Chapter Text
The Institute – Late Night
Jocelyn stood outside Jace’s door, fingers hovering inches above the doorknob, her heart pounding with a rhythm she hadn’t felt since she was a soldier instead of a mother. She wasn’t sure which one she was tonight. Her hand trembled.
Was she a good person?
She used to think so. Once. But that version of herself was dissolving quickly, eroded by years of war, loss, and now—this choice. A good person wouldn’t be standing in a hallway, dagger hidden beneath her coat, preparing to slip into her long-lost son’s room to murder him while he slept.
Long-lost son. The phrase stabbed at her.
But Jace wasn’t the boy she had imagined all those years. Not anymore.
She had seen what Jonathan—her first son—had become, and she had seen glimpses of what Jace could be. The way he moved, too graceful. The way he fought, too brutal. Valentine’s training had carved something monstrous into him. She couldn’t stop remembering when Jonathan was just a toddler and drained the life from flowers with a flick of his finger, delighting in their collapse. That power had only been the seed. What had grown inside Jace?
Shadowhunter training, demon blood, abandonment. She could not let him mature into the full expression of whatever dark creation Valentine had intended.
Maybe this makes me a hypocrite, Jocelyn thought bitterly. A racist, even. To fear his blood when so many Downworlders live in peace despite their origins.
But Jonathan had never been harmless. Neither had anything Valentine made.
Except Clary.
And even Clary... was unnatural.
Jocelyn braced herself, breathing in. She reached for the knob.
That’s when she heard it.
A low, guttural growl, deep and resonant, not human—but not entirely bestial either.
Her spine stiffened. Her hand retracted instantly.
A hellhound.
But she saw nothing. The hallway was empty.
And then her heart dropped. Cara’s hellhound.
Where the creature prowled, Cara Batiste was never far behind.
She didn’t have time to react. A hand clamped over her mouth, and she was spun with jarring force—slammed against the cold wall with expert precision. Jocelyn’s dagger was ripped from her coat before she could blink.
Golden eyes, serpentine and unblinking, stared into hers with such concentrated fury Jocelyn couldn’t speak. She tried to breathe, but every inch of her soul felt exposed under the warlock’s gaze.
This was not Magnus’s playful sharpness, masked beneath humor and charm.
This was pure, raw power. Ancient. Judging.
"You know," Cara said, her voice low and vibrating with dangerous calm, “I really hate Shadowhunters.”
Her lips curled with bitter disdain as she leaned closer, her breath cold against Jocelyn’s cheek.
“You all swear your judgment is divine. That your decisions are always the best decisions.”
She twisted Jocelyn’s arm a fraction higher, just enough to make her wince.
“But it’s not. And most of the time, it gets innocent people—children—killed.”
Cara's eyes narrowed.
“I spent months helping you find your son. Tracking Valentine. Getting tortured contacts to give up his location. Rescuing Downworlder captives so we could focus on saving Jace.”
Her voice cracked slightly with disbelief. “And here you are—planning to slit his throat in his sleep.”
Jocelyn struggled, but Cara held firm.
“I had to,” Jocelyn snapped through clenched teeth. “You don’t understand what he is. I saw what Jonathan did when he was still in diapers. He consumed life without remorse. Jace has the same blood—and lethal training on top of it.”
Cara laughed, sharp and humorless.
“Oh, right. ‘Lethal. Dangerous. Too powerful. Has demon blood.’”
She tilted her head mockingly.
“Sounds like every Downworlder I’ve ever met. Including me.”
Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
“I have demon blood, Jocelyn. But I’m not the one plotting to murder my child.”
Before Jocelyn could speak again, the pounding of boots echoed down the corridor.
Alec appeared first, bow drawn, eyes sharp and wild with adrenaline. Clary and Isabelle were right behind him, still dressed in mission gear, blood and soot smudging their faces.
Alec’s gaze landed on Cara pinning Jocelyn to the wall and he stormed forward.
“Cara, what the hell are you doing?”
Cara didn’t flinch. She slowly released Jocelyn and took a step back, but her golden eyes never left her prey.
“Oh, nothing,” she said with venomous sarcasm, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “Just went to get some water and happened to stumble on mommy dearest sneaking into Jace’s room with a dagger—intent to kill.”
Clary’s gasp was so sharp it felt like a slap.
She stared at her mother, eyes wide, voice cracking.
“Is that true?”
Jocelyn stood frozen, exposed, and oddly defiant. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“You’re right,” Clary hissed, voice shaking with emotion. “I don’t. But I finally got my brother back. And you were going to take him from me again. Forever.”
Clary’s voice broke. “You’re as bad as Valentine.”
That hurt more than any spell.
Jocelyn flinched.
“I don’t want you near Jace,” Clary continued, eyes burning. “And I don’t want you near me. You’re dead to me, Mom.”
Jocelyn’s mouth opened, but no sound came. The pain in her chest was unbearable. Even her pride couldn't protect her now.
Inside Jace’s Room
He woke in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled around him like restraints. He panted, trying to remember where he was.
Not Valentine’s ship.
Not in battle.
The Institute.
Safe.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
Dreams. Always dreams. Fire. Screams. Hands pulling him underwater. A woman’s voice, begging him to choose the light.
Then he heard it.
Voices.
Shouting.
His name.
Jace slid out of bed and cracked the door slightly, just enough to hear.
Cara’s voice. Clary’s voice. Alec’s outrage.
And then—
“You were going to kill him in his sleep.”
His chest tightened.
“You’re dead to me.”
That last one was Clary.
His heart shattered. Not from what she said—but from who she said it to.
He backed away from the door, shaking. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands.
He had dreamed for years about having a mother.
Now he knew the truth.
She had never wanted him.
And if Cara’s hellhound hadn’t been there to protect him—she would have killed him.
Why?
What was he?
Institute – Lower Level Interrogation Room
7:32 A.M.
The cold metal chair creaked under Jace’s weight as he leaned forward, elbows braced against the stark metal table. The walls around him were sterile gray, pulsing faintly with a Warding rune to prevent tampering or eavesdropping. There was a two-way mirror to his right, but he didn’t need to see through it to know someone was watching. Probably more than one someone.
Across from him sat Lydia Branwell—stoic as always, dressed in pristine Clave uniform black, her red hair coiled into a perfect braid that didn’t shift even as she tilted her head slightly and slid a parchment-like tablet across the table.
“Start from the beginning,” she said, voice clipped but not unkind. “Tell me everything you remember about your time on the ship with Valentine.”
Jace exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. His fingers were trembling. He hated that she could see that.
“It’s...hard to explain,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “He kept me isolated most of the time. But not locked up. It was... worse than a cell. He gave me freedom—just enough to make me think I had a choice.”
Lydia gave a small nod, gesturing for him to continue.
Jace’s throat tightened. “He talked to me like I was his legacy. Said I was what the Clave should’ve always been—perfect. Fast. Strong. Loyal. He made me train with him every morning. Hand-to-hand, blade drills, tracking exercises... but everything had this sick... ideology behind it. Like every mission was to purge weakness.”
“And you complied?”
Jace flinched at the word. “I thought I had to.”
He looked up at her then, eyes red-rimmed but defiant.
“He told me I was like him. That no one else would ever understand me. He made me believe I was better off without the Institute—without Alec or Izzy or Clary.”
His voice faltered. “It wasn’t until Cara and Magnus broke in that I realized... I didn’t want to be anything like him.”
Lydia’s pen hovered over her tablet. “Did he ever ask you to harm civilians or Downworlders directly?”
Jace blinked. “No,” he said. “Not directly. But he planted the idea. Kept saying things like ‘it’s better when they’re afraid of you’ or ‘Downworlders were made to serve Nephilim.’ He said the Clave had gone soft.”
Lydia frowned. “And did you agree?”
“No.” Jace’s voice was sharp. “Not once.”
But his eyes betrayed him. The smallest flicker of guilt passed through them. Lydia didn’t miss it.
“Then tell me, why is there a hellhound—one that only you and a warlock can see—guarding your door at night?”
Jace stared at her, caught off guard by the shift in topic.
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I don’t know,” he said more forcefully this time, hands clenched on the table. “Ask Cara. It’s hers.”
“We have,” Lydia replied calmly. “She said it follows its own instincts. That’s not a comforting answer.”
“It didn’t hurt anyone,” Jace muttered. “Except... it growled at my mother.”
Lydia folded her hands together. “Yes. About that.”
Jace’s jaw clenched.
“She came into my room to kill me,” he said quietly. “If the hellhound hadn’t been there—if Cara hadn’t been there—I’d be dead.”
“She claims she was protecting the Institute.”
Jace laughed bitterly. “She was protecting herself. From the idea that her perfect image of me was ruined.”
“Be that as it may,” Lydia said, tone even, “word has gotten out that you were nearly assassinated by Jocelyn Fairchild... and that you’re now under the protection of an invisible demonic creature. People are talking.”
“People always talk,” Jace said, then his voice dropped. “Especially when there’s demon blood involved.”
Lydia looked at him, her expression softening for a beat.
“Do you believe you’re a threat, Jace?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting against the table’s edge.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he whispered.
Silence filled the room. Not even Lydia wrote anything down. The air felt heavy.
“I still dream of her,” he said suddenly, as if the words had been waiting at the back of his throat all morning. “Cara.”
Lydia raised an eyebrow. “The warlock?”
Jace gave a short nod. “I barely know her, and yet... in every nightmare, she’s there. Pulling me out. Always just before it gets too dark.”
He looked down at his hands. “I don’t understand what that means.”
Lydia closed her tablet and set it aside.
“It means,” she said, standing slowly, “that you’re human. And you’re traumatized.”
She paused at the door, then added, “It also means you should probably ask her. Before someone else starts interpreting your silence for you.”
And then she was gone.
Outside the Interrogation Room – Upper Hallway
As the door clicked shut behind Lydia, Jace remained sitting for a long moment. Alone.
He looked at the chair across from him, imagining Valentine sitting there instead.
Then at the mirror, where Clave officials likely still watched him like a ticking bomb.
And finally, at the empty corner of the room—where he swore for a second he saw a golden flicker of eyes, low to the floor. Watching. Waiting.
He didn’t speak to it.
But he nodded once.
And the flicker disappeared.
The Loft – Magnus’s Study – Late Evening
The city lights of New York glittered outside Magnus’s loft windows like distant stars. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon, wine, and ozone—leftovers from a minor potion mishap earlier that day. Magnus sat perched on the edge of his velvet fainting couch, fingers steepled under his chin, golden cat-eyes flickering with thought.
Across from him, Cara lounged in his emerald armchair, one leg tucked under the other, a glass of deep red wine untouched in her hand. Her expression was unreadable, but Magnus knew her too well not to notice the subtle tension radiating off her shoulders.
He exhaled sharply. “Cara.”
She looked up, eyes narrowing slightly, already bracing herself.
Magnus’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Why do you look at Jace like that?”
Cara said nothing at first. Her eyes flicked away to the window, to the skyline, to anywhere but him.
“Like he’s a miracle,” Magnus pressed gently. “Like he’s precious. Like he’s a dream you never thought you’d see again.”
Still, she said nothing.
Magnus stood, slowly, walking toward the window, then turned to face her.
“Even Anubis guards him like he’s your most sacred possession,” he added. “He doesn’t follow anyone unless you order him. And I know you didn’t give that order.”
Cara’s throat bobbed, and finally she whispered, “I didn’t.”
“Then why?”
Her voice was low. “Because... Anubis remembers him.”
Magnus frowned. “Remembers?”
Cara finally looked at him. Her eyes were glowing faintly gold, as if her magic pulsed with every breath. “When I created Anubis... it was as a gift. A wedding gift. For my mate. My chosen.”
She paused. “We were married under the stars, during the final years of the Roman Empire. A Nephilim warrior with a soul as fierce as fire and eyes like stormlight. We were bonded. Deeply.”
Magnus blinked, stunned into silence.
“I built Anubis from my own blood and magic,” Cara said, her voice faraway. “To protect him. Only him. That hound is bound to the soul of the one I gave him to.”
Magnus felt something inside him twist. “So when he saw Jace...”
“He saw him. His master. And he obeyed. Because to Anubis, there’s no doubt. His chosen is back.”
Magnus let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “But you know that’s not possible.”
Cara gave him a sharp, aching look. “Do I?”
Magnus hesitated.
“I felt the claim mark ignite,” Cara said. Her fingers instinctively touched the spot on her wrist where a faint glow pulsed beneath her skin. “The burn doesn’t lie, Magnus. It only reacts to soul-deep connection. And mine has been screaming since I laid eyes on him.”
“But that was 7,000 years ago,” Magnus said quietly, awed and pained. “He would’ve been reincarnated dozens of times by now.”
“I never felt the bond again in anyone else,” she whispered. “Not once. Not even faintly. Until now.”
Magnus moved to sit beside her, eyes searching hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Cara took a trembling breath. “When you haven’t touched your soulmate in 7,000 years... and then suddenly, they’re standing in front of you, broken, bleeding, beautiful... and they don’t know you... they don’t remember you... but everything in your body is begging you to touch them, to finish the claim, to fall back into the magic that was once yours... it’s overwhelming.”
Magnus looked away, jaw tight. “I haven’t completed my claim with Alec. I don’t even know if I will. Not yet.”
“Exactly,” she said gently. “So you don’t know what it’s like when it has been completed. When the bond ran deep enough that you could feel his every wound, every joy, every time he doubted himself.”
She stood, slowly, as if the weight of memory made her limbs heavier.
“When we were fully bonded, he could use my magic, Magnus,” she said. “Not just spells. My knowledge. My defensive shields. I once felt him fall in battle a continent away—and I still got there in time.”
Magnus swallowed, overwhelmed. “You’ve carried that pain... all this time?”
Cara gave a mirthless smile. “You think Camille was a hard love to lose? Try watching centuries pass, praying every lifetime that you’ll find him again. That he’ll remember. That you’ll remember each other.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Then comes Jace,” Magnus said slowly. “Golden hair. Stubborn soul. Demon blood... and yet, somehow, still innocent.”
Cara nodded. “And I don’t know what to do. Because part of me wants to fall into the bond again and pick up where we left off. But the other part... the part that’s lived through too much... is terrified.”
Magnus took her hand, gently. “Whatever you decide, I’ll stand beside you.”
Cara looked down at their joined hands, her voice a whisper. “I don’t know if I can bear to lose him a second time.”