t blame him for keeping to himself. Honestly, I feel sorry for him.”

For a long moment, Jace said nothing, his gaze slipping back toward the lonely figure at the edge of the hall. Albert kept his head down, unaware—or pretending to be—of the stares that sometimes cut his way.

Jace forced his attention back to the table, breaking the silence with a dry, “Not exactly the story you’d put on a recruitment poster, is it?” But something in his voice lacked its usual sharpness, weighed down by a guilt he couldn’t quite shake.

Jace’s gaze, however, kept drifting back to Albert’s corner table. The boy’s shoulders were still tense, the way he hunched over his food protective, as if the world might try to snatch it from him at any moment. Every careful movement, every small ritual of keeping his books and tray in order, tugged at something in Jace he didn’t often allow himself to feel: a quiet pang of guilt.

Clary nudged him with her shoulder, smiling playfully, but her eyes studied him with a quiet curiosity. “Well, whoever he is… you seem awfully interested.”

---------------------------------

The training hall echoed with the sounds of clashing practice blades, the slap of boots on the sparring mats, and the sharp bark of Gregory Alderblack’s voice as he surveyed the Shadowhunters.

“Pair up!” Alderblack commanded, clapping his hands. “Let’s see who actually knows how to handle a blade and who’s just here to waste my time.”

The room shifted into motion. Jace turned instinctively to Clary, and she met his eyes with a smile, already moving toward him. Isabelle and Alec paired off, their movements sharp and fluid, a dance they had long since perfected. Around them, the rest of the group fell into place.

All except Albert.

He stood a little apart, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes scanning the room in growing desperation as pairs locked into place one by one. His hands hovered uncertainly near his practice blade, as though he could will someone to notice him, to choose him. But no one did.

Alderblack’s sharp laugh cut through the air. “Surprise, surprise. Nightstorm’s on his own again. I suppose no one wants dead weight slowing them down.”

The comment earned a ripple of cruel laughter from a handful of Shadowhunters. Albert’s face reddened, his jaw tightening as he looked down at the floor, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. His fingers trembled against the hilt of his blade, and the slump of his shoulders made him seem smaller, more fragile than ever.

Clary shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Jace. He was already glaring toward Alderblack, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

Then Clary’s eyes flicked back to the instructor, and she stepped forward, hand pressed against her stomach. “Gregory,” she said, voice just shy of a whine. “I’m not feeling well. Menstrual cramps. I think I need to sit out today.”

Alderblack looked instantly uncomfortable, as though she had spoken some forbidden language. He waved her off with a grimace. “Fine, go. Try not to faint on your way out.”

Clary gave a small nod and turned, but not before casting Jace a knowing look.

Jace’s lips curved into a faint smirk. He turned back toward Albert, whose eyes had widened in confusion as the pairings shifted. Jace strode over, spinning his blade easily in one hand before stopping in front of him.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Jace said lightly. “Try to keep up.”

Albert blinked, stunned. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might protest. Then, slowly, he nodded, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks as he raised his practice sword to match Jace’s stance.

---------------------------------

They took their places across from one another on the sparring mat. The other Shadowhunters had already begun, the air alive with the sound of clashing blades, but more than a few eyes slid toward Jace and Albert, curiosity piqued by the unusual pairing.

“Relax your shoulders,” Jace said, voice calm but firm. “You’re wound too tight. If you’re stiff, you’ll telegraph your every move.”

Albert swallowed hard, nodding as he loosened his stance. His hands were steady now, though the faint pink lingered on his cheeks.

Jace lunged first—quick, controlled, testing. Albert parried. It wasn’t perfect, but it was solid. Stronger than Jace expected.

“Not bad,” Jace muttered, circling him. He struck again, faster this time, his blade arcing toward Albert’s side. Albert twisted, blocked, and countered with surprising speed. Jace’s brows rose as their blades rang together, the impact echoing across the training hall.

Around them, sparring slowed. Curious eyes turned to watch.

Albert’s movements weren’t polished, but there was instinct there—fluidity born of something deeper than drills. A faint, fey grace in the way his body shifted, almost dancing around Jace’s attacks.

“Better,” Jace said, a note of genuine approval slipping into his voice. He pressed harder, feinting left before striking right. Albert stumbled, but recovered, blade snapping up just in time to block.

The laughter from earlier had gone quiet. Whispers spread among the watching Shadowhunters.

Jace grinned now, a flicker of pride mixing with surprise. He drove forward in a flurry of blows, testing the boy’s limits. Albert faltered once, twice—but he didn’t break. Instead, he adapted, his reflexes sharper with each exchange. And then, when Jace overextended by a hair, Albert caught the opening and drove his blade forward, tapping Jace’s chest with the flat of it.

Gasps rippled through the room.

Albert froze, wide-eyed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done. His blade lowered, hands trembling again—but this time from adrenaline, not fear.

Jace only chuckled, stepping back. “Not bad at all,” he said, voice pitched loud enough for everyone to hear. “I told you before, with a left hook, you’d be unstoppable.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Albert’s lips. For once, no one was laughing at him.

Even Alderblack, pacing at the sidelines, looked taken aback—his usual smugness cut with a flicker of annoyance he didn’t bother to hide.

Jace rolled his shoulders, spinning his blade before lowering it. “We’ll keep working on it,” he told Albert, softer this time. “You’ve got more in you than they think.”

Albert nodded mutely, face flushed but glowing with a pride he hadn’t felt in a long time. He lowered his blade and stepped back, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. For a heartbeat, he looked lost, uncertain what to do with the sudden eyes on him. Then something shifted. He straightened his shoulders, the tremor leaving his hands as he slid the practice sword into its rack.

He walked off the mat slowly, deliberately, not rushing to vanish into the background this time. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips—small, almost invisible, but enough to transform him.

The room wasn’t laughing anymore. Instead, Shadowhunters who had smirked at Alderblack’s jab now watched him with thinly veiled curiosity, even a flicker of respect. Whispers started again, not cruel this time, but surprised.

Did you see that?
Nightstorm held his own against Jace Herondale.
He’s better than anyone thought…

Jace sheathed his blade, rolling his shoulders as if it had all been just another sparring match. But his gaze followed Albert as he crossed the hall, tray and books waiting where he’d left them.

For once, the boy didn’t shrink. He walked taller, the lightness in his step impossible to miss.

Jace caught Clary watching from the doorway, a knowing smile playing on her lips. He looked away quickly, jaw tightening as if to mask the warmth that threatened to rise in his chest

---------------------------------

The dining hall was quieter than usual that evening, the long tables half-filled with Shadowhunters returning late from patrol. Jace walked in alongside Clary, Alec, and Isabelle, the familiar hum of clinking plates and low conversation surrounding them.

As his eyes swept the room, they landed on the corner table. Albert was there, as always, tray set neatly before him, a book opened at his side. But tonight, the difference was subtle—and impossible to miss.

Two younger Shadowhunters had entered just after him, their trays in hand. They hesitated as they passed his corner, glancing at him, then at each other. Normally, they would have walked on without a thought, but instead they slowed, as though considering. One even shifted his tray slightly, angling toward the empty space beside Albert.

Albert noticed. His eyes lifted from his book for the briefest moment, catching the motion. But the moment stretched too long, and the two Shadowhunters lost their nerve, veering off to another table.

Albert’s face didn’t falter, but his hands lingered on the edge of his book as if steadying himself. Still, there was something different in the way he returned to eating—less of the hunched, guarded posture Jace had grown used to. He sat taller, shoulders looser, as though carrying less weight.

From across the hall, Jace found himself watching, arms folded loosely across his chest. For the first time, he didn’t just see the solitary boy in the corner. He saw someone who had begun to carve space for himself, however small, in a world that had never welcomed him.

Clary leaned close, her voice pitched just for Jace. “You notice it too, don’t you?”

Jace didn’t answer. He only smirked faintly, though the expression didn’t quite mask the thoughtfulness in his eyes.

 

Chapter Text

The Institute’s hallways were quiet at night, lit only by the glow of witchlight sconces casting pale shadows along the stone walls. Jace and Clary walked side by side, voices hushed, their laughter carrying softly in the empty corridor.

“You’re terrible at pretending you don’t like my sketches,” Clary teased, nudging him.

“I never said I didn’t like them,” Jace countered, smirking. “I said one looked like a demon had sneezed on the page.”

Clary laughed, and before either of them could think better of it, he caught her by the waist and pulled her against him. Their lips met in the hallway, soft at first, then more insistent. Clary’s hands slid up his chest, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them.

Until the sound broke it—the harsh scrape of voices, a muffled plea, the thud of books hitting the floor.

Clary pulled back, frowning. Jace stiffened immediately, hand already reaching for a blade out of instinct. They followed the noise around the corner.

Three Shadowhunters stood in a half-circle, their posture predatory. Albert was backed against the wall, clutching two books to his chest while the rest of his scattered pages lay on the floor. His face was pale, eyes darting between them, voice trembling as he said, “I said no. I won’t do your research. Please—just leave me alone.”

“Come on, Nightstorm,” one sneered, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re good with records, right? Do our research for us. You don’t have anything better to do.”

“Leave him alone.” Jace’s voice rang down the hall, cold and dangerous.

The three turned, expressions faltering when they saw him standing there, Clary just behind his shoulder.

One tried to recover with a sneer. “We’re just having fun. You don’t have to—”

Jace stepped forward. His eyes narrowed, his voice dropped low. “If you don’t walk away right now, I’ll break your arm and call it training.”

Silence dropped like a blade. The leader’s smirk faltered, and after a tense beat, the three muttered under their breath and slunk off, their bravado evaporating in Jace’s shadow.

Albert stood frozen, his back still pressed to the wall, books clutched to his chest as if they were a shield. His hands trembled slightly, but his chin was lifted, his pride refusing to let him crumble completely in front of them.

Clary stepped forward gently. “Albert, are you okay?”

He nodded quickly, though the motion was jerky, unconvincing. “I—I’m fine.”

Jace tilted his head, studying him. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Albert’s eyes flicked up to his, then away just as fast. “No… thank you. That’s okay. I can manage,” he said softly, his voice polite but firm. Hugging his books tighter, he bent to gather the rest of his papers and slipped past them, footsteps echoing faintly as he disappeared down the hall.

Jace stood there, jaw tight, watching him disappear into the shadows.

---------------------------------

Back in their room, Jace paced near the window, the moonlight casting sharp lines across his face. His jacket was still half on, his hands shoved into the pockets as if to hold in the restless energy coiled beneath his skin.

Clary sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, watching him with quiet patience. She didn’t push right away—she knew better than to try to pry Jace open before he was ready. But the silence stretched, heavy and taut, until she finally spoke.

“You’re still thinking about him.”

Jace stopped pacing but didn’t turn. His jaw worked before he said, “He wouldn’t even let me walk him back. He was shaking, Clary. Like—like he thought letting anyone close was more dangerous than facing those idiots.”

Clary’s voice softened. “Maybe for him, it is.”

That made him turn, frustration flashing in his eyes. “It shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t have to live like that. He’s—he’s one of us.”

She tilted her head. “You sound like you care.”

The words hit harder than she meant them to. Jace looked away, crossing his arms tightly. “I don’t… It’s not that.” He hesitated, the memory of Albert pressed against the wall filling his mind again—small, cornered, but refusing to break even when mocked and threatened. “I just hate bullies. I’ve seen what they do. And he’s already had more than enough of that.”

Clary rose, crossing to him and laying a hand gently against his arm. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe this isn’t about the bullies, Jace. Maybe it’s about him. And maybe he’s not ready to let anyone in—not even you.”

He didn’t answer. The restless coil inside him didn’t ease, but he let her guide him back toward the bed. As she settled beside him, her presence grounding, Jace’s eyes drifted toward the door, as if half-expecting Albert to walk in.

But the hallway remained silent.

And for reasons he didn’t dare admit, that silence felt heavier than anything else.

---------------------------------

The dining hall buzzed with the usual clatter of plates and the low murmur of early conversations. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, spilling pale gold across the long wooden tables. Jace paused in the doorway, scanning the room.

There—Albert. Sitting at the far end of a table, shoulders hunched slightly inward as he picked at toast, a book propped open beside his plate. Alone again.

Jace hesitated. He could already feel the weight of eyes around the hall, the hum of idle chatter. But then he squared his shoulders, grabbed a plate, and walked straight to Albert’s table.

Albert looked up, startled, when Jace slid onto the bench across from him. His golden hair caught the light like a banner announcing his presence, and heads began to turn. Albert blinked, uncertain.

“Mind if I sit?” Jace asked casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Albert’s surprise flickered into something unreadable. After a moment, he gave a small nod. “Sure.”

The whispers started almost immediately—hushed voices carrying across the room. Jace Herondale? Sitting with him?

At a nearby table, Alec frowned, glancing between the two. “What is he doing?” he muttered.

Izzy leaned in, eyes alight with curiosity. “He just sat with Albert Nightstorm. No one ever sits with him.”

Clary’s lips curved into a proud smile, her gaze lingering on Jace. “Good,” she said softly.

“Should we go over?” Izzy asked, already half-rising.

But Clary touched her arm, shaking her head. “Not yet. Let him… let Albert have this moment without us overwhelming him.”

---------------------------------

The clatter of cutlery and quiet hum of conversation surrounded them, but at Albert’s corner table, a small bubble of awkward silence hung between him and Jace. Albert kept his eyes on his plate at first, unsure how to start, while Jace leaned back slightly, arms crossed casually but eyes attentive.

After a moment, Jace tilted his head. “So… what are you reading?”

Albert glanced down at the open book. “Oh, uh… it’s about demons. Thirteen of the different demon realms.” His voice was hesitant, as though he expected Jace to scoff or get bored halfway through.

Jace raised an eyebrow, trying not to let his interest show too quickly. “Thirteen realms? Sounds… intense.”

Albert’s expression brightened slightly as he warmed to the topic, the words flowing faster now. “Yeah, so each realm is ruled by a Prince of Hell. Tartarus is ruled by Lucifer, Edom by Asmodeus, Gehenna by Moloch, Moab by Astaroth, Ammon by Azazel, Sheol by Belial and Ishtar, Abaddon by Beelzebub and Arachne, Canaan by Belphegor, Erebus by Sammael and Lilith, Laestrygon by Mammon, Hyperborea by Leviathan, Diyu by Yanluo, and Nod by Chernobog.”

Jace’s eyes widened just slightly, leaning forward. “That’s… a lot. That’s interesting.”

Albert blinked, surprised. “It… it is? I thought it’d be boring.” He tucked a strand of hair behind his pointed ear. “I… I think this is probably why thirteen is considered unlucky. Because there’s… one ruler for each realm, and each one is—well, powerful, dangerous, and unpredictable.”

Jace nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I can see that. Makes sense.”

Albert hesitated, glancing at him. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble. Most people think this is boring.”

Jace shook his head, still smiling. “No, it’s good. Actually… fascinating, even. You’ve done your research.”

Albert’s shoulders relaxed, a subtle warmth creeping into his cheeks. “Thanks,” he murmured. “I… I just like understanding things. The rules, the power structure… it helps me make sense of it all.”

Jace leaned back, resting an elbow on the table. “I get that. And honestly… it’s nice seeing someone actually care about the details. You explain it well.”

Albert’s eyes met his for a long moment, then dropped back to the book. But the slight upturn of his lips betrayed the quiet pride he felt. For once, someone wasn’t dismissing him, wasn’t laughing at him.

Jace leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the table, eyes fixed on Albert with an intensity that made the boy shift nervously. “So, these Princes,” he said, tapping his finger on the table, “are they all like… ruler-types, or more chaotic?”

Albert blinked, surprised by the question, and then nodded, gaining confidence as he began to explain. “Most of them are… strategic. They govern their realms with rules, though those rules are… flexible. Tartarus, Lucifer—he’s meticulous. Edom, Asmodeus—more manipulative. Gehenna, Moloch—that one’s brute force. Moab, Astaroth… he’s clever, likes to trick mortals into bargains.”

Jace raised an eyebrow. “So, basically, some of them play chess while others just smash the board.”

Albert let out a quiet chuckle, the sound unfamiliar even to him. “Exactly. That’s… actually not a bad way to put it.”

“And the rest?” Jace prompted, leaning forward, clearly enjoying this more than he expected.

Albert warmed to it, gesturing with his hands as he listed the others. “Ammon, Azazel—he’s cunning, often invisible to mortals. Sheol… Belial and Ishtar—they’re unpredictable. Abaddon, Beelzebub and Arachne… they share rulership, which makes things complicated. Canaan… Belphegor, he’s lazy but dangerous if provoked. Erebus… Sammael and Lilith, very… manipulative. Laestrygon… Mammon, obsessed with greed. Hyperborea… Leviathan, raw chaos. Diyu… Yanluo, justly terrifying. Nod… Chernobog, all darkness.”

Jace whistled low. “That’s… a lot. Makes you wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere near those realms.”

Albert’s lips twitched upward, amused despite himself. “Yeah… mortal neighborhoods would be quieter.”

Jace grinned. “I like your sense of humor. Dark, but clever. Fits the subject.”

Albert flushed slightly, glancing down at his plate. “Thanks… I guess.”

Jace leaned back, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You know… I think understanding this stuff actually helps. Not just for fighting demons, but for… recognizing patterns, predicting behavior. Makes you smarter. More dangerous.”

Albert looked up, meeting his gaze. “You… actually think about this?”

“Of course,” Jace said lightly. “Everything’s connected. Everything has a pattern. Even thirteen… unlucky because of all the Princes together. Makes sense.”

Albert smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that felt small but honest. “I… never thought anyone would care about the details like this.”

Jace shrugged, leaning back with a faint smirk. “Well… you’d be surprised. Some of us do.”

Chapter Text

The dining hall buzzed with the usual evening chatter—laughter echoing from one table, the scrape of cutlery against plates, the hum of routine. As always, Albert sat alone near the edge, his tray balanced carefully beside a book he’d propped open. The flickering overhead lights cast a faint glow over the page: a full-color reproduction of The Two Fridas.

Clary, walking in with Jace, Isabelle, and Alec, slowed as her eyes landed on him. Without a word, she veered from their path and crossed the room. Whispers immediately started up, the ripple of curiosity spreading across the hall. Jace arched a brow, Izzy smirked knowingly, and Alec just frowned as if bracing himself for whatever Clary was about to do.

“Hey,” Clary said warmly, sliding her tray down onto the table across from Albert.

Albert’s head shot up, his eyes wide behind his fringe of dark hair. “Oh—hi. I didn’t think…” He glanced around nervously at the whispers. “I didn’t think anyone would…”

Clary smiled and gestured toward the open book. “Frida Kahlo? She’s my favorite artist.”

Albert blinked, surprised, then closed the book partway, showing the cover. “She’s my favorite too. I like how… she painted herself honestly. Not what people wanted to see, but what she felt.”

Clary’s eyes softened. “Exactly. That’s what I’ve always loved about her. She painted pain, and strength, and… truth. Even when it was uncomfortable.”

Albert nodded quickly, his voice low but certain. “And the way she uses color. It’s not just decoration—it’s… meaning. Every shade has a purpose.”

Clary leaned in slightly, her expression animated. “That’s how I feel about Monet. He used light like no one else. It wasn’t just scenery—it was emotion. Same with Rembrandt. It’s like he sees people’s souls. I’ve always thought he painted more than just faces. He painted… truth. And Michelangelo? Don’t even get me started on the Sistine Chapel.”

Albert’s lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. “I like Monet too. And Dali, for the surrealism. He painted dreams, or maybe nightmares, but… you couldn’t look away. He made people uncomfortable, but he didn’t care. That’s… kind of inspiring.”

Clary tilted her head, her expression soft. “I think so too. Sometimes being different is the best thing about you.”

For a moment, Albert just looked at her, as though he couldn’t quite believe she meant it. Then he dropped his gaze, the smile lingering, small but genuine.

She leaned forward slightly, curiosity brimming. “Do you like to draw or paint?”

Albert ducked his head. “I… both, actually. My room’s perfect for it—it gets a lot of sunlight during the day, and the moonlight streams in at night. I never run out of light.”

Clary grinned. “That sounds perfect. What do you usually draw or paint?”

Albert’s gaze drifted, as though caught in thought. “Mostly Greek mythology. And… biblical stories, especially from the antediluvian period.”

“Before the flood?” Clary asked.

He nodded. “Yes. There’s so much we don’t know. Whole ages lost to time. That means your imagination can run wild. You can fill the gaps with anything—monsters, heroes, angels. A whole world left to interpret.”

Clary tilted her head; her expression caught between fascination and admiration. “That’s… honestly amazing. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

Albert looked down at his plate, ears pink. “Maybe… someday.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the quiet hum of the hall. Then Clary leaned forward conspiratorially. “So… Jace and I are going out tonight. Hunting Methuselah demons. Ever faced them?”

Albert’s fork clinked against his plate as he stiffened. “I… no. Not directly.”

Clary’s tone was teasing but kind. “Then tonight’s your chance. Come with us.”

Albert’s eyes widened. “Me? I don’t think—”

“Yes,” Clary cut in, firm but encouraging. “You know more about demons than half the people in this room. That knowledge matters. And Jace—well, he’s the best there is. You’ll be fine.”

Albert hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. His heart hammered, half with nerves, half with the strange thrill of being invited at all. “I… suppose I could.”

Clary grinned and tapped his book lightly. “Good. Then it’s settled. After all… Frida wouldn’t back down from a fight, right?”

For the first time in a long while, Albert laughed softly, shaking his head. “No… she wouldn’t.”

Clary leaned back, satisfied. Around them, whispers stirred once more, but neither she nor Albert seemed to notice.

---------------------------------

The armory was quiet at this hour, its stone walls lined with racks of blades, axes, and bows. The metallic tang of sharpened steel mixed with the faint scent of oiled leather. Clary moved confidently between the racks, pulling a seraph blade and checking its edge with a practiced eye. Jace, already geared up, leaned against a table with his arms crossed, watching Albert with a mixture of patience and curiosity.

Albert stood stiffly near the weapons rack, his hand hovering uncertainly between a short sword and a dagger. His fingers finally closed around the dagger’s hilt, but the way he gripped it was all wrong—too tight, angled awkwardly, more like someone expecting the weapon to betray them.

Before he could adjust, Jace pushed off the table and stepped behind him. “Not like that,” he murmured, reaching over Albert’s shoulder. His hand slid lightly along Albert’s wrist, correcting the angle, shifting his grip. “If you hold it like you’re strangling it, you’ll lose flexibility. Loosen up. Let the weapon move with you.”

Albert froze at the sudden closeness, his face heating. He swallowed hard and nodded, adjusting his stance as Jace guided his hand. “L-like this?”

“Better,” Jace said, his voice steady, low. “But keep your elbow tucked in. You’ll get more control that way.”

Albert obeyed, trying to focus on the weapon and not on the warmth of Jace’s hand still steadying his own. He managed a small nod, though his cheeks burned. “I… I see.”

Across the room, Clary leaned casually against a table, her seraph blade in hand, watching with unmistakable amusement. She raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at her lips as she took in Albert’s flushed face and Jace’s calm, deliberate instruction.

“Careful, Jace,” she teased lightly, her tone warm rather than sharp. “You’ll make him think you’re a better teacher than fighter.”

Jace shot her a quick smirk over his shoulder before stepping back from Albert, leaving him standing a little straighter, dagger held properly now. “I can do both,” he said simply, his golden eyes glinting.

Albert glanced between them, still red but managing to keep his grip steady. For the first time, holding the blade didn’t feel quite so impossible. And though the whispers of self-doubt still tugged at him, a spark of confidence flickered to life.

Clary sheathed her blade with a snap and pushed off the table. “Alright. Ready to make some Methuselah demons regret their life choices?”

Albert tightened his grip, swallowed his nerves, and gave the faintest of nods. “Ready.”

Jace smirked faintly, watching him. “We’ll see.”

---------------------------------

The night air outside the Institute was brisk, the city’s glow muted as the three Shadowhunters slipped through the streets and into the stillness of Greenwood Cemetery. The moon hung low, its pale light cutting across the rows of tombstones. Shadows stretched long and twisted, the silence broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl and the soft hum of wards buzzing faintly at the edge of their senses. Albert kept close behind Jace and Clary, his weapon sheathed at his side, his nerves flickering in the way his hand twitched against the hilt.

“You’re walking like you expect the pavement to bite you,” Jace remarked without looking back, his tone deliberately light.

Albert flushed. “I’ve just… never done this with anyone before.”

“Good,” Clary said, glancing at him over her shoulder with a teasing grin. “Means you’re not jaded yet. Unlike Jace.”

Jace smirked. “Harsh, but fair.”

The cemetery loomed ahead, shadows stretching across the gravel paths, gravestones jutting like crooked teeth out of the fog. They reached a fork in the road—two paths stretching into the darkness. At a fork in the path, Clary slowed. “Left or right?” she murmured.

“Right,” Albert said quickly.

Jace tilted his head. “Why right?”

Albert hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s… a hunch.”

Jace raised a brow but didn’t argue. “Guess we’ll see if your hunches are worth anything.” He started down the right-hand trail, Clary following close. Albert trailed after, pulse quickening.

They hadn’t gone far before the ground trembled beneath them. A low, guttural roar echoed through the night, and then the shadows erupted—Methuselah demons, twisted, skeletal things with slick tentacles lashing from their torsos.

The three turned down the shadowed path, weaving between mausoleums draped in ivy. The air grew colder, heavier, and the faint hum of magic stirred. Then the first Methuselah demon lurched from the shadows—its skeletal frame cloaked in rotting flesh, tendrils writhing where arms should have been.

“Here we go,” Jace muttered, drawing his seraph blade.

The fight was brutal, the demons relentless. Jace and Clary cut through the first wave with practiced precision, their blades flashing under the moonlight. Albert fought more defensively, but to their surprise, his movements were sharper than expected—his knowledge of demon anatomy translating into precise strikes. He dodged, parried, and landed a clean blow that severed a demon’s tendril in one motion.

“Not bad!” Jace called, genuinely impressed.

Albert, flushed and breathing hard, only nodded, too focused to answer.

But then the ground trembled. A larger Methuselah demon, twice the size of the others, crawled from behind a mausoleum. Its bulk dwarfed the gravestones as it lunged. Albert raised his dagger, but the force of the attack sent him flying backward, crashing into the ground with a groan.

“Albert!” Clary shouted, distracted.

That moment of hesitation was all the demon needed. Its massive tendrils lashed out, wrapping around Jace and Clary’s throats. It lifted them into the air effortlessly, squeezing, the sound of their strangled gasps filling the night. Their blades clattered uselessly against the demon’s hide as its grip tightened.

Albert groaned, forcing himself upright. His eyes blurred, but through the haze he saw Jace and Clary—helpless, struggling, their blades scraping uselessly at the tentacles tightening around their necks. Panic surged through him—something inside him snapped.

He slammed his hands hard onto the ground. A column of fire shot upward, roaring like a living thing. It surged straight toward the demon, engulfing its body in flames. The creature howled, its tentacles loosening as it writhed in agony, dropping Jace and Clary back to the ground.

Jace seized the moment, throwing himself at the demon, driving his seraph blade through its chest and sending it back to Hell with a final, echoing shriek.

He turned back to Albert, wide-eyed, while Clary’s mouth fell open. “Albert… how—what—”

But before she could finish, Albert’s eyes darted to theirs—fear, shame, and something else flickering there. Without a word, he turned and bolted into the maze of tombstones.

“Albert, wait!” Jace called after him, his voice cutting through the night. But the boy was gone, swallowed by the mist and shadows.

Only the faint smell of smoke lingered, hanging over the graves like a secret too heavy to be spoken.

Chapter Text

The dining hall buzzed with whispers, all of them circling back to one name: Albert Nightstorm. Conversations hushed whenever Jace, Clary, Alec, or Isabelle walked past. At their table, the four of them tried to eat in silence, but the tension was impossible to ignore.

“Are you sure there wasn’t a rune?” Isabelle asked, lowering her voice but still leaning in. Her eyes flicked between Jace and Clary.

Jace frowned, rubbing his neck where the demon’s tentacles had left deep bruises. “Positive. No rune. Just… fire.”

Clary nodded. “It was raw. Like something out of him, not from an angel mark.”

Alec’s expression darkened. “And he hasn’t left his room since?”

Jace’s jaw clenched. He pushed his plate aside. “Maybe I pushed him too hard. Maybe he wasn’t ready—”

Clary touched his hand gently. “Jace, don’t blame yourself. He saved us. Whatever’s going on, it’s bigger than you or me.”

Before Jace could reply, the sound of heels echoed through the dining hall. Maryse Lightwood entered, trailed by Consul Jia Penhallow. The air seemed to tighten as Shadowhunters across the room stood straighter, quieting their whispers.

Maryse spoke crisply, “The Clave is aware of the escalating demon attacks in New York. Measures are being taken. Consul Penhallow is here to oversee the initial investigation.”

Jia scanned the room with an unreadable expression. “We’ll uncover the truth. You all must remain vigilant.”

As Jia prepared to leave, Jace stood quickly. “Consul Penhallow—wait.”

Jia paused, tilting her head.

“Could we talk… privately?” Jace asked.

A shadow flickered across her face, but she nodded once. “My office.”

---------------------------------

Inside, the door clicked shut behind them. The office was hushed, the smell of parchment and steel heavy in the air. Jia moved behind the desk, her posture stiff. “What is it you wish to discuss, Jace?”

Jace didn’t waste time. “Albert Nightstorm. Tell me about him.”

For the first time, her stoic mask faltered. The smallest flicker of sadness crossed her face. She sat slowly, folding her hands atop the desk. “Albert Nightstorm’s story isn’t an easy one.”

Jace leaned forward. “Then tell me.”

Jia inhaled slowly. “The Nightstorm line is known for their minds. Scholars, archivists, historians. The Nightstorm family prized knowledge above all else and made many contributions to the Nephilim. They are brilliant, yes—but rigid. They clung to purity. No mixing blood with Downworlders, no matter what. All of them followed this rule.” Her voice softened. “All but one. Ambrose Nightstorm.”

Jace stayed quiet, his chest tight.

“He was sent on a mission to the Seelie Court,” Jia continued. “There, he met Urania, favored sister of the Seelie Queen. They fell in love. And eventually, they had a child—Albert. Named after St. Albert the Great. They lived happily in Faerie for a while.”

Jace felt his stomach twist.

“When he was ten, Ambrose and Urania brought him to Alicante to receive his first rune. I remember him—small, bright-eyed, clutching his father’s hand. But that same night… they vanished. No note. No trace. Just gone.”

Jace’s fists clenched. “They left him?”

Jia’s eyes lowered. “I found him wandering the streets. Crying, asking for his mother and father. So I took his hand, and we went to Ambrose’s eight siblings, one by one. But every door closed. They saw only a mongrel child, not family. They slammed the doors in his face. I watched that child’s hope die a little with every rejection.”

Silence pressed in around them.

“After that, he was sent from Institute to Institute—Tokyo, St. Petersburg, Berlin, Copenhagen, Oslo. The Clave thought he would have stability, but he never lasted long anywhere. No one wanted to keep him. And I…” Her voice softened with guilt. “I pitied him. I still do.”

“Why didn’t you take him in?” Jace asked.

Her eyes flickered with guilt. Jia looked up, guilt flickering in her gaze. “I don’t know. Perhaps I feared what others would say. Perhaps I was weak. It is my greatest regret. Aline reminds me often.”

Silence fell.

Finally, Jia added, softer now, “I tried to help in my own way. Large rooms with light, so he could paint and draw. I recommended Institutes with large libraries, so he could lose himself in books. But it was never enough. Nothing ever is, for a child who has been abandoned so many times. And yet… he survived. He’s stronger than most give him credit for.”

Jace exhaled slowly, absorbing the weight of Albert’s childhood, the neglect, the isolation. The firepower he had unleashed earlier suddenly made sense in a new, painful light.

---------------------------------

Jace left Jia’s office with the story still heavy on his shoulders. Every detail pressed into his mind: the child wandering Alicante’s streets, the doors slamming one after another, the loneliness stitched into Albert’s life. When he returned to the dining hall, Clary, Alec, and Isabelle were still waiting. They looked up immediately, reading the gravity in his face.

“Well?” Alec asked quietly.

Jace sat down, folding his arms on the table. He told them everything Jia had said—the Nightstorm obsession with purity, Ambrose’s forbidden love for Urania, Albert’s abandonment, the slammed doors, the years spent drifting from Institute to Institute. By the time he finished, silence hung between them, broken only by the faint clatter of cutlery in the distance.

“That,” Isabelle finally said, her voice hushed, “is the saddest story I’ve ever heard.” She shook her head, dark hair brushing her shoulders. “No wonder he doesn’t trust anyone.”

Clary’s lips pressed together. “No wonder he hides. He’s been abandoned by everyone who should have cared for him.”

“So what do we do?” Alec asked, folding his arms.

“I’ll talk to him,” Isabelle said, her eyes lighting up with determination. “I can be very persuasive when it comes to men.” A sly smile tugged at her mouth.

Jace arched a brow. “I’m not sure persuasion of the seductive kind is going to work. Honestly, I don’t think Albert even likes girls.”

“Then you go,” Izzy shot back. “You’re the hottest Shadowhunter alive. If anyone can break down those walls, it’s you.”

Clary smirked, leaning into Jace’s shoulder. “She’s not wrong.”

Jace rolled his eyes, the faintest pink touching his ears.

Meanwhile, Alec’s phone buzzed under the table. He glanced down, fingers moving quickly over the screen. “I think Magnus might be the better place to start. Clary and I can go to him, see what he knows about Albert’s power.”

Jace exhaled slowly, resolve hardening. “Fine. You two talk to Magnus. I’ll go to Albert.”

“I’ll come too,” Isabelle added with a toss of her hair. “Maybe he does like girls. Or both. Either way, he’s not going to turn both of us away.”

Jace shot her a look equal parts irritation and amusement. “This isn’t a competition, Izzy.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she said sweetly, already rising from her chair. “But if it were, I’d win.”

Chapter Text

Alec and Clary stepped into Magnus Bane’s penthouse, the scent of bergamot and something darker—earthier—already drifting through the air. The warlock, clad in a gold-embroidered emerald robe, greeted them with a bright smile.

“My darlings,” Magnus said, sweeping forward. Alec leaned in and met his kiss, lingering just long enough to draw a teasing smirk from the warlock. Behind him, a low table was already set with gleaming porcelain and platters of neatly cut sandwiches: smoked salmon with dill, tomato and cucumber, chicken salad with tarragon, tuna salad with capers.

“I’m brewing an enchanted forest black tea,” Magnus announced with a flourish, moving toward the pot that steamed gently on the sideboard. “Ripe forest fruits of raspberry, strawberry and blueberry, a rich creamy vanilla. Quite possibly the most divine thing to touch your tongue.”

Just then, the sound of light footsteps came from the kitchen. Tessa Gray appeared, balancing a tray of blackberry scones still warm from the oven. A small crock of maple butter gleamed beside them.

Clary blinked in surprise. “Tessa?”

“Hello, Clary,” Tessa said warmly, her gray eyes crinkling at the corners. She set the tray down with practiced grace. “Magnus and I keep up a tradition every Wednesday. Afternoon tea. Will loved the ritual when he was alive, and I suppose I’ve never let go of it. Besides, he makes good company.” She shot Magnus a knowing smile.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, darling,” Magnus replied. Then, more seriously, he added, “But Tessa is here today not only for scones and nostalgia. You know she’s half-Shadowhunter, half-warlock. She knows what it means to exist between worlds—something Albert Nightstorm may understand better than anyone.”

Clary and Alec exchanged quick glances before settling around the table. As Magnus began to pour the shimmering black tea into cups, he tilted his head. “Now. You mentioned wanting to speak with me about Albert Nightstorm. All I know is that he’s half-Seelie, half-Nephilim. Curious combination. Alec mentioned some kind of power. What did he do?”

Clary hesitated, then leaned forward. “He made fire. Real fire. Without a rune. It just… happened. He slammed his hands on the ground, and it came pouring out.”

The teapot halted midair. For a heartbeat, Magnus didn’t move, the golden stream of tea hanging in a suspended ribbon as if the world itself had paused. Slowly, he set the pot back onto the tray, his catlike eyes narrowing.

He turned his gaze to Tessa.

She was already staring at him, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the faintest flicker of alarm crossing her otherwise calm face.

Tessa’s brows knit together, her gray eyes keen. “You said he’s half-Faerie?”

“Yes,” Clary said quickly. “His mother was Urania, the Seelie Queen’s sister. At least… that’s what Consul Penhallow told Jace.”

Tessa exhaled. “Fey magic is not like warlock magic. It doesn’t come from demons, nor is it shaped the way runes are. It’s older. Wilder. Just as powerful—perhaps more. And barely understood. The Fair Folk are the oldest of the Downworlders. Older than Nephilim themselves. Some stories even say it was they who endowed Eve with Seelie beauty in the Garden.”

Magnus leaned back, steepling his fingers. “If that’s true, then Nephilim blood combined with Seelie blood…” His eyes glittered with equal parts curiosity and unease. “It could lead to very unusual manifestations. Things that don’t fit into the neat categories of rune or spell.”

Alec’s voice was careful. “Do you think Albert knew? About his power?”

Magnus and Tessa exchanged a glance before both nodded.

“Yes,” Magnus said. “He knows. That kind of fear doesn’t come from ignorance. It comes from a secret you’d rather die than expose.”

Tessa’s voice was gentler. “His isolation wasn’t just from others. It was from himself. Imagine what it does to a soul, hiding a truth like that for so long.”

---------------------------------

The corridor outside Albert’s room was hushed, the air carrying the faint echo of someone pacing inside. Izzy balanced a tray of food carefully in her hands—roast chicken, rice pilaf, and a small bowl of fruit. “I made sure it’s his favorite,” she whispered to Jace. “If food won’t get him to open the door, nothing will.”

They stopped before the heavy wooden door. From within came the faint scrape of a chair leg, then silence. Izzy arched a brow at Jace. He hesitated, then raised his hand and knocked.

Jace took a breath and stepped forward, rapping his knuckles lightly against the door. “Albert?” he called. No answer. He tried again, louder. “It’s Jace. Izzy’s with me. We just want to talk.”

Silence. Izzy shifted the tray in her hands, her expression softening.

Jace’s voice dropped, quiet but steady. “Jia told me everything,” he said through the door. “About your parents. About Alicante. About the doors slammed in your face. I’m so sorry you went through that.” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I know what it’s like… not to have parents.”

There was still no sound from the other side, but Jace pressed his palm to the wood, as if the gesture might bridge the distance. “My father died in a raid on a vampire nest before I was born,” he said, his tone low, stripped of its usual bravado. “And my mother… she couldn’t handle it. She slit her wrists. I never even got to know her. I grew up thinking that was just… normal. Losing them before you even had them.”

The silence lingered. Izzy shifted the tray in her hands, then stepped forward, her voice gentler than usual. “Albert, you don’t have to stay locked up forever. There are people who care about you. Who want to be your friends. Jace. Me. Clary. Magnus. Simon. Alec.” Her lips quirked into a grin. “Well… maybe Alec a little less. But he’s very loyal once he warms up.”

The faintest sound came from inside—something like a stifled laugh or a sharp breath. Izzy glanced at Jace, her dark eyes hopeful.

“Just open the door,” Jace said softly. “We’re not here to judge you. We just… don’t want you to be alone anymore.”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then came the faint click of a lock turning. The door creaked open just a sliver, enough for Jace and Izzy to exchange a glance. Without hesitation, Jace pushed it wider, and they both stepped inside.

The sight before them rooted them in place.

Albert sat cross-legged on the floor; his arms wrapped tightly around his chest as though holding himself together. But it wasn’t Albert that left them breathless.

Three canvases floated in midair, each alive with color and motion, as though invisible hands guided them. Brushes dipped themselves into paint, pencils traced deliberate lines, strokes of oil glistened under the room’s soft light.

The first canvas showed a luminous angel, wings blazing, plummeting through storm-tossed skies—falling, yet beautiful in descent.

On the second was a woman with long brown hair, her figure luminous even in suffering, chained to a jagged rock as waves thundered around her. The sorrow in her eyes reached across the canvas like a hand.

The third was the most striking: a wrathful angel with a flaming sword, driving a man and woman from a paradise of light and green. The couple’s faces were etched with loss, shame, and a haunting echo of humanity.

Color and movement danced in the air, the symphony of brushes and pencils creating art no mundane or Nephilim had ever seen.

Jace and Izzy stepped forward cautiously, reverence settling over them like a hush in a cathedral. Izzy’s mouth parted in awe. “By the Angel…” she whispered.

Jace tilted his head. “These… powers… when did they start manifesting?”

Albert paused, then said, “When I was thirteen. I started noticing things happening around me that I didn’t understand. Small things… objects moving, sometimes visions.”

“Do you spend a lot of time alone trying to research or control them?” Izzy asked gently.

Albert nodded. “I try. I read everything I can about magic, both faerie and Nephilim. It’s easier when no one is around. Fewer mistakes, fewer questions.”

Jace hesitated, then asked carefully, “The night of the raid—the fight in Greenwood Cemetery… when you picked the path at the fork, did you know it was because of your powers?”

Albert’s lips curved faintly. “Yes. It’s a form of divination. I can gain knowledge about someone, something… through magic.”

“What else can you do?” Jace asked.

Albert exhaled slowly, floating a brush toward the third canvas as he spoke. “Telekinesis—moving objects with my mind. Pyrokinesis—fire without a rune. Vitalum Vitalis—I can heal to an extent. And astral projection—I can leave my body and move as… a shadow of myself.”

Jace’s eyes drifted around the room, landing on a curious device sitting on a table—small, metallic, and dialed like a miniature seismograph. “What’s that?”

Albert’s eyes lit with a hint of excitement. “A seismometer. I think there’s a connection between demonic activity and seismic activity. I… I’m still trying to figure it out.”

For the first time, he didn’t pull back. He allowed them into his space, into the orbit of his power, his isolation lifted slightly in the presence of people who wanted to understand rather than fear him.

“You’re… amazing,” Izzy said softly. “All this knowledge, all these abilities… you could really help Shadowhunters.”

Albert’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, and he leaned back slightly, relaxing for the first time.

Izzy grinned. “You know, you could teach me a thing or two… if you ever wanted to.”

Albert flushed deeply. “You’re beautiful, Isabelle, but… you really aren’t my type.”

Jace’s brows shot up. “I was right—he’s into guys.”

Albert shook his head, a small smirk forming. “I like both, but… I have a thing for blondes.”

Izzy laughed, teasing, “Well, lucky for you, I’m not blonde. But you might get lucky someday.”

Albert chuckled, and it was bright, unguarded, the first real laugh they’d heard from him. Jace watched, inexplicably captivated by the sound. He didn’t understand why it affected him so deeply, but he knew in that moment that Albert had started to let them in.

The room seemed warmer now, alive not just with magic but with something gentler: trust.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Albert sat at one of the long tables in the Institute’s dining hall, quietly working through a plate of eggs and toast. His hair was messy from sleep, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he wanted to shrink into himself. He kept his eyes on his food, not noticing the way a few younger Shadowhunters whispered about him from the far end of the room.

Jace, Clary, and Izzy walked in together. Jace immediately spotted Albert and, without hesitation, crossed the room. Clary and Izzy followed, sliding into the seats across from Albert, while Jace took the spot beside him.

“Morning,” Jace said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to sit with the boy everyone else avoided. “You eat like you’re afraid the toast will bite back.”

Albert’s cheeks warmed. “Uh—good morning.”

“You’re up early,” Clary said, her tone deliberately casual. “We were just talking about the attack last night. Some kind of Greater Demon in Bensonhurst. The place was a wreck by the time we got there.”

Albert’s eyes flicked up briefly. “I heard the wards around the area were completely shredded,” he murmured. His voice was soft, but clear. “That… doesn’t happen easily.”

“Exactly,” Izzy said, leaning an elbow on the table as she studied him. “Which is why we’re going back to investigate the site today. Try to piece together what kind of demon left that kind of mess. We could use an extra pair of eyes.”

At that moment, Alec entered the hall, phone still in hand, thumbs moving rapidly across the screen. “Magnus says he might have a lead on the magical residue left behind. I’ll follow up with him later.” He pocketed the phone and sat down smoothly beside Clary. His sharp gaze landed on Albert. “You should come with us. It might help you understand what we’re up against.”

Albert tensed. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, white-knuckled. “After what happened with the Methuselah demons?” His voice cracked slightly before he forced it steady. “I’m not—” He stopped, shook his head. “I don’t want to be a liability.”

The table went quiet. Jace leaned forward, eyes locking onto his. “You’re not a liability,” he said firmly. “You held your ground when most people would have run. That counts for more than you realize.”

Albert’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying not to show how much the words meant.

Jace’s expression softened, but his tone stayed unyielding. “I want you with us. You don’t learn by hiding. You learn by fighting—and surviving. And you’re going to survive, Albert. I’ll make sure of it.”

For a long moment, Albert didn’t move. Then he gave the tiniest of nods, his voice barely above a whisper. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Izzy smirked, triumphant. Clary gave him an encouraging smile. Alec simply nodded in approval.

But Jace, sitting back in his chair, felt something fierce coil inside his chest. A strange protectiveness that was more than duty, more than comradery. As though Albert’s survival wasn’t just necessary for the team—it mattered to him in a way he didn’t want to put into words.

Albert pushed his oatmeal away at last, though he’d barely eaten half. The knot of tension in his chest was easing just a little—more from the warmth of their company than from Jace’s insistence.

“So,” Izzy said brightly, leaning toward him like they were already old friends, “what’s your weapon of choice? Tell me you’re not one of those longbow purists. Please.”

Albert blinked, caught off guard. “I, um… I’ve been training mostly with a longsword. And seraph blades, obviously. I’m… not very good with ranged weapons.”

Clary gave him a small grin. “That’s okay. Neither am I. When I started out, Izzy had to rescue me from a demon because I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“I did not ‘rescue’ you,” Izzy protested, tossing her hair. “I gave you a chance to redeem yourself.”

Albert chuckled, quiet but genuine. “Sounds like you’re used to saving each other.”

Jace leaned back slightly, watching him with a spark of interest. “That’s the point. Shadowhunters fight best in pairs, or in teams. You’ll learn that fast enough with us.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes lingered on Albert a second longer, something protective and unspoken behind them.

Alec finally looked up from his phone, arching an eyebrow. “Jace, you say that like you’ve already decided he’s staying.”

“He is,” Jace replied, as if the decision were already carved in stone.

Albert shifted in his seat, not sure how to respond. “You’re… all just assuming I can keep up.”

“You survived Methuselah demons,” Alec said evenly, slipping his phone away. “That already puts you in rare company.”

Albert’s eyes flicked between them, a faint warmth spreading through his chest. He wasn’t used to being spoken of like that—like he mattered.

Clary reached across the table, resting her hand briefly over his. “We wouldn’t ask you to come if we didn’t believe in you.”

Albert went still at the touch, then nodded, his throat tight.

Izzy broke the moment with a mischievous grin. “Besides, if you don’t come, who’s going to keep Jace from doing something reckless?”

---------------------------------

The streets near Regina Pacis were eerily quiet when the Shadowhunters arrived. The church loomed in the background, its spires black against the cloudy morning sky. Normally, the neighborhood bustled with life—cafés opening, kids on bikes—but now an unnatural stillness pressed down on everything. Even the pigeons were gone.

As they approached the site of the attack, the smell hit first: a coppery, sour stench clinging to the air. The ground near an alley beside the church was blackened, patches of grass and brick charred as though burned from within. Strange runes, carved in uneven hand, littered the walls in a dark, rust-colored substance that looked disturbingly like blood. A faint humming lingered in the air, almost too low to notice, as if the stones themselves remembered what had happened.

Magnus was already there, crouched over a patch of dirt that glittered faintly in the dim light. His jewel-toned coat flared as he stood, dusting his hands. “Took you long enough,” he drawled, though his eyes flicked immediately toward Albert, curiosity flashing.

Jace gave him a short nod. “Traffic.”

Magnus arched a brow. “Demon infestations rarely wait for green lights, darling.” His gaze flicked to Albert, one brow arching as though already trying to solve him. “And you must be our mysterious Nightstorm.”

Albert shifted awkwardly under the warlock’s scrutiny but said nothing.

“Over here,” Clary called. She crouched near a section of stonework by the church wall, where dark soil had been disturbed. Strange symbols were etched into the ground in a spiraling pattern, burned into the dirt itself. The soil around it was disturbed, sprinkled with an odd, grayish dirt that smelled faintly metallic. Clary carefully collected a sample in a small vial, examining it.

Everyone gathered around. The symbols seemed to shimmer faintly, as though the energy that birthed them hadn’t fully faded. They twisted the air, giving Albert the odd sensation of standing on the edge of a great drop.

Magnus crouched, running a glowing fingertip along one mark without touching it. “I’ll admit, this is… unfamiliar. I’ve seen dozens of summoning circles, but this script? It’s not any demonic tongue I know.”

Alec frowned. “Not Enochian either.”

Albert’s eyes were drawn to the markings, almost against his will. The shapes seemed to rearrange themselves in his vision until the words took on clarity, like a half-remembered song. His mouth went dry, but he stepped closer. “Can I… look at it?”

Jace gave a small nod, watching him with the same protective sharpness he always seemed to.

Albert crouched in front of the symbols, studying them with a strange intensity. His brow furrowed, lips moving faintly as he traced the lines without touching them. After a few seconds, he exhaled sharply. “It’s a summoning spell.”

Alec’s eyes narrowed. “You can read that? What language even is it?”

Albert looked up at them, his voice quiet but certain. “Adamic.”

Izzy tilted her head. “Adamic?”

“The language spoken by Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden,” Albert explained, standing again and brushing his hands nervously on his coat. “It’s the root of every language on Earth. People spoke it until the Creator confused the tongues at Babel.” His voice softened as if sharing a secret. “It’s not meant to be spoken anymore.”

Magnus arched one elegant brow. “I’ve heard of Adamic. Rare, obscure, practically lost. Not exactly something one picks up in a night class. How do you know it?”

Albert hesitated, shifting under everyone’s gaze. At last he answered, “Faeries can read, write, and speak every language on Earth. It’s part of what comes with their blood.”

Jace and Alec exchanged a glance, the tension tightening around their shoulders. “So… who would’ve written this?” Clary asked, eyes scanning the street nervously.

Albert’s gaze swept over the symbols again, fingers tracing patterns in the air as if feeling the magic itself. “There are a few possibilities. Faeries, certainly. Or warlocks born before the Flood—they’d have to be extremely old. But whoever did this… it’s summoning something powerful.”

Isabelle’s brow furrowed. “And who—or what—are they trying to summon?”

Albert’s eyes darkened. “The Greater Demon Moloch. This spell isn’t just ceremonial. It’s meant to bring him into our world.”

A chill passed through the group. Magnus’s gaze swept over Albert, appraising. “Interesting. And you know this… how?”

Albert’s hands tightened slightly on his knees. “I’ve studied demonology. Moloch is associated with fire and sacrifice. This spell… if completed, it could unleash him into the mortal world.”

Jace rubbed his temples. “Definitely not good. We need to know more before this gets out of control.”

Clary’s expression hardened. “We need to get back to the Institute. Research Moloch, figure out who could have written this, and find out if there’s more.”

Alec nodded. “Astrid Harkness is the Clave’s best forensic scientist—she’ll know how to identify the origins of this soil and any magical residue.”

As the group walked back toward their vehicles, the fog seemed to thicken around them, whispers of danger brushing against the edges of their senses. Jace fell into step beside Albert, placing a hand on his shoulder. The touch was casual, but the weight of protection was unmistakable.

Albert blinked, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “I—I’ll be fine,” he said, voice quieter than usual.

Jace’s grin was faint but approving. “I know you will.”

Chapter Text

That evening, the Institute’s ops center buzzed with quiet urgency. Maps of Brooklyn and Staten Island glowed on the holo-projector table, marked with hot spots of demonic activity. Alec stood at the head of the group, arms crossed, as the others gathered around.

“We’re not engaging directly,” Alec said firmly. “This is recon. We’ve had whispers of cultists near an abandoned warehouse in Staten Island, the kind of place blood magic could be performed without drawing too much attention. We go in, we watch, we pull out if anything looks suspicious. Clear?”

Jace smirked. “Crystal.”

Izzy twirled her whip with a little flourish. “I love a good cult stakeout.”

Albert shifted uneasily, his hands clasped in front of him. “You’re… certain you want me there?”

“Albert,” Alec said evenly, “your knowledge of Adamic and demonic languages is our best chance of understanding what’s going on. If they’re preparing another summoning, you’ll see it before we do.”

Jace caught Albert’s hesitation and gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Besides, I’ve got your back. Nothing gets to you without going through me first.”

That made Albert’s chest warm unexpectedly. He nodded. “Alright. I’ll go.”

---------------------------------

The night air smelled of brine and rust, thick fog curling around the iron skeletons of abandoned cranes. The team slipped inside the warehouse, boots whispering against the cracked concrete floor.

Magnus, shimmering faintly with protective wards, whispered, “Stay sharp. The air here reeks of residue.”

And he was right—the place hummed with leftover energy, the faint coppery scent of blood magic still clinging to the walls. Strange sigils had been burned into the cement.

Albert knelt, fingers hovering over the symbols. His lips moved silently, eyes narrowing. “It’s a preparation circle. Whoever did this was close to summoning… but they stopped.”

“Stopped?” Izzy echoed, frowning. “Or got interrupted?”

Albert didn’t answer at first. He tilted his head, eyes unfocusing like he was listening to something far away. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “No. They left it unfinished on purpose. A decoy.”

Before the others could react, a noise stirred in the shadows. A shape. No, many shapes. Demons—small, insectile, skittering on too many legs—began crawling down the walls, glowing with a sickly light.

“Company,” Jace muttered, already drawing his blade.

The fight broke out instantly—Izzy’s whip crackling through the air, Alec loosing arrows, Clary weaving in with quick slashes. Magnus hurled a blast of blue fire, sending a cluster scattering.

Albert stood frozen for a second, heart pounding. Then, instinctively, he raised a hand. The fog around them coiled tighter, then shot forward like living tendrils, wrapping around several demons and dragging them to the floor. His other hand snapped upward, and a sudden burst of flame lit the room, incinerating three at once.

Jace turned mid-fight, stunned by the sheer force of it. “Albert—!”

But Albert wasn’t even aware of Jace’s voice—he was caught between fear and exhilaration, his powers flowing through him like wildfire.

Finally, the last demon fell, dissolving into black ichor. The group stood panting in the smoky silence.

Izzy broke it first, a grin tugging at her lips. “Okay. That was… wow.”

Clary nodded. “You just saved us all.”

Albert, chest heaving, looked at his hands like they belonged to someone else. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

Jace stepped closer, steady, protective. “You were. And you did good.”

Albert met his eyes, something unspoken passing between them.

But from the rafters above, unseen, a cloaked figure was watching. Their eyes glowed faintly violet as they whispered into the darkness:

“He’s stronger than I thought. The Nightstorm boy… will be perfect.”

---------------------------------

The library felt heavier than usual, weighed down by the silence of failure. Books lay open across the wide oak table, their brittle pages whispering useless fragments of lore. Shafts of afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but they only seemed to illuminate the dust rather than provide clarity.

Jace leaned back in his chair, raking a hand through his hair. Clary sat across from him, lips pursed as she flipped through her notes. Isabelle slammed shut another thick tome with a sharp thud that echoed off the shelves.

“There’s nothing,” she muttered. “Every text says the same: fire, sacrifice, the Canaanites. It’s scraps, nothing we can use.”

Albert leaned back in frustration, running a hand through his dark hair. “There’s one more book,” he said suddenly. “It’s in my room. If this can’t help, nothing will.” Without waiting for permission, he bolted from the library, leaving the others staring after him.

Minutes later, Albert returned. In his arms he carried a massive tome bound in cracked black leather, etched with sigils that gleamed faintly when the light touched them. He set it on the table with surprising gentleness, as though it were alive.

“The Compendium Daemonologicum,” he said quietly. “It was written by my great-great-grandfather, Isidore Nightstorm. He devoted his life to cataloging every demon ever known. He was… brilliant. And obsessive. This book… it’s the most complete demonological encyclopedia that exists. The Clave still uses it for reference on rare cases.”

No one moved as he opened the cover. The smell of aged parchment filled the air. His fingers skimmed across dense columns of spidery script until he stopped at a page marked by a bull’s head drawn in elaborate ink.

“Moloch,” Albert read, voice low but steady. “Worshiped as a god by the Canaanites. They offered him their firstborn children, placing them into a hollow bronze idol shaped like a bull. Fire was stoked within until the figure glowed red-hot, and the sacrifices were consumed. Their cries were said to empower him, binding him closer to this realm.”

The words hung in the stillness. Clary shivered and folded her arms. Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line. Alec muttered something under his breath.

Albert’s eyes, however, stayed locked on the page, calm despite the horror of the words. “He was the second angel to follow Lucifer into rebellion. Asmodeus was the first.”

At that name, Magnus stiffened, though he masked it quickly. His hand tightened around the edge of the table, rings flashing as his face returned to its usual calm. Alec, watching him, caught the flicker and said nothing.

Albert turned the page.
“As a reward for his loyalty, Moloch was granted rule over Gehenna—the worst realm of Hell, save only Tartarus itself. His fires are said to burn without end, and his hunger is never sated.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. It was as though the words themselves had poisoned the air, heavy with the weight of something ancient and terrible.

Jace leaned back at last, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes lingered on the grotesque bull-headed idol before cutting to Albert.
“So whoever’s calling him,” he said, his voice sharp with certainty, “isn’t just stirring up trouble. They’re inviting the end of everything.”

The silence stretched, oppressive, until Izzy broke it with a disbelieving laugh that didn’t quite land.
“So—what? Someone’s trying to call up a baby-burning fire demon into the middle of Brooklyn? That’s insane, even for the Clave’s enemies.”

“It’s not insane,” Magnus said softly. His rings glimmered as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “It’s bold. And boldness in the wrong hands is always dangerous.”

Clary frowned, her green eyes tracing the text as though she could find reassurance in the black strokes of ink. “If he rules Gehenna… then he’s one of the stronger Princes, right?”

“Stronger?” Magnus’s voice dripped irony. “Let’s just say if Edom is a cauldron, Gehenna is a furnace. And Moloch is the fire that never dies.”

Alec leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His expression was tight, thoughtful. “If someone brings him here, it wouldn’t just be a localized problem. It could destabilize the wards across New York. Every Institute, every enclave—we’d all be targets.”

Albert, who had been quiet again, nodded. His voice carried a conviction that made the others glance at him. “And he wouldn’t come quietly. The Compendium says Moloch feeds on devotion. He demands it. Every cult that ever summoned him ended in ruin.” His hand lingered on the page, pale knuckles tight. “If he came through fully, he’d expect sacrifices. And New York…” He hesitated, then finished with a whisper. “New York has plenty of children.”

Jace’s jaw clenched, the idea hitting too close. “Not happening. Whoever wrote that spell, we’ll find them. And we’ll stop them before Moloch even smells this city.”

Magnus tilted his head, studying him with those catlike eyes. “Brave words. But bravery doesn’t close gates. Knowledge does.” His gaze flicked to Albert. “And your scholar here seems to have more of that than anyone else in this room.”

Izzy exchanged a glance with Jace and smirked. “Looks like our quiet Nightstorm just became the MVP of this mission.”

Albert shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to praise, and ducked his head. “I just… read a lot.”

But Jace caught the faint flush on his cheeks, and the way his shoulders straightened despite himself. Something in Jace’s chest twisted at that—a mix of guilt and something he couldn’t yet name.

Chapter Text

As the others drifted out of the library to take a break, Magnus began gathering up loose parchment and sliding stray quills back into their holders. The silence felt thick after Albert’s steady, almost reverent voice reading about Moloch. Alec moved to help, stacking tomes with his usual neat precision.

After a moment, Alec glanced sideways at Magnus. “You flinched,” he said quietly. “When Albert mentioned Asmodeus.”

Magnus didn’t look up. He dusted off the cover of a leather-bound codex and slid it onto the shelf with almost exaggerated care. “I did no such thing.”

“Yes, you did,” Alec pressed, his tone calm but firm. “You went still. Magnus, I know you. Something about Asmodeus rattled you. What is it?”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, and for a moment he looked almost weary—ancient, even. “Alec,” he said softly but firmly, “drop it.”

Alec crossed his arms. “No. You can’t just shut me out every time something touches a nerve. If Asmodeus has something to do with what’s happening, don’t you think I should know?”

The warlock’s expression darkened, a flicker of something like pain crossing his features. “Not everything in my past is something you want to drag into the light.”

"You asked me to trust you," Alec shot back, voice rising now, "and I do. But trust goes both ways. If there's something dangerous about Asmodeus—about you—I need to know."

The air in the library seemed heavier, Magnus’s magic bristling faintly in the silence that followed. His hands flexed as though he wanted to snap his fingers and vanish the whole conversation away.

Finally, he said, in a tone sharp enough to cut: “I said. Drop it.”

“No,” Alec snapped. “I’m not going to drop it. You shut me out every time something hurts too much to talk about. And I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that doesn’t matter.”

The silence that followed was brutal, stretched taut between them like a wire ready to snap. Magnus opened his mouth, then shut it again, jaw locking.

Alec waited, eyes searching his face—pleading for even a scrap of openness. But Magnus only looked away.

That was answer enough.

Alec shook his head, the hurt written plain across his features. “Maybe you don’t know how to let anyone in.”

He turned sharply, boots echoing against the marble floor as he stormed out of the library.

---------------------------------

The sterile brightness of the Institute’s forensic lab contrasted sharply with the gloom of the library. The scent of bleach and parchment clung to the air, and faint whirs of machinery hummed in the background. Jace walked at an easy pace beside Albert, the dirt sample secure in his hand.

Albert adjusted the strap of his satchel, his steps careful, measured. “I’d… like to help,” he said softly, glancing sideways at Jace. “Astrid Harkness is one of the very few Shadowhunters who’s… kind. To me.”

Something in Jace’s chest twisted at that. It was the kind of admission that cut deeper than it should have, and for a heartbeat he wanted to stop and tell Albert that he deserved more than scraps of kindness. But he swallowed it, brushed the ache aside, and gave only a short nod. “Then we’ll make sure you do.”

When they entered the lab, Astrid was bent over a microscope, her white coat making her look even more severe than usual. But when she saw Albert, her face softened into something warmer. “Albert. It’s good to see you.”

Albert’s tension eased, shoulders loosening. He set down the sample carefully. “We found this at the Bensonhurst site. Jace thought you could help us analyze it.”

Astrid’s keen eyes flicked to Jace, then back to Albert. “Of course. Let’s see what we’ve got.” She handed Albert a pair of gloves. “You’ll assist me.”

Jace leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, content to watch. He caught the faint flicker of surprise in Albert’s eyes at being trusted with the work, and it made his lips curve into the faintest smile.

The two worked side by side, running the soil through a battery of chemical tests: flame spectrometry, mineral solubility, alchemical reagents that shimmered oddly in the light. Astrid instructed, but Albert anticipated her more than once, naming the steps before she spoke them.

Jace found himself watching—not the dirt, not the results, but Albert, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hands steady despite the faint blush coloring his cheeks whenever Astrid praised him. There was something unguarded about him here, in his element, that Jace rarely saw.

Finally, the tests were complete. Astrid held up the results, her mouth a grim line. “This soil is not from New York—or any earthly region. It matches the profile of ash-soil from Gehenna.”

Jace’s arms dropped from his chest. “Gehenna,” he repeated, his voice edged with disbelief. “As in… Moloch’s realm?”

Astrid gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Exactly. If this soil is here, it means something—or someone—has managed to open a channel to Gehenna itself. And that is very bad news.”

For a moment, the three of them stood in heavy silence, the fluorescent lights humming above.

Then Jace straightened, trying to ease the tension. “Well. If we’re all going to spend the day worrying about a portal to demon hell, the least we can do is get breakfast first. My treat.”

Astrid smiled faintly but shook her head. “I’ll stay. There’s more I need to confirm while the trail is still fresh.”

Jace glanced at Albert, who still looked pale at the mention of Gehenna. “What about you?”

Albert hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Breakfast sounds… good.”

Jace clapped him lightly on the shoulder, the gesture easy, casual—but he felt the warmth of pride beneath it.

---------------------------------

The clinking of silverware and the low hum of the Bridgeview Diner filled the air as the group dug into their breakfasts. Jace carved into his Belgian Waffle Deluxe with the ferocity of someone who hadn’t eaten in days, the mix of ham, bacon, and sausage disappearing fast. Across from him, Albert carefully sliced his bacon, avocado, and cheddar omelet, pushing aside the steaming home fries to butter his rye toast before spreading a generous layer of grape jelly. Clary drizzled an obscene amount of syrup over her chocolate chip pancakes, while Izzy dusted powdered sugar off her French toast.

At the end of the booth, Alec methodically ate his Eggs Florentine, eyes fixed on his plate. Beside him, Magnus took a dainty bite of his bagel stacked with lox, cream cheese, onions, and olives, sipping his coffee like the tension between them wasn’t heavy enough to choke the table. Jace noticed it, of course—everyone did—but no one mentioned it. Not yet.

Conversation returned to the subject none of them could avoid. Jace pushed his plate aside, leaning forward. “So the dirt’s from Gehenna. That’s… not exactly the kind of place you go for vacation.”

Astrid’s findings sat heavy in the back of all their minds, and Magnus was the first to elaborate. “Gehenna isn’t just another layer of Hell. It’s a realm steeped in fire and sacrifice. If Moloch has touched our world through it, then we’re dealing with something far darker than your average summoning.”

Clary frowned, wiping syrup from her lips. “So it wasn’t just random. Whoever did this wanted us to find Gehenna’s mark.”

Before anyone could answer, a voice cut through the air, low and accented.
“Precisely. And that’s why I’m here.”

They all turned. A tall woman stood at the edge of their booth, her wavy auburn hair catching the diner’s fluorescent light. Her eyes—snake-slit pupils gleaming in emerald irises—made her warlock nature unmistakable. She smiled faintly, though it never reached those unsettling eyes.

“Philippa Marsh,” she introduced herself, her tone confident but not unkind. “High Warlock of Quebec. The Spiral Labyrinth sent me. They said you’d need help.”

Clary blinked. “The Spiral Labyrinth? That was fast.”

Philippa smiled faintly, though her eyes slid—lingered—on Albert. Jace caught the way her gaze traced him, curious, assessing. Something tightened in his chest, protective, like the instinct to draw his blade at the first sign of danger. He didn’t let it show, but his eyes sharpened as he shifted slightly closer to Albert in the booth.

“I’ve heard the Labyrinth’s theories,” Philippa went on smoothly, her voice carrying the faint cadence of ritual. “But you should know there is an older story… of the Primordials. Warlocks who were born before the Creator sent the Deluge. When the flood drowned the world, it did not only scourge mundanes. It nearly wiped out the Downworld. Only a few warlocks survived, putting themselves into magical slumber until the waters receded.”

Izzy asked the question everyone else was thinking. “Are there Primordials alive now?”

Philippa’s snake eyes glinted as she answered. “One, at least, that I know of. Ingrid Frost. She lives in St. Petersburg. Her knowledge of Moloch’s first movements is older than any book you’ll find in this Institute. And if Moloch stirs in this world, she will know it. Because she is older than his realm itself.”

Jace felt Albert shift uncomfortably beside him, Philippa’s eyes flicking his way once more. He angled his body slightly, as though to shield him, before clearing his throat. “So… how do we get to her?”

Magnus exchanged a look with Clary and Jace. “I’ll need to inform Tessa. The Spiral Labyrinth will want to corroborate this before any of us risk a journey.”

Philippa’s smile deepened, faintly serpentine. “Then allow me to help. I can open a portal to St. Petersburg when you’re ready.”

Chapter Text

The portal snapped shut behind them, leaving Magnus and Alec standing in the cavernous entrance hall of the Spiral Labyrinth. The air was thick with the smell of parchment and incense; the walls lined with towering shelves of tomes that seemed to spiral into darkness overhead. Golden witchlight globes drifted lazily across the ceiling, casting an amber glow.

Tessa Gray was already waiting at the foot of the staircase, her silver hair pulled into a neat twist, her blue-gray eyes alight with quiet curiosity. “You’re late,” she said with the trace of a smile, though her voice carried its usual weight of command.

Magnus swept into a graceful bow. “Blame the traffic of interdimensional portals, darling. Philippa Marsh waylaid us with dire warnings.”

That softened Tessa’s expression, though only slightly. “Warnings?”

Alec stepped forward, his tone clipped. “She told us about the Primordials—and about Ingrid Frost. She thinks Ingrid may know something about whoever’s summoning Moloch.”

At the name, Tessa’s eyes flickered. Alec continued, his words sharp now, needing answers. “Albert said the writings we found were summoning Moloch. And that Moloch was the second angel to follow Lucifer—after Asmodeus.”

Magnus froze, just for a heartbeat, but Alec caught it. Tessa’s eyes darted to Magnus, widened, and then narrowed, full of unspoken recognition.

Alec turned to her immediately. “You know something. Both of you do.”

Tessa folded her hands calmly before her, though her composure felt strained. “It isn’t my story to tell.”

Alec’s gaze whipped to Magnus. “Then tell me yourself.”

Magnus’s face was unreadable, a mask of cold deflection. “Not now.”

“That’s not an answer,” Alec snapped. His voice rose against the hush of the Labyrinth. “Every time Asmodeus’s name comes up, you shut down. Why? What are you hiding from me?”

Magnus’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t respond. His silence was its own wall.

The space between them grew sharp and unbearable. Finally, Alec shook his head, his fists clenched. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.” His voice cracked with anger as he turned on his heel and stormed out, the echo of his boots rattling through the library’s stone halls.

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The bitter cold of St. Petersburg hit them the moment they stepped out of the portal. Snowflakes drifted lazily from a sky the color of steel, gathering on the cobblestones beneath their boots. The air smelled faintly of smoke and iron, the weight of history pressing down on the sprawling city around them.

Albert wrapped his coat tighter and glanced at Jace. “That was… something. Philippa, I mean. She seemed nice enough.”

Jace gave a low hum of disapproval as they began walking down the icy street, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade. “I don’t like her.”

Albert tilted his head, surprised. “Why not? She offered to help. And she didn’t look down on me, not once. That’s rare.”

Jace’s golden eyes narrowed, his voice quiet but firm. “Call it instinct. Something about her feels… off. And I really don’t like the way she was looking at you.”

Albert blinked, caught between confusion and a sudden warmth rising in his chest. “Looking at me? How?”

Jace shoved his hands into his pockets, gaze flicking to Albert before turning away. “Like you were something to study. Or claim. And I don’t like it when people do that.”

For a moment, Albert didn’t answer. The snow crunched under their boots, and their breath fogged in the icy air. He glanced at Jace, who was striding forward with that familiar edge of protectiveness in his shoulders, and found himself smiling despite the chill.

They walked side by side down the wide, snow-blanketed streets of St. Petersburg, their boots crunching against ice. The city felt ancient, haunted—ornate iron lampposts flickered against the gray dusk, casting long shadows over baroque facades. Frost rimmed every surface, turning the world into a frozen cathedral.

Albert hugged his coat tighter, but his eyes moved constantly, taking in the architecture. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. “Even in the cold. My mother once told me Faeries believe places hold memory, and I can feel it here. Like the stones themselves are remembering.”

Jace glanced at him, surprised by the poetry in his words. “You sound like a writer.”

Albert flushed and gave a small shrug. “Maybe. Or just… someone who notices things. When you’re always the quiet one in the corner, you learn to listen.”

Something in the way he said it made Jace’s chest tighten. He slowed his pace so their shoulders almost brushed. “Well, if you keep noticing things that save our lives—like that hunch at the fork—I’d say it’s not such a bad habit.”

Albert smiled faintly, and for a moment, the tension between them eased. Ahead, domes of gold and green glinted faintly through the mist. Somewhere in that city waited Ingrid Frost, and maybe answers—but for now, it was just the two of them, walking through the snow, the silence between them warm instead of heavy.

---------------------------------

Back at the Institute, the library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of turning pages and the faint scratch of quills on parchment. Clary leaned over a dusty tome, her brow furrowed, while Izzy perched on a chair beside her, flipping through notes.

“So, Gehenna,” Clary said, tapping a finger against a passage. “If the demon’s summoning leaves residual energy, maybe the ritual can be traced to a specific time and location. That might narrow things down.”

Izzy hummed, jotting down notes. “We’ll cross-reference with any recent disturbances in the city—rituals, sightings, rogue demon attacks. That should give us a starting point.”

After a few moments, Clary’s gaze drifted to a sketch Albert had made of the demon realms in the Compendium Daemonologicum. “You know… Albert is really smart. And brave. He saved us from those Methuselah demons without hesitation.” Her cheeks warmed slightly, and she looked away quickly.

Izzy smirked knowingly. “Clary, are you blushing over Albert Nightstorm?”

Clary waved her off, flustered. “No! I’m just… impressed with him, okay?”

Izzy tilted her head, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. But if you want my opinion—Jace is clearly smitten. He’s never been interested in anyone this much since you, Clary.”

Clary looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s protective, he notices everything about Albert. And from what I can tell, Albert might like Jace too. Blond hair, tall, golden eyes—that’s his type.” Izzy shrugged. “Not a big deal if the three of you ended up together. Polyamory’s pretty common in Faerie, you know.”

Clary blinked, processing this. A mix of emotions swirled in her chest—surprise, amusement, and an unexpected warmth at the thought. “Well… I guess that could work,” she admitted cautiously, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Izzy grinned. “That’s my girl. Now, back to work—Moloch won’t research himself.”

Chapter Text

Snow crunched under Jace’s boots as he and Albert made their way through the quiet forest outside St. Petersburg. The pines rose high and dark, their branches dusted with frost, and the air smelled sharp with winter. At the end of a narrow, winding path stood a lone cabin, its roof half-buried under snow. A single curl of smoke trailed from the chimney, faint and wavering against the pale sky.

Jace slowed, scanning the trees out of instinct. “Are you sure this is the place?”

Albert nodded, clutching his coat tighter around himself. “Philippa said Ingrid Frost lives away from the city. Safer this way.” His voice carried a mix of nerves and awe.

Jace pushed forward, climbing the steps to the cabin door. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, the sound muffled in the snow-damp air. For a long moment, nothing stirred inside. Then came the creak of old hinges.

The door opened to reveal a woman in her middle years, her brownish-gray hair pulled back in a loose braid. The most striking feature was the pair of crystalline onyx horns curving elegantly from her head, glimmering faintly as if they held their own light. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over them before settling on Albert.

“Ingrid Frost,” Jace said.

“Depends on who’s asking,” she replied flatly, her voice low and cool. Her gaze slid over Jace before settling on Albert. Something flickered in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or wariness—but it was gone in an instant.

“We came to ask you about Moloch,” Jace continued, steady. “And the Primordials.”

At that, Ingrid sighed, leaning her weight against the doorframe. “The Spiral Labyrinth sent you, I take it? Or one of their little messengers.”

“Yes,” Albert said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Philippa Marsh told us you might know more.”

Ingrid’s lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “Philippa.” She spat the name as though it left a bitter taste. “Of course she did. Always eager to throw others into the fire before herself.”

Jace frowned, but Ingrid had already turned her back, leaving the door wide open. “Well? Are you coming in, or shall I let the wolves finish the job?”

Inside, the cabin smelled of old parchment, wax, and bitter herbs. Shelves groaned under the weight of books, jars, and strange artifacts that glimmered with latent magic. Ingrid dropped herself into a worn armchair and gestured lazily to the two rickety chairs across from her.

“So.” She folded her hands, her crystalline horns catching the lamplight again. “You want to know about Moloch. About the old ones. Tell me—are you ready to hear truths that will make the Clave shiver? Because once you hear them, there’s no going back.”

Jace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “We’re ready.”

She leaned back in her chair, the firelight catching in the edges of her horns, and her voice grew softer, heavier.

“I was there when Cain struck down Abel,” she said, her words falling like stones. “I saw the first blood cry out from the earth. And I heard Enoch preach to the city—voice like thunder—that unless humanity turned away from sin, the Creator would wash them all away if they did not.”

Jace stiffened. Albert leaned forward, captivated.

“What does that have to do with Moloch?” Jace asked.

Ingrid’s crystalline horns glimmered in the firelight as she smiled faintly. “Everything. Moloch fed on that first blood. He whispered in Cain’s ear. And when the waters came… the Primordials stirred.”

Albert’s breath caught, but she pressed on, her eyes distant with memory.

“When the Deluge came, it was not only mortals who perished. I lost friends, kin, even my faith. A few of us—Philippa among them—wove a spell of slumber, burying ourselves deep beneath the floodwaters. We thought to outlast divine judgment. We survived, yes… but survival is no mercy. It is a curse.”

At that, Jace’s head snapped toward Albert. “Philippa?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Ingrid let out a bitter laugh. “Philippa has… many secrets.”

A kettle shrieked, and Ingrid turned her back to them, busying herself with the teapot. Jace watched her sharply, but Albert’s attention was drawn downward. Near the doorway, a patch of disturbed earth caught his eye, dark and granular. It was faintly familiar—the same kind of soil they’d found at the summoning site. Heart pounding, Albert bent low and brushed a few grains into his pocket before straightening, expression schooled into neutrality as Ingrid returned with the tea.

“Why are you prying into such matters?” she asked at last, her voice carrying a low note of warning.

“Because,” Jace said, his voice hard, “someone’s trying to summon Moloch. And we’re going to stop them.”

The room went still. Ingrid leaned back, eyes narrowing in thought. At last, she gave a small nod. “Then be careful. You are walking in shadow, and shadows cling.” She raised her cup to her lips, then added, “And if Philippa guides you… remember that trust is not always a gift freely given. Sometimes it’s a snare.”

Jace and Albert said nothing, but both of them felt the weight of her words.

Ingrid’s voice dropped to a whisper, but her eyes gleamed with sharp clarity.

“And if you would walk this path, you must understand: Moloch and the Primordials are not legends. They are scars. And scars never truly heal.”

---------------------------------

The Spiral Labyrinth was vast and oppressive, its stone walls etched with wards that pulsed faintly in the dim lamplight. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes stretched upward like the ribs of some colossal beast. Magnus and Tessa walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly on the floor as they carried stacks of books to a long table.

“Primordials, Primordials…” Magnus muttered, running a finger along a shelf until it snagged on a cracked leather spine. He tugged it free, dust scattering in the air. They sifted through the brittle pages together, scanning strange symbols and archaic Latin until Tessa’s eyes widened.

“Here—look,” she said, tapping a passage. The name leapt from the page: Philippa. Magnus blinked, startled, his mouth quirking in disbelief.

“Well, well. Seems our mysterious friend has been busy for a very, very long time.” His voice was flippant, but his fingers lingered over the name, thoughtful.

They skimmed the rest of the entry, absorbing fragments about ancient covenants, storms, and floods. Then, almost abruptly, Tessa closed the book and placed her hand over Magnus’s. Her expression had shifted.

“When are you going to tell Alec?” she asked softly. “About Asmodeus?”

Magnus’s usual bravado faltered. He looked away, his eyes tracing the shadowed vault of the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Then he glanced at her. “How did you tell Will about Belial?”

A flicker of nostalgia crossed Tessa’s face, her voice tinged with something like sadness. “I didn’t. He told me it wasn’t important to him. But… Tatiana Blackthorn thought otherwise. She escaped the Adamant Citadel and made sure the entire London Enclave knew. She told them all, right in the middle of a Christmas party at the Institute.”

Magnus winced, running a hand through his hair. “Charming as ever.”

What neither of them noticed was the shadow moving at the edge of the stacks. Alec stood there, frozen in place, the words he had just overheard echoing in his ears. His grip tightened on the nearest shelf, his face unreadable as he slipped back into the dark corridors of the Labyrinth.

---------------------------------

The Institute’s library stretched quiet around Clary and Izzy, the golden lamps casting long shadows across shelves of dust-coated tomes. They had been combing through texts for hours, and still nothing about Moloch or Gehenna revealed itself. Clary rubbed at her eyes, sighing. “It’s like looking for a ghost in a graveyard.”

Izzy leaned back in her chair, twirling a strand of hair. “Maybe we’re in the wrong graveyard. What about Albert’s collection?”

Clary froze. “His private library? Izzy, that feels… invasive. He guards those books for a reason.”

Izzy arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t snooping. It’s saving lives. If Albert has something useful and he’s not here, it’s our job to use it.” Without waiting for Clary to protest further, she strode toward the adjoining room where Albert’s private library was kept.

Clary followed reluctantly, watching as Izzy scanned the shelves with practiced eyes. Within moments, Izzy pulled down a slender, dust-caked volume and flipped it open. She flipped through pages until her finger stopped on a passage.

“Here,” she said, eyes brightening. “On the winter solstice, the veil between the mortal world and the netherworld grows thin. Boundaries blur. What is kept apart becomes close.”

Clary straightened. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Izzy said grimly, closing the book with a snap, “that it’s the perfect time to summon something from the other side. Easier. Stronger.”

Before Clary could reply, her phone buzzed violently in her hand. She answered, only to hear Simon’s frantic voice spilling through the line. Her face drained of color as she listened, then promised to come as soon as possible before hanging up.

Izzy’s expression sharpened. “What happened?”

Clary’s voice was tight, her hand trembling around the phone. “The Hotel Dumort was attacked. By demons. Simon said… so many vampires are dead.”