Chapter Text
The first week blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and fear. Alec and Magnus had planted themselves at Aster’s bedside the moment Catarina had stabilized her, and neither of them had left since. Not once.
It wasn’t just worry — it was something heavier, something that wrapped around their chests and made the idea of stepping away unbearable. Alec sat rigid in the chair, hand always within reach of hers, even if she couldn’t hold it back. Magnus lingered closer than anyone had ever seen him linger, his sharp edges dulled into a silent, aching watchfulness.
By the third day, though, the strain was written into every line of their bodies. Their eyes were hollow, movements slow and unfocused, as if the weight of three sleepless nights had dragged them down but still refused to let them collapse.
That was when Max and Raphael finally stepped in.
“Dad, Papa,” Max said softly, his voice cracking like he was afraid even sound might shatter the fragile stillness around Aster. “You need to rest.”
“We’re fine,” Alec answered automatically, the kind of reflex born from denial, not truth. His voice was rough, frayed from disuse.
“You’re not,” Raphael cut in, sharper than Max, but not unkind. His arms were crossed, but his dark eyes gave him away — the same worry carved into his face as theirs. “Three days without sleep, Dad. You’re not going to help her like this.”
Magnus didn’t look up. “I won’t leave her.”
“You don’t have to,” Raphael countered. “We’ll stay. Both of us. She won’t be alone. Not for a second. But if you two collapse, who’s she going to have when she wakes up?”
The silence that followed was long and heavy, like dragging chains. Alec’s jaw worked, muscles flexing as if he was physically fighting the suggestion. Max moved closer, gently resting his hand over Alec’s.
“Please, Dad,” he whispered. “Just for a little while. We’ll take care of her.”
That broke something in Alec. His shoulders slumped, the fight bleeding out of him. Magnus was slower to follow, reluctant in a way that hurt to watch, but eventually he exhaled — long, shaky — and nodded.
“Fine,” Alec said at last, voice so low it barely carried. “A little while.”
They stood, the movement stiff and reluctant, like every step away from the bed was an act of betrayal.
But just as Alec reached the door, Raphael’s voice stopped him.
“Wait.”
Alec turned, confused, and Raphael reached into his pocket. When he pulled his hand back out, a small, delicate piece of metal glinted in his palm — bent, cracked, but unmistakable.
The forehead ornament.
Alec froze.
“I found it after the fight,” Raphael said quietly, stepping closer. “It must’ve broken when she fell. I thought… she’ll be furious if she wakes up and it’s gone.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “She guards it like her life depends on it.”
Alec’s throat tightened, his eyes fixed on the broken piece in Raphael’s hand.
“You should fix it,” Raphael continued, offering it out. “You’re the one who gave it to her in the first place. It’ll mean more if it comes from you.”
For a moment, Alec couldn’t move. His hand hovered, hesitant, before he finally took the ornament, holding it with a care that felt more like reverence.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rougher than before.
Raphael only shrugged, but there was something soft — something almost protective — in his expression as he looked back at Aster’s still form.
Alec’s fingers curled tightly around the ornament as he finally stepped from the room, the broken metal biting into his palm. He would fix it. He had to. For her.
The night passed in uneasy silence. Raphael and Max had kept their word, staying in the room with Aster while Alec and Magnus rested for the first time in three days. Both brothers sat vigil, the steady rhythm of her breathing the only sound anchoring them to the long hours. Neither of them truly slept.
By morning, the whole household had gathered in the living room. Jace, Clary, Izzy, Simon, Tim, and Alex were already there when Alec and Magnus entered. Raphael and Max followed a moment later, looking drawn but determined.
Alec’s eyes swept the room, every instinct fighting against being anywhere other than by Aster’s side. Magnus’s hand brushed lightly against his back, a wordless reminder to breathe. They sat, but both radiated tension, as though they were ready to bolt at the slightest sound from upstairs.
Jace leaned forward, his voice breaking the silence first. “How is she?”
Alec’s jaw tightened. “The same.” His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “No change.”
Magnus added softly, “Catarina checks her every day. She’s holding steady, but… it’s too soon for improvement. Right now, stability is all we can ask for.”
The words settled over them like heavy cloth. Nobody wanted to say it, but everyone knew: stability was fragile.
They sat in silence until Raphael shifted in his seat, arms folded, expression sharp in a way that cut through the fog of exhaustion. “I think someone’s behind this.”
Every head turned toward him.
Clary blinked. “Behind what happened to Aster? You mean the portal backlash?”
“No,” Raphael said flatly. “Behind the demon. Behind all of it.”
The room stilled. Even Magnus, who almost always had some clever remark, said nothing.
“What do you mean?” Izzy asked, her voice quiet but edged.
Raphael exhaled, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “After we finished the fight—after the Shaax demons were down—we went to check the warehouse. To make sure nothing was left behind. That’s when we found it. The… creature.”
Jace frowned, brow furrowing. “Creature? You mean the creatures. We killed two of them.”
“No,” Alex cut in, voice low but certain. “It was one. At first.”
Jace turned sharply to him. “One? I saw two with my own eyes.”
“You did,” Alex admitted, leaning back slightly, his arms folded. “But only after.” His gaze flicked toward the floor, then back up. “Aster was furious. That thing had thrown her against the wall three times. She… lost her temper.” His mouth twisted, almost reluctant, before he added, “She split it in half.”
Izzy’s brows shot up. “She what?”
“She cut it straight down the middle,” Alex said, and for a moment his lips quirked in the faintest, ironic smile. “I swear, I almost pitied that thing. Almost.”
A sad laugh rippled through the room, brief but real.
Tim added quietly, with a ghost of a smile, “Honestly, it should’ve known better. No one survives pissing Aster off.”
The memory softened the weight for a fleeting moment. They could almost hear her laugh, see the fire in her eyes.
But Raphael’s expression never changed. “That’s when it happened. She split it apart—and both halves… grew back. They shaped themselves into two demons.”
Magnus’s brow furrowed deeply, disbelief plain in his golden eyes. “Demons don’t do that. Not any kind I’ve seen. I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve never once heard of anything like it.”
“Neither have I,” Alec said, his tone grim. “Not in any record I’ve ever read. Nothing.”
“I haven’t either,” Clary admitted, shaking her head.
“Same,” Jace said, his jaw tightening. “And I don’t like mysteries.”
Izzy’s dark eyes flicked back to Raphael. “So what makes you think someone’s involved? Demons evolve, they mutate, but… what you’re describing—”
“—isn’t random,” Raphael finished. He leaned forward, voice sharper now, carrying the edge of certainty. “Because when we found it—before it got loose—it wasn’t free. It was locked behind a reinforced iron door.”
The words hit like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading across the room.
“Locked?” Simon asked, frowning. “As in… kept there?”
“Yes,” Raphael said. His voice didn’t waver. “And Max felt it too.”
Max, who had been quiet until now, nodded. His small hands clenched against his knees. “There were wards. Strong ones. Layers of protective magic woven into the walls. Like… like someone was keeping the thing contained.”
Alec’s voice was low, controlled, but there was a fire behind it that hadn’t been there moments ago. “If someone built that prison… then they knew what it was. They knew what it could do.”
“And they let it out,” Raphael said. His eyes flicked toward Alec, then Magnus. “Maybe not by accident.”
Alec jaw tightened as he leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing, sharp and calculating. “If someone knew enough to lock it away…” He let the words hang for a moment, voice low but edged with steel. “Then they definitely knew what it was capable of.”
Magnus looked at him, brow furrowed. “Which is…?”
Alec’s gaze swept across the group, landing briefly on each of them. “Which is that if whoever contained it understood its nature, they would also know its ability to… multiply. To split and grow back. That means—” He paused, letting the implication settle. “—that there could be more of these creatures, hidden somewhere, waiting. And if they’re planning this… whoever it is isn’t done yet.”
Raphael’s lips pressed into a thin line, tension visible in every muscle. “Exactly what I’ve been thinking. That thing wasn’t just a one-off. Whoever set this up… they were preparing for something bigger.”
The room fell still again, every face reflecting the same realization: Aster’s fight, her wounds, the coma that held her now—it might not have been chance. It might have been deliberate.
Until Alex shook his head in disbelief, his voice cracking as he muttered, “How did none of us see it? How could we have missed this?”
The anger surged in Alex’s chest, sharp and blinding. He shot up from his chair, fists clenched at his sides. His golden eyes burned with fury.
“This—” he spat, his voice trembling with rage, “this happened because of someone. Whoever did this—whoever put her in this state—” His voice broke, then roared, “I swear I will find them. And I’ll make them pay.”
The raw edge in his voice startled even Clary, but Jace was already moving. He stepped in quickly, placing a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Alex,” Jace said firmly, his tone calm but carrying the authority only he could wield. “You need to breathe. Getting lost in anger won’t help her.”
“How can you ask me to calm down!?” Alex’s voice cracked, torn between fury and grief. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His hands shook. “She’s lying in there—broken—because of them. And I was right there. I should have seen it!”
Jace squeezed his shoulder tighter, his voice lowering to something quieter, steadier. “Listen to me, son. We will find the person responsible. That’s a promise. But right now, the only thing that matters is her. She needs you steady, not burning out in rage. Do you understand me?”
Alex’s jaw trembled. He wanted to fight it—wanted to scream again—but Jace’s words hit deep, cutting through the storm just enough for him to falter, his shoulders sagging. He blinked hard, swallowing the burn in his throat.
“...Max, you're okay?”
It was Raphael’s voice, low and cautious. He was staring at his younger brother, who sat rigid on the far side of the couch, his face pale.
Max looked like he was going to be sick. His lips trembled, his small frame hunched forward as if the air itself was too heavy to bear. He couldn’t seem to lift his gaze from the floor, but his chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths.
“Max?” Raphael tried again, sharper this time. He shifted closer, lowering his head to catch his brother’s eyes. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
Max swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. Then—barely above a whisper—he forced out two broken words:
“I… did it.”
The room stilled instantly. Every heart seemed to stop.
Max finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were glassy with tears. He looked at Raphael like he was confessing to a crime that would damn him forever.
“When we were watching from the window,” he whispered, his voice shaking, “I panicked. I—” He clutched at his chest, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “My magic just—reacted. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t even realize. But I think—” His voice broke. “I think it weakened the ward. Just enough. Just enough for the monster to notice.”
His face crumpled, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. “I was the reason it got loose in the first place. I was the reason it even touched her.”
He pressed his trembling hands to his face, sobs choking out of him. “I—It’s my fault. All of it. I hurt her. I hurt Aster.”
Max’s thoughts were spinning, a whirlpool of guilt and what-ifs dragging him deeper until he barely noticed the room anymore. His eyes were fixed on the floor, unfocused, when a warm weight settled on his shoulder.
He blinked and looked up. Alec and Magnus stood in front of him—his dads, both steady, both present.
Magnus’s gaze softened, but his voice was firm.
“None of this,” Magnus said, “is your fault.”
Max opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Magnus held up a hand—commanding, final.
“No. Listen to me. Wards don’t simply collapse because you blinked at the wrong time. Wards like the ones you describe don’t shatter that easily. Especially not when they’re built to contain something as powerful as a creature like this. If they broke…” Magnus’s tone sharpened, slicing through the guilt Max was about to spill, “…then they were already too weak. That’s not on you.”
Alec nodded beside him, his quiet strength grounding the words. “Magnus is right. Don’t ever carry blame that isn’t yours, Max. Not for this.”
Max swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists in his lap. He wanted to protest, to say he should’ve been stronger, faster, better—but before he could, Raphael spoke from across the room.
“Without you,” Raphael said bluntly, “we’d have been dead three times over in that fight.”
Alex chimed in, his voice steady even as his jaw tightened. “Your magic saved us. Again. And again. I lost count.”
Tim leaned forward, earnest as ever. “Seriously, Max—you don’t even realize how many times you pulled us out of the fire. We wouldn’t have lasted five minutes without you.”
Max’s throat tightened, guilt and relief warring inside him. His eyes burned, but he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall—not here, not now.
Magnus squeezed his shoulder once, his hand grounding, his words gentler this time. “You did more than enough. Remember that.”
The days that followed blurred into one another. The investigation began, though it felt less like progress and more like chasing shadows. Every lead dissolved into nothing. Every potential clue unraveled before it could form a thread. The only certainty was uncertainty—something, or someone, had orchestrated what happened, but their trail was buried deep.
Still, Alec refused to let it slow him. For years, he had fought, negotiated, and argued for unity—Shadowhunters, Downworlders, Warlocks, Vampires, Seelies, Werewolves—all bound not by suspicion, but by alliance. Decades of division had cost them lives. He wouldn’t allow it to cost them the future.
Finally, after years of struggle and persuasion.
The Council Hall of Alicante shimmered under the witchlight. For the first time in centuries, Shadowhunters and Downworlders filled the same room not as rivals, but as equals. The banners of the Nephilim and the Downworld factions hung side by side, each bearing silent witness to history being written.
This was the birth of the Shadow Alliance Council.
It had taken years of relentless effort—endless negotiations, broken promises, bitter debates. And through it all, Alec Lightwood had been the steady hand, the voice refusing to give up. He had pushed, argued, and pleaded until walls began to crumble and trust, however fragile, began to grow. The vision was simple: a council where every faction had a seat, a voice, and a vote. A place where bloodshed would no longer be the only answer.
And now, the council was real. Seats had been claimed: Shadowhunters representing Institutes worldwide, High Warlocks from every major city, Seelie ambassadors, vampire elders, and pack leaders from the largest werewolf clans. The council would govern together, vote together, and decide together. It was fragile, unfinished, and risky—but it was the first real step toward peace.
And Alec Lightwood wasn’t there.
At the head of the chamber, Jace stood tall in his brother’s place, his gold hair catching the light from the runes burning on the walls. He looked the part—confident, commanding—but even his closest allies knew that he hadn’t wanted to be here. He would have preferred to stand by Alec, by the hospital bed in the Loft, where Aster was still unconscious.
Magnus hadn’t come either. Instead, Lorenzo Rey, dressed in an immaculate emerald coat, had taken the seat reserved for the High Warlock of Brooklyn. His expression was smug, as if the entire arrangement were a performance staged for his benefit.
The hall whispered with anticipation. The vote for who would lead the newly-formed Shadow Alliance Council was about to begin. For years Alec had fought for this—nights of arguments, months of endless negotiations, sacrifices that pulled him away from his family again and again. And now, when his dream was finally at hand, he wasn’t there to see it.
Back at the Loft, the world was falling apart.
Aster lay motionless, her skin pale against the white sheets. Weeks of stillness had left her thin, fragile, her body a battlefield between life and loss. The quiet hum of wards mingled with the faint beeping of monitors Catarina had insisted on. Alec sat vigil by her bed, his hand never leaving hers, his gaze fixed on her face as if sheer will could keep her tethered.
The peace shattered in an instant.
Her body jolted, muscles twisting in violent spasms. A strangled cry broke from her throat, tearing through the stillness.
“Aster!” Alec surged forward, panic cracking his voice. He braced her shoulders, terrified of hurting her but more terrified of letting her slip away. “Stay with me, little star. I’ve got you. I’m here.”
Magnus was at her side in a flash, rings clinking as his hands hovered, his magic trembling at his fingertips. He wanted—needed—to fix this, but he knew better than to unleash power blindly. This was not a wound nor a curse. It was her own body turning against her.
Catarina was already moving, sharp and calm, her healer’s authority cutting through the chaos. “It’s happening again.” Her tone was grim. “Second seizure in less than a week. Her brain’s still misfiring from the coma.”
Alec’s face went rigid. “Again? But you said—after the first one—”
“I said it could happen,” Catarina interrupted, supporting Aster’s head with practiced care, her hands steady even as her voice softened. “Comas aren’t predictable. The brain fights for rhythm, and sometimes it collapses into this. It’s neurological stress. The longer she stays under, the harder her system struggles to stabilize.”
Aster’s body shook violently, her small hands twitching in Alec’s grasp. A faint whimper broke from her lips.
Alec bent over, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice fierce and breaking. “I’m here, Aster. I won’t let you go."
Time stretched mercilessly until the spasms eased, her body sagging limp against the pillows. Her breathing rasped unevenly, shallow but steadying.
Catarina let out a slow breath. “She’s stabilizing again. But two seizures this close together… that means her brain is still under immense strain. We’ll need to adjust everything—her fluids, her meds, her monitoring. And be ready. This could happen again.”
Magnus pressed his lips gently to the back of Aster’s hand, his jaw tight, his eyes glimmering with a grief and fury too heavy to name.
Back at the meeting.
At the front, the Clave’s envoys sat stiffly, their pristine gear polished to perfection. Behind them were the Consul’s aides, scribes ready to record every word. To their left sat the leaders of the Institutes from Idris, London, Paris, and Tokyo. On the opposite side, Downworlders filled the seats: the High Warlocks of Paris, Rio, and Los Angeles; faerie nobles in jeweled armor; vampire elders with sharp smiles; werewolf alphas with tense shoulders.
The air buzzed with suspicion. Centuries of grudges and bloodshed did not vanish in a single meeting, no matter how carefully Alec Lightwood had worked to build this council.
And Alec was not here.
The murmur rose the moment the hall settled, whispers rippling through the crowd like a restless tide.
“Where is the Head of the New York Institute?”
“He is the one who demanded this council—now he hides?”
“Lightwood built this… and abandons it?”
At the dais, Jace straightened his back. The weight of dozens of eyes bore into him—Shadowhunter and Downworlder alike, skeptical, distrustful. His gold hair caught the glow of the runes carved into the walls, but there was no hiding the tightness in his jaw.
He raised his voice, clear and steady.
“Alec is not here today—for reasons beyond his control. His daughter is gravely ill, and both he and Magnus Bane remain at her side.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Some eyes softened, others hardened. A Seelie noble scoffed quietly.
“So we gather for history, and he chooses to neglecting his duty?”
Jace’s hand curled at his side, but he didn’t let his temper show. “He chose to save his daughter’s life. That is not abandonment. But hear me clearly—this council was Alec Lightwood’s vision. He spent years fighting for it, bleeding for it, convincing every one of you that we could build something better than endless war. I stand here only for today. I am not his replacement. I am his voice, until he returns.”
There was a beat of silence before murmurs broke again.
The High Warlock of Paris leaned forward, eyes glinting. “If Lightwood is absent, who then presides over this council? A stand-in cannot hold authority indefinitely.”
From the Clave’s side, a Consul’s aide added coolly, “It must be decided who holds the chair. The council cannot function leaderless.”
The words cracked open the tension in the room. Voices rose at once.
“The Shadowhunters should lead—it is our law, our blood that defends this world.”
“The Downworld will not bow again—we demand equal power.”
“Perhaps a rotation—each faction leads in turn.”
“A vote, then. We must vote.”
Jace let the storm surge for a moment, then slammed his palm against the table. The rune-light flickered with the force of his voice.
“This council was never meant to be about one race ruling the rest. Alec built it to end exactly that cycle. Shadowhunters, warlocks, faeries, vampires, werewolves—we all sit here as equals. That was his promise, and it will be honored. No one takes this chair until we decide together how it should be filled.”
The hall was a storm contained by stone. Voices overlapped, sharp and urgent, every sentence weighted with centuries of mistrust. The first attempt at silence had already crumbled.
The Consul’s aide straightened his papers, his tone dry and authoritative.
“The Clave has centuries of experience in governance. The Nephilim are trained to uphold law. If anyone must guide this council, it should be a representative of Idris. Order cannot be maintained otherwise.”
A ripple of approval passed among some Shadowhunters present—stiff-backed, grim-faced, their runes dark against pale skin.
But across the table, Downworlders bristled.
The High Warlock of Los Angeles rose half from his seat, his voice crackling with restrained power.
“Order? You call centuries of subjugation order? You made laws we never consented to, enforced them with blades and seraph fire. Do not mistake oppression for order. If this council is only a new mask for the Clave, it will not survive its first year.”
A low murmur of agreement stirred among the warlocks and werewolves present.
The Seelie ambassador leaned back, every movement regal, his silver armor catching the rune-light.
“The fae will not bow to a Shadowhunter Consul. If there must be one chair above the others, it belongs to the eldest among us. Our kind has walked this earth since the dawn of language. Who among you dares claim greater right to wisdom?”
A vampire elder scoffed, his fangs bared just enough to gleam.
“Wisdom? Or riddles? We are many, far more than your scattered courts. We endure in every city, every nation. Representation must match numbers—or is your ‘wisdom’ so fragile it cannot stand beside equality?”
The werewolf alpha of New York, Luke Garroway, slammed his hand against the table, not in anger, but to cut through the noise.
“Enough! We came here to build unity, not tear each other apart with old wounds. If this chair becomes a throne, none of us will trust it. But if there must be a guide—someone to hold the center—it should be Alec Lightwood. I saw him fight for Downworlders when no one else would. I saw him keep his word when others broke theirs. If you want proof of loyalty, look at his record.”
Murmurs spread. Some surprised, others nodding in agreement.
Lorenzo Rey, leaning back with his usual disdainful grace, finally spoke, his voice smooth as silk but carrying an edge.
“I am not generous with praise, but I have worked beside him. In New York, he organized meetings that kept us from destroying each other. He treated every faction with respect, and unlike most Nephilim, he never mistook courtesy for weakness. If there is a candidate who can balance us without bending us, it is him.”
Leila Chen, leader of the New York vampire clan, placed her hands on the table, her gaze unwavering.
“My people do not forget. Alec Lightwood came to us not with threats, but with compromise. He gave us protections when the Clave offered none. He is the reason our clan trusts this council enough to sit here today. I will support his appointment.”
A stir of agreement ran through the vampires, and even some werewolves nodded, remembering.
But a Seelie lord sneered, his voice sharp as glass.
“Touching speeches. But he is still Nephilim. Still sworn to Idris. What happens when his duty to us collides with his oaths to them? Will he choose the Downworld—or his blood?”
A Shadowhunter envoy barked a laugh, cold and sharp.
“Better that than leaving decisions to creatures of hunger and whim. At least Nephilim bleed for their duty instead of for their appetites.”
The words set the chamber ablaze again—voices rising, chairs scraping, magic humming faintly in the air as tempers strained toward violence.
One faction proposed elections—each group casting a vote.
“Democracy prevents tyranny,” a vampire argued.
“It breeds chaos,” a Shadowhunter countered.
“It is fair,” murmured a warlock.
“It is naïve,” hissed a faerie.
Another faction called for rotation—one year for Shadowhunters, one for Downworlders.
“That is balance,” Luke pressed.
“That is instability,” snapped the Consul’s aide.
“That is survival,” Leila Chen said coolly.
Others spoke of triumvirates—three leaders sharing the chair, one from each people. But the idea collapsed under its own weight before it could take form. Too many, too divided.
Jace, who had stood silent at the center, his patience unraveling, finally let his voice cut through the din.
“You’re all forgetting the point. This council wasn’t built to rule. It was built to keep us from killing each other. The chair is not a crown—it’s a tool to hold us together.”
The uproar had only just begun to settle when the Consul herself rose from her seat. Gia Penhallow’s presence alone commanded quiet—the rustle of her robes, the glint of her runes under the chamber light, the sharpness of her gaze as it cut across both Shadowhunters and Downworlders alike.
Her voice carried not with volume, but with clarity, steady and deliberate.
“For centuries,” she began, “our people have lived divided. Shadowhunters above, Downworlders below. We called it law. We called it tradition. But truthfully—it was arrogance. That arrogance gave us accords, yes, but accords twisted by mistrust and superiority. Agreements that should have been bridges instead became walls.”
The chamber stilled further. Even the fae lord who had sneered moments before leaned in, wary of her words.
Gia’s tone hardened.
“And because of that arrogance, crimes were committed—crimes by Shadowhunters, crimes by Downworlders. Whole clans destroyed, packs razed, children orphaned on both sides. We paid in blood for our inability to see past pride.”
A ripple of unease crossed the Shadowhunter envoys; some shifted in their seats, others kept their jaws clenched tight. Downworld leaders, though, listened with a wary respect—few Shadowhunters in power spoke so plainly of fault.
“But now,” Gia continued, lowering her voice so that the stillness seemed to lean closer, “we stand at the edge of something different. A second chance, perhaps the last we will ever have. Alec Lightwood created in New York what none of us had thought possible—a council where Shadowhunters and Downworlders sat as equals, making decisions not by force of blade, but by dialogue. He did so knowing the risks. He did so despite resistance from his own people. He did so because he believed in something greater than bloodlines.”
Her gaze swept the room, unflinching.
“And now we are here, in this hall, because of that seed. Because one Nephilim refused to accept that enmity was inevitable. That is not weakness. That is vision. And vision must be given the means to grow.”
Gia folded her hands over the table, her words sharp as steel.
“I propose this: Alec Lightwood be appointed as chair of this council—not merely as a representative of the Nephilim, but as the voice of balance between us. More than that, I propose he be granted authority to speak on behalf of Shadowhunters in this chamber. And in times of crisis, when hesitation would cost lives, he must have the power to approve decisions without seeking delay from the Clave.”
The words struck like a spark to dry tinder. Murmurs rose instantly—some shocked, some approving, some already calculating.
A Shadowhunter envoy stiffened, his voice tight. “You would strip Idris of oversight? Allow one man—one man—to approve policy in our name?”
Gia’s reply was immediate, her tone cold as winter glass.
“I would allow the man who built this council to act swiftly when delay would mean death. Idris has overseen centuries of stagnation and war. If we wish to avoid repeating those mistakes, then we must empower the ones willing to change.”
Leila Chen inclined her head, her voice soft but firm.
“The vampires will support this. We have seen Alec Lightwood’s decisions save lives before. Trust must be earned, and he has earned ours.”
Lorenzo Rey’s lips curved in a wry half-smile. “For once, I agree with the Consul. Bureaucracy is the enemy of survival. If this council is to mean anything, it must act. Alec Lightwood has proven he will act with reason, not vanity.”
Luke Garroway leaned forward, adding weight to their voices. “I’ve seen him stand against his own kind when they were wrong. That is not loyalty to a bloodline. That is loyalty to what is right. The wolves will support him.”
But not all were swayed. The Seelie noble’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp in every syllable.
“And when his decisions displease us? When his judgment leans toward his kind, as it inevitably must? What then?”
Gia’s answer came with no hesitation.
“Then we hold him accountable in this chamber, as equals. This power does not crown him a king—it equips him as a leader. If he abuses it, it will be stripped. But to deny him the chance is to deny ourselves the future he has already begun building.”
The chamber was hushed now, every faction weighing her words. Some fearful, some furious, but many—many—thoughtful.
Jace stood straighter, his voice low but firm as he added the final weight.
“You’ve heard her. This council doesn’t exist without Alec. He doesn’t need the title—but this council needs his visions. If you want unity, you give him the power to lead it. Otherwise, this is just another room where we argue while the world burns.”
The chamber had just begun to breathe in the possibility of consensus when a sharp voice rose from the far end of the table. It was the Seelie envoy, his silver-threaded cloak gleaming like frost under the lights. His words cut through the hall like a blade.
“Convenient, isn’t it? A council chair, granted extraordinary power, and who do you place there? Alec Lightwood—parabatai to Jace Herondale. We are not fools. We know how the Clave moves its pieces. Call it progress if you wish, but it reeks of politics as usual—an Herondale at the center of power, veiled behind the name of a Lightwood.”
A murmur stirred through the delegates, a ripple of unease. The envoy’s voice only grew sharper.
“And let us not forget: Alec Lightwood is not at this table today. He is absent in the very hour the council takes shape. Why? Because his daughter lies at death’s bed. Because he and Magnus Bane—your so-called High Warlock of Brooklyn—are consumed by their grief. Tell me, how can leaders build unity when their strength is broken by personal weakness?”
His gaze swept the chamber, cold and accusing.
“You all whisper it in private, so I will speak it aloud. What happens if the girl does not recover? Or worse—if she lingers in this fragile state for years? Alec Lightwood will be distracted, unreliable, his judgment clouded. And Magnus Bane? You expect him to think of politics when his oldest child may be lost? Their suffering weakens them—and weakness at the top endangers us all.”
The implication settled over the room like poison. A few heads turned toward Jace, eyes sharp, weighing the words.
Jace’s chair scraped back, the sound harsh as steel. He rose, golden eyes blazing with fury. His voice cut like thunder.
“Don’t. Don’t you dare speak of Aster that way.”
The envoy arched a brow, unflinching. “I speak only the truth that others avoid. Emotion makes men vulnerable.”
Jace slammed his palm against the table, the rune-light flaring along his wrist.
“She will survive. She will rise again, and you will not twist her fight into a weapon. Alec is twice the leader you’ll ever dream of standing beside. He nearly tore the Clave apart to make this council real—he fought for every Downworlder in this room. You insult not only him, but yourselves, because you know the truth of his fight. If you want to challenge someone, challenge me. But you will keep my niece’s name out of your mouth.”
The envoy’s lips curved faintly, almost mocking. “So quick to anger, Herondale. Perhaps proving my point.”
The air grew taut, sparks of warlock magic flickering as if the chamber itself braced for violence.
Then Luke Garroway stood, his calm presence pressing against the tension like a steady hand against a wound. His voice rumbled low, carrying weight across the hall.
“Enough. No child’s suffering should be dragged across this floor for debate. Alec and Magnus’s daughter is under the care of Catarina Loss—one of the greatest healers of our age—and Magnus Bane himself. They tell me she will recover, and I believe them. The girl is strong. This is no endless tragedy—it is a battle she is already fighting.”
The envoy opened his mouth, but Luke pressed on, sharper now.
“Yes, Alec is weakened by his grief. Yes, Magnus suffers beside him. They are fathers. They are human. That pain does not make them unfit to lead—it makes them dangerous to underestimate. Leaders who have lost nothing care for nothing. Leaders who have something to protect fight harder than anyone. Alec Lightwood has more reason than all of us to see this council succeed. Do not mistake love for weakness.”
The chamber quieted. The shame in the silence was heavy, though pride kept most faces unreadable. Even those who distrusted the Clave shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to be seen as siding with cruelty.
Jace, jaw tight, lowered himself back into his chair, knuckles white against the armrest, every line of him vibrating with restrained rage.
The Seelie envoy leaned back, lips thin, eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a wound inflicted—even if the blow had been blunted by Luke’s steady hand.
After Gia Penhallow’s speech and the tense exchange about Lightwood Bane’s daughter, the chamber settled into a tentative quiet. Murmurs still hummed like distant thunder, but the sharpest edges of confrontation had dulled.
Leaders on both sides leaned into discussion. Downworlders whispered among themselves, weighing trust against history, while Shadowhunters debated the limits of their authority versus the necessity of decisive leadership.
The High Warlock of Los Angeles finally spoke, his tone measured.
“Despite our doubts, it is clear that Alec Lightwood is the only one here capable of balancing the interests of all factions. He has built bridges in New York that none of us thought possible. For the sake of survival and unity, I will support his appointment—though I remain cautious.”
Several other warlocks, along with Luke and Leila Chen, nodded in agreement. “Caution,” Luke said quietly, “but action is better than stagnation. Alec Lightwood has proven his judgment, even when the odds were against him.”
Among the Shadowhunters, some older members of the Clave muttered in disapproval. They had long resented the idea of treating Downworlders as equals, and the notion of granting a Nephilim such broad authority made them bristle. A few whispered darkly about “upending tradition,” but even they hesitated when faced with the combined testimony of Gia, Jace, and Luke.
Lorenzo Rey’s voice cut through the lingering tension. “We can debate eternity, but the fact remains: the council exists because Alec Lightwood made it exist. Without him, we have no unity. Without unity, we fail every one of our people.”
At last, Gia Penhallow called for a vote. The hall grew silent, everyone aware of the significance of the moment. Each faction representative stood, one by one, signaling their approval.
Downworlders, having seen Alec’s record firsthand, largely voted in favor. Warlocks, vampires, and werewolves added their support, albeit with cautious expressions. Shadowhunters from Idris hesitated, some eyeing one another, others biting back objections, but when pressed, they too lent their votes.
The tally was clear. Even those who had doubted or opposed were now outweighed by the weight of reason, experience, and the undeniable need for leadership.
Finally, Gia Penhallow’s voice rang out, calm but resolute.
“The votes are counted. By unanimous decision of this council, Alec Lightwood is appointed chair, empowered to speak on behalf of Shadowhunters in this chamber, and entrusted with the authority to act decisively in times of emergency. The motion carries.”
A ripple of murmured acknowledgment spread, a mixture of relief, admiration, and wary acceptance. Some Downworlders smiled faintly, recognizing the rare moment of unity. Some Shadowhunters remained stiff, their traditions challenged, but none could deny the logic.
Jace leaned back, allowing himself a brief exhale of tension. Luke placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. Even in the midst of disagreement and distrust, the council had taken its first real step toward cohesion.
And elsewhere in the city, Alec Lightwood sat by his daughter’s bedside, fingers laced around her small hand, whispering promises into the silence—unaware that across the chamber, his name had been chosen as the thread holding two worlds together.
While in somewhere else
The Seelie Realm
The air shimmered with an unnatural glow, as if the very fabric of the realm breathed with enchantment. Ancient trees, their trunks silver as moonlight and leaves shimmering with emerald fire, stretched endlessly into the horizon. In the heart of this otherworldly forest stood a palace carved from living crystal, its spires catching the glow of the eternal twilight sky.
A ripple of movement broke the stillness as a Seelie guard stepped into the grand hall. His armor gleamed faintly, vines and thorns etched into its surface, and his steps echoed softly across the crystalline floor. Reaching the dais, he bowed deeply, his voice respectful yet carrying the tension of delivering important news.
“My queen,” he said with a low, formal tone.
"Everything has gone exactly as planned," he announced, head still lowered. "Anastasia succeeded in opening the gate between realms."
From the shadows of her throne, the woman emerged, every movement deliberate, every step measured like a predator surveying her domain. She was breathtaking in a way that unsettled the eye—beauty too perfect, too sharp, like a blade disguised as a rose. Her hair spilled like molten gold, threaded with hints of starlight, while her eyes gleamed the green of deep forests after rain, layered with secrets too ancient to name. The gown she wore seemed alive, shimmering and shifting colors with every breath she took. A crown of twisted branches, budding with glowing flowers, rested upon her brow, both regal and dangerous.
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised both wonder and ruin. With a delicate wave of her hand, she dismissed him.
The guard bowed once more, stepping back until he vanished beyond the crystal doors, his footsteps echoing softly. Silence stretched across the hall, broken only by the faint hum of magic in the walls.
Alone now, the woman let her smile widen, her voice carrying like a whisper through the chamber.
“So… it begins,” she murmured, her tone equal parts affection and menace. She tilted her head, golden hair catching the light as her lips curved into a smile.
“It seems the time has come to meet my little raven.”