Chapter Text
I stand at my old post still unable to fathom I'm standing right back where I was elected at eighteen and then demoted at twenty-one. My fingers drum against the desk before I stop myself immediately, already irritated by the awful metallic tinny sound reverberating through the office. First order of business. Replace the fucking desk with wood. Real wood, not whatever industrial nightmare this was supposed to be. Every noise in this place echoed. It made the Institute feel less like a home and more like a morgue pretending to be an office building.
I had finished my Leadership and Management programme in Boston with honours. Then followed it with political framework studies and Downworlder jurisdiction models at Verdant Veil. Both done a year ago. One year later and the Clave had practically sent out a public distress flare asking for applicants willing to take over from Michelle Ash. Officially it had been framed as “seeking experienced leadership suitable for evolving interspecies relations within New York.” Which in Clave language translated to: this place is collapsing and nobody important wants responsibility for it. The real issue though hadn't been the applications. It had been Magnus. Every candidate the Clave pushed forward had apparently hit the same wall. High Warlock approval pending. Pending. Pending. Pending. Three years Michelle had operated with Magnus ignoring her existence unless legally required to acknowledge her. And if Magnus Bane ignored you in New York, your authority became theoretical.
So I applied.
Not because I was confident. I wasn't Marisol Reyes. Marisol walked into disaster zones and somehow made everyone calmer simply by existing. She negotiated politics like breathing. I still approached half this shit like a soldier trying to solve emotional problems with tactical frameworks. But I had promised Magnus five years. Five years for him to adjust to the idea of me and him becoming something again. Five years for him to stop looking at me like I was simultaneously dangerous and heartbreaking. And maybe this wasn't about strategy at all. Maybe this was me moving my piece onto the board and forcing him to acknowledge it.
I had told Jace I was returning to New York expecting resistance, sarcasm maybe, or one of his increasingly insightful looks where he dissected me like Elara taught him to. Instead he had simply shrugged and said he'd come if I wanted him there. Just like that. No theatrics. No argument. Which honestly unsettled me more than if he had yelled. Jace liked the Spire. He thrived there in a way I don't think any of us expected possible. Vance had somehow managed to take Jace's destructive instincts and redirect them into usefulness without dulling him down into obedience. Terrifying skill honestly. If Jace ever starts acting feral again I'm genuinely going to have to ask Vance for a manual. The fact Jace was willing to leave his entire life there behind for New York — shitty dorms, low pay, endless stress, constant political migraines — lodged itself unpleasantly in my chest. Warm. Heavy. Family felt different now. Less ownership. More choice. Jace choosing us mattered more than the old obligation ever had.
Today was handover day.
Michelle Ash was downstairs with several Consul representatives finishing the final reports and transfer documents while I remained in the office trying not to develop a stress-induced eye twitch before officially taking command. Magnus also had to attend because technically New York jurisdiction required the High Warlock's acknowledgement for major leadership transitions involving Downworld treaties.
He was late.
Which honestly annoyed me more than it should have because Magnus used to make me stand outside restaurants twenty minutes early in the rain just because he “wanted to experience the atmosphere before crowds ruined it.” Not even for reservations. Openings. He once dragged me to a bakery launch because apparently “croissants taste different during inaugural hours.” Completely insane behaviour.
...My insane behaviour hopefully.
Soon.
Hopefully.
I exhale slowly and glance around the office again, cataloguing problems automatically now because Boston had trained me to identify structural inefficiencies while Verdant Veil had taught me every structural inefficiency eventually became a moral failing if ignored long enough. Fred had agreed to design proper New York uniforms as a goodbye gift which was genuinely one of the nicest things anyone had done for me. Problem being New York was still catastrophically broke. Michelle apparently never once considered threatening the Clave for increased funding despite operating the single most politically volatile Institute in North America. Which explained why nobody wanted postings here. Downworld violence numbers were absurd. Demon incursions remained high. Morale was nonexistent. Magnus had refused involvement for years. And because nobody wanted to suggest Magnus Bane was the issue — since accusing an ancient Prince of Hell-adjacent power structures of negligence was effectively suicide — the Clave instead decided Michelle was easier to replace.
Cowards.
The uniforms annoyed me instantly. No consistency. Just random combat gear mixed with civilian clothes and outdated Clave armour. One Shadowhunter walked past wearing tactical boots, leather combat trousers and what looked like an old band hoodie. Another had a full weapons harness over business casual. What the fuck was this. Why was everyone running? Why were weapons left unsecured near the stairwell? Why was the lighting so dim? Why did this place smell faintly damp? I hated all of it immediately.
There was too much to fix.
Training programmes needed rebuilding. Recruitment was dead. The dormitories were depressing enough to qualify as psychological warfare. Food budgets barely supported current staff. We had no initiates. No pipeline. No future structure. No public outreach. No active Downworld trust systems. The Collection functioned like a bunker waiting for eventual collapse instead of an Institute meant to govern and protect.
Fuck, I wished Fred had agreed to come.
But Fred refused because Orlando was home and because despite all his complaining he believed in Marisol completely. He told me he was one phone call away any hour of the day and somehow that reassurance only made this feel heavier. Because it meant people trusted me now. Not the old version of me. Not the boy desperately pretending certainty was leadership. Me.
Jace coming complicated things further because Vance already informed me Jace would technically remain a Spire Operative while stationed here. Which meant politics. Oversight. Territorial tension. The Clave hated external influence unless they controlled it themselves.
I lean back slightly staring at the ceiling.
I didn't miss this.
Not the politics. Not the constant impossible equations. Not trying to create answers from systems fundamentally designed to fail. And the worst part was I couldn't run New York the way I did before. I couldn't pretend the Clave's version of order was enough anymore. I had seen the Veil. Seen sanctuary. Seen Downworlders treated like citizens instead of tolerated hazards. I had watched Marisol negotiate peace without fear tactics. Watched Orlando rebuild broken people instead of weaponising them.
The Collection wasn't part of the Veil.
And standing here now, in this dark crumbling office that still remembered the version of me that nearly killed himself trying to uphold Clave ideals, I realised with horrible certainty that I could not lead New York in good conscience unless that changed.
Michelle Ash walks out of the conference room clutching a stack of files against her chest hard enough the paper bends slightly beneath her fingers. Five years ago when I first met her she had been sharp edged confidence wrapped in immaculate presentation. Michelle had walked around like every answer already existed and everyone else simply needed to catch up to her thought process. Now though? Now she looked like a woman one unexpected sound away from developing a twitch.
I watch her jump slightly when one of the younger Shadowhunters drops a blade downstairs.
Interesting.
I don't know if Magnus actively did something to her over the years or if his absence alone had caused this level of deterioration. Honestly with Magnus it could genuinely be either. Being ignored by him long enough had a way of making people unravel because New York functioned around him whether anyone admitted it or not. The High Warlock wasn't just political infrastructure here. He was environmental stability. Remove him and suddenly everything starts rotting at the edges.
The reports Michelle hands over are worse than I expected.
Demon possession cases up thirty percent over three years. Lesser demonic infestations becoming increasingly coordinated. Entire hordes of imps repeatedly emerging through weak points in Lower Manhattan like something was intentionally testing barrier integrity. Werewolf territorial disputes escalating because none of the pack leaders can agree who should hold authority after Luke stepped back. Maya had won leadership fairly and violently enough no one could dispute the challenge itself, but apparently some of the older pack leaders couldn't stomach taking orders from a woman young enough to be their granddaughter.
Idiots.
Then there were the sirens and mermaids.
Apparently the entire bay region had become increasingly bloodthirsty and territorial ever since Valentine's death.
Which had been another fucking revelation.
Because apparently Magnus Bane neglected to mention he'd quietly exterminated the remaining Circle stragglers after Jace's rescue mission five years ago. I only found out because Michelle's archived reports referenced “the maritime incident.” Maritime incident my ass. The attached statement from Magnus was infuriatingly vague. An accident occurred at sea resulting in the deaths of remaining Circle members and Valentine Morgenstern. No elaboration. No official testimony. Nothing.
I rub my forehead slowly.
Why the fuck hadn't he reported that immediately?
Or later.
Or literally any time during the multiple emotionally catastrophic encounters we'd had since then.
Although admittedly after Jace punched him in the stomach our reunion had spiralled somewhat away from administrative transparency.
Still.
Valentine dying at sea at Magnus's hands felt like the kind of information people should maybe know.
The building falls quieter suddenly.
Then I hear it.
An engine.
Not the rattling uneven sounds most Institute vehicles make either. Smooth. Expensive. Controlled. Michelle straightens immediately before hurrying toward the entrance herself instead of making someone else do it. Which honestly tells me everything I need to know about how interactions with Magnus have gone these past few years.
The front doors open.
Magnus steps from the car like the entire world exists purely to frame him correctly.
Chairman appears first, immaculate in his tiny white butler uniform, little cat ears twitching atop his head while multiple tails sway behind him with visible judgement toward literally everything around him. He extends a paw delicately while Magnus exits the vehicle with the lazy elegance of someone entirely aware every person nearby has stopped breathing correctly.
And fuck.
Five years.
Five years and seeing him still feels like staring directly into sunlight after living underground.
He's dressed elaborately even by his standards. Dark suit layered beneath embroidered fabrics and gold detailing that should honestly look ridiculous but instead somehow makes every other person in existence appear unfinished by comparison. Cane in one hand. Hat tilted slightly. Rings gleaming beneath the weak Institute lights. His shoes shine enough I can practically see my reflection in them.
Exquisite.
There genuinely isn't another word for him.
I let out a breath before realising I'd apparently stopped breathing entirely the moment he stepped out of the car.
Then Magnus looks up at The Collection itself.
And scowls.
Not subtle irritation either. Immediate visible regret. His nose wrinkles slightly beneath perfectly applied makeup while his golden eyes sweep across the building with the same expression most people reserve for discovering mould in expensive wine.
Ah.
So he still hates this place.
Good to know some things remain constant.
The Consul representatives and Michelle practically descend on him the second he crosses the pavement, all stiff smiles and cautious body language. It would almost be funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Every movement Magnus makes seems accounted for by everyone around him, like they're all trying to predict weather patterns before a storm hits. His every step matters. Every pause creates tension. Every glance makes someone stand straighter.
Magnus suddenly stops halfway up the steps.
Taps his cane once.
Chairman instantly darts forward with horrifying efficiency, crouching to polish something invisible from the stone before Magnus even looks fully offended by it. The tiny demon smooths the fabric of his little sleeves afterwards with immense dignity while Magnus watches the step like it personally insulted his bloodline.
Then he continues upward.
The second he crosses the threshold Michelle opens her mouth to speak.
Magnus turns his head slowly and shoots her a single look.
Michelle physically withers.
Not metaphorically either. Her shoulders actually dip. Her voice dies before existing. It is genuinely incredible how terrifying Magnus can be without raising his voice. At twenty-one I used to think he was theatrical. Dramatic. Larger than necessary. Now though? Now I understand the scale difference properly. Magnus isn't performing dominance. People genuinely orbit him.
He bends slightly and Chairman delicately removes his hat with the sort of reverence priests probably reserve for holy artefacts. Magnus immediately hands his cane and massive overcoat to Michelle without even looking at her, relegating the Head of the New York Institute into becoming an expensive coat rack in under thirty seconds.
Honestly impressive.
"When are you getting better lighting?" Magnus demands while sweeping further into the building.
Immediately everyone shifts with him.
Conversations stop mid sentence. Shadowhunters straighten. Even the Consul representatives subtly reposition themselves toward him like flowers turning toward sunlight. The entire room reorients around Magnus's existence instinctively. His words become the centre point of the building.
Michelle hurries after him clutching his coat carefully. "Lord Bane has generously offered to replace all lighting syst—"
Magnus stops walking.
The silence afterwards is surgical.
Then slowly, visibly deciding Michelle is incapable of surviving this interaction without assistance, he turns his attention toward the Consul members instead.
Poor Michelle.
I honestly have to stop myself smiling watching him move through the Institute like this. Five years ago I understood Magnus emotionally but not structurally. I saw my boyfriend. My Magnus. I didn't understand what everyone else saw when he entered rooms.
Now I do.
Now I watch an ancient political force evaluating infrastructure failure in real time while every person around him waits for judgement.
"I'm sorry," Magnus says softly, voice edged with irritation. "Do you hear a buzzing?"
Nobody answers.
"Open the windows. Air the crypt."
One of the younger Shadowhunters immediately rushes toward the nearest corridor.
Magnus glances upward at the flickering lights with visible disgust before continuing. "Also, I donate billions. Actual billions. Do you truly want me requesting detailed financial breakdowns and receipts for every expenditure? Because I will."
The Consul representative nearest him goes pale.
"This place is a hell hole," Magnus continues conversationally, "and while I admit there is a certain charm in observing Nephilim suffering through self-inflicted incompetence, you requested my assistance increasing enlistment into The Collection."
His rings glint as he gestures vaguely around the lobby.
"No one is going to relocate here if they cannot even see where they're walking."
The worst part is he isn't even exaggerating.
Standing there now, watching Michelle desperately clutch his coat while the Consul members scramble mentally through budget reports, I suddenly understand why the Clave waited a year for Magnus to approve a replacement instead of forcing one through.
Because Magnus already governs New York.
Official titles just determine who survives standing beside him.
I stand above the foyer balcony simply staring down at him.
I know Magnus has already sensed me. Seen me. Counted my breathing probably. But he doesn't look up immediately because Magnus Bane has always been infuriatingly capable of prioritising work over emotion when he decides something matters. Five years ago I would have taken that personally. At twenty-six though, after Boston, after Verdant Veil, after watching Marisol place diplomacy above her own exhaustion daily, I understand it now.
First work.
Then pleasure.
Doesn't mean I fucking like it.
God, I miss him.
Not abstractly either. I miss physical things. Running toward him without thinking. Feeling his hand flatten against my back guiding me through crowds. Him ruffling my hair because his true height made it easy and because apparently irritating me was one of his favourite hobbies. I miss his smile most of all. Magnus smiled like he was sharing private jokes with the universe.
Now though?
He's all sharp edges.
He hasn't stopped making everyone in the building acutely aware he's the size of a giant standing amongst mortals. Every movement is deliberate. Every glance weighted. People step aside before he reaches them instinctively.
"Lord Bane, I believe once the new Head—" begins one of the Consul members, voice calm and diplomatic in the way bureaucrats always sound right before saying something stupid.
I physically see Magnus become annoyed.
His eyes lower slowly.
His brows pull inward.
Then flatly, without raising his voice even slightly, he says:
"Shut. Up."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
And the worst part is nobody even registers it as rude. Nobody dares. The Consul immediately closes his mouth like Magnus personally removed his ability to speak.
Magnus exhales through his nose before brushing imaginary dust from one of his rings. "Let's do this quickly. I have a meeting afterwards with the new Head regarding expenditure approvals and whatever other financial disasters New York has cultivated in my absence, yes?"
Then finally he looks up at me.
Fully.
The irritation on his face sharpens instantly.
Oh.
He's still mad.
I can't help smiling anyway and giving him a tiny wave from above.
He's so fucking cute when he's angry.
His glare hardens with enough force to qualify as attempted murder.
Fred had shown me the forms months ago. Hidden away in Clave administrative archives were provisions allowing Institute Heads to apply directly to the High Warlock of their territory for infrastructural loans if Clave funding proved insufficient. Apparently several older Institutes historically survived entirely because Magnus got tired of looking at structural decay.
Asking the Clave for additional support while carrying the surname Lightwood was pointless regardless of qualifications. My grades, recommendations and achievements meant nothing compared to old political resentment. So instead I went directly to the source.
Magnus hadn't approved the request.
Instead he sent back a meeting time.
Which honestly felt significantly more dangerous.
My eyes flick toward the office clock.
10:00 AM.
Jace would arrive at 10:30.
And despite everything, despite how much time passed, despite how much all of us changed, anxiety still twists unpleasantly in my stomach thinking about Magnus and Jace occupying the same room unsupervised. Their last interaction involved Jace punching Magnus in the stomach and Izzy nearly turning Jace into decorative wall art for touching him.
I wouldn't let anyone hurt Magnus.
The thought comes automatically.
Immediate. Absolute.
And somehow that protection extends naturally toward Jace too now. Which maybe says something deeply unhealthy about me psychologically but honestly I've accepted most of my emotional landscape resembles organised chaos anyway.
Below, Magnus is ushered toward the conference office by Michelle and the Consul representatives orbiting him nervously.
I start rolling up my sleeves.
Because if I'm asking Magnus to invest billions into rebuilding New York then appearances matter. Presentation matters. Symbolism matters.
And Fred understood symbolism better than almost anyone I've ever met.
I'm currently wearing the prototype parade uniform he'd designed for New York after weeks researching the Institute's culture, violence levels, political image and practical needs. His conclusion apparently being: New York required something between military command attire and old metropolitan police ceremonial dress.
The result is fucking stunning.
Deep midnight blue lining beneath obsidian-black structure. Gold detailing sharp enough to command attention without becoming theatrical. Heavy long coat with detachable draped cape secured through reinforced lapels. Structured shoulders inspired by historical military uniforms designed to make wearers appear broader, taller, more immovable. Every stitch intentional. Every insignia positioned strategically.
Even the colours matter.
Fred knew blue was my favourite.
So the black isn't truly black at all. Under proper lighting it shifts blue like storm clouds just before rain.
The gold threading catches movement constantly. Not gaudy. Controlled.
Authority without needing to scream for it.
I glance down at the gloves resting beside the desk and honestly feel something warm tighten painfully in my chest because Fred didn't just design uniforms. He designed identity. A statement.
We do not follow.
We lead.
Very Fred.
Very New York.
And suddenly I understand why Vance still sounds personally betrayed whenever Fred refuses to design for the Spire.
"Let's do this."
I straighten the sleeves of my coat once.
I can do this.
Then I walk into the room.
Michelle sits on one side of the conference table while the Consul representatives position themselves subtly behind Magnus rather than beside her. Which honestly says everything about the last few years. Poor Michelle. Abandoned right up until her final day and now suddenly everyone remembered New York existed because the situation became politically embarrassing.
The handover documents are spread across the table in neat organised stacks. I'd already reviewed most of them beforehand but seeing them altogether is still surreal. Institute doctrine. Clave leadership expectations. Administrative conduct. Downworlder jurisdiction clauses. Budget frameworks. Emergency response structures.
And reading through them had forced an uncomfortable realisation.
Marisol, Vance and Elara had never actually broken Clave law.
Not once.
The Clave had simply forgotten its own regulations.
Which explained why none of Magnus's Veil Institutes ever got formally challenged despite everyone constantly whispering about them like they were radical experiments bordering illegality. Because on paper? They weren't doing anything wrong. There was nowhere explicitly forbidding Downworlders and Nephilim from coexisting structurally. Alicante itself proved that. Downworlders got employed all the time for specialist skills, then inevitably brought families, communities, businesses.
The difference was visibility.
In Alicante the Clave pretended not to notice.
At the Veil they acknowledged reality openly.
Vance had explained this to me months ago during one of his horrifyingly educational political lectures. He'd sat me down with old doctrine books and shown me exactly where Clave neglect created loopholes wide enough to rebuild entire systems inside.
"Institutions decay," he'd told me calmly. "Rules survive longer than the people enforcing them. Learn which laws they forgot."
At the time I thought he was being dramatic.
Turns out he was being practical.
Magnus sits at the head of the table reading through the final handover packet with complete disinterest. His face remains beautifully blank in the way only Magnus can manage. Not emotionless exactly. More... selectively absent. Bored annoyance rests across his features while his eyes stay utterly unreadable.
I enter properly and announce myself with a respectful nod toward the assembled leadership.
Magnus doesn't even glance up.
Still reading.
It's frustrating.
Deeply frustrating.
But five years ago I would've taken that personally and spiralled over it internally for three weeks. Now I just pull out my chair and survive the irritation like an adult.
Michelle signs the final transfer documentation first. Her signature looks shakier than it should.
Magnus takes the document next, scanning it briefly before signing with elegant irritation. Then immediately hands his copy toward Chairman without looking.
Chairman produces a laminated folder from seemingly nowhere and stores the paperwork away with ceremonial seriousness.
Then comes my reinstatement packet.
Magnus finally looks at me.
Those gold eyes flick over my face, my uniform, my posture, taking inventory of me in a single second before he says dryly:
"Mr Lightwood, while I greatly enjoy witnessing you standing there gobsmacked, I do require you to approach the table and sign the paperwork necessary for your new and deeply unfulfilling role."
I give him a long exasperated look.
He stares back completely unimpressed.
Fucking menace.
I lean over his shoulder to sign the papers mostly because I know it annoys him when I invade his personal space unexpectedly. Magnus smells exactly the same as I remember underneath the newer expensive perfume notes. Incense. Smoke. Jasmine. Something warm and infernal beneath it all.
Dangerous thing to notice right now honestly.
Magnus signs afterwards without comment.
Officially:
Alexander Gideon Lightwood assumes position of Head of New York Institute with approval from High Warlock Magnificus Bane.
The room pauses slightly afterwards because tradition dictates I now shake both Michelle's and Magnus's hands.
I shake Michelle's first.
Then turn toward Magnus.
Only to find him already sitting back in his chair with both hands folded neatly in his lap like an expensive judgemental statue.
Of course.
Nobody comments on it because nobody expects Magnus Bane to honour Nephilim ceremonial traditions involving physical contact. His dislike of most Institute leadership is practically historical fact at this point.
Honestly the fact he signed willingly probably counts as affection.
Michelle leaves shortly afterwards.
Not hurried exactly. Just... empty. Like someone quietly vacating a space long before physically departing it. Watching her go leaves an unpleasant heaviness in my chest. Five years ago she had presence. Authority. Now she looked worn hollow by isolation and impossible expectations.
The Consul members congratulate me afterwards on my Boston results. Apparently I remain the highest scoring graduate they've had through that programme which honestly feels less impressive after spending years around people like Elara and Marisol. Competence recalibrates your standards quickly.
Eventually they leave too.
And finally the room quiets.
I glance toward the clock.
10:20.
Which means with Vance's training standards Jace would arrive within the next ten minutes exactly on schedule because apparently the Spire turns punctuality into a religious practice.
I clear my throat lightly.
"Just as a warning," I tell Magnus carefully, "Jace will be here soon."
Magnus looks up from the paperwork with complete unimpressed stillness.
"Oh," he says flatly. "I'm positively trembling in my boots."
I roll my eyes at him.
Then right on schedule a Spire portal tears open across the office in a sharp vertical fracture of blue light.
The thing about Spire portals is they don't resemble Warlock magic at all. Warlock portals ripple. They fold space elegantly. Spire portals look engineered. Precise. Artificially stabilised through runic mathematics and technology brutally forced together until reality gives up arguing.
Magnus immediately scowls.
Not at Jace.
At the portal itself.
Jace steps through dressed in partial Spire tactical gear, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black gloves tucked into his belt while the fading remains of blue interface lines flicker briefly across his wrist implants. He barely gets both feet onto Institute flooring before Magnus snaps his fingers.
The portal collapses instantly.
Cleaner than the Spire shutdown sequence.
Jace blinks and looks behind himself. "Well. That's mildly insulting."
Magnus examines his nails lazily. "I dislike people punching holes through dimensional barriers inside buildings I technically bankroll."
"It had stabilisers."
"And yet I still hated looking at it."
Jace opens his mouth then visibly decides the argument isn't worth it.
Probably growth.
"So," Jace mutters instead while openly staring at Magnus with the same wary fascination people reserve for apex predators behind very thin glass. "Guess it's just us three."
Magnus glances around the room slowly before looking back at him.
"Were you including yourself, Wayland?" he asks mildly. "Because I only count three individuals of significance present. Myself, Chairman... and Churchill."
Magnus points downward slightly when he says Churchill.
Only then do I notice the shadow.
Long.
Distorted.
Spread across the floor without any visible body attached to it.
The shadow shifts faintly like something enormous breathing beneath black water.
Jace immediately stiffens.
Five years later and demonic things still unsettle him in a very instinctive way. Elara made him thoughtful. Vance made him dangerous. Neither cured the very human urge to avoid infernal horrors living inside shadows.
Chairman flicks one tail smugly.
"Get this started, bro," Jace mutters toward me while carefully not looking at the floor anymore. "I need sleep."
I stand and immediately regret this room all over again.
No screen.
No projection system.
No board.
Nothing.
God this place was archaic.
How did Michelle run meetings in here? Interpretive dance?
I start distributing physical documents instead, handing a copy toward Magnus first mostly because everyone in this room knows the meeting doesn't function unless he decides it does.
Magnus accepts the paperwork delicately between ringed fingers without comment.
Then I begin.
"In the attempt to revive The Collection," I say carefully, "I studied Head Reyes' framework regarding successful Institute retention and recruitment."
Jace immediately leans back in his chair listening while Magnus lowers his gaze toward the report.
"Her central conclusion," I continue, "was identity. People need something to belong to beyond military obligation. An Institute requires culture before it can create loyalty."
I glance toward Magnus to see if he's listening.
Huge mistake.
Magnus is watching me completely.
Not reading.
Not distracted.
Watching.
Gold eyes fixed directly on me without blinking, hands folded neatly in his lap with terrifying stillness. Five years apart apparently did absolutely nothing to lessen the effect of Magnus focusing entirely on someone. It still feels like standing under concentrated sunlight.
I lose my train of thought instantly.
Because of course I do.
How the fuck am I supposed to focus properly when he looks at me like that?
Then softly, almost thoughtful, Magnus murmurs:
"An identity creates investment."
The room goes quieter somehow.
Even Jace notices it, eyes flicking briefly between us with visible discomfort.
Magnus tilts his head slightly, still watching me.
"People tolerate systems," he continues calmly. "They sacrifice for identities."
And there it is again.
That thing I'd forgotten.
Magnus speaking softly while somehow making everyone else sound intellectually unfinished.
"Captain says shit like that," Jace says immediately, weirdly defensive, like Magnus accidentally quoting his personal religion offended him somehow.
I have to physically stop myself rolling my eyes.
Five years.
Five entire years and nobody has told Jace who Captain actually is.
Partly because Magnus ordered it. Mostly because Vance explained very early on that Jace psychologically functions better when attached to myth rather than reality. Jace needs grandeur. Purpose. Symbols bigger than himself. It stabilises him. Makes him feel necessary instead of abandoned.
So Captain remained a concept.
An impossible war hero.
An ideology wrapped in a person.
And somehow Magnus still found ways to accidentally annoy him about it.
Magnus smiles elegantly at Jace's reaction and for half a second one upper fang flashes accidentally beneath his lip.
"Then he must be a man of exceptional refinement and education."
Jace visibly stiffens.
Oh no.
That expression means violence is being considered.
I immediately slam my palm against the table sharply before Jace can say something catastrophic.
"Absolutely not."
Jace exhales loudly through his nose before leaning back into the chair with exaggerated suffering.
Honestly watching him and Magnus interact sometimes feels like supervising two apex predators who both believe they're the reasonable one.
I push forward before either can escalate.
"First step toward creating identity is removing the awful rags everyone here is wearing," I continue while spreading the uniform concepts across the table. "People need visual cohesion. Structure. Presence."
Chairman hops lightly onto the table edge to peer at the designs while Magnus glances downward with visible interest despite himself.
"A friend of mine already provided preliminary concepts for parade uniforms, tactical wear and military policing divisions."
Jace leans forward immediately. "Oh these are sick."
"They're not called sick anymore," I tell him automatically.
"They absolutely are."
I ignore him.
"I want all three divisions implemented eventually," I continue while tapping the documents. "Parade attire creates ceremonial identity. Tactical uniforms create operational cohesion. Military police uniforms create internal authority structure."
Magnus remains silent now, actually studying the designs properly.
Which honestly makes me nervous.
Because Magnus only becomes quiet when genuinely thinking.
I point toward the parade designs first.
"Fred based these partly on historical police ceremonial attire mixed with military command aesthetics. New York has higher civilian interaction than most Institutes. We need visibility. Presence. Something people remember."
The deep blue catches the light even in printed format. Gold detailing sharp against obsidian-black structure.
Jace whistles softly. "Vance is gonna lose his fucking mind when he sees these."
"He already did."
"Did Fred still refuse him?"
"Yes."
Jace shakes his head solemnly. "Tragic."
I move onto the tactical concepts.
"These would become standard operational wear. Durable, modular, reinforced against weather and rune degradation. Recognisable instantly as Collection personnel."
Then finally the military police structure.
"This division mostly handles internal order, investigations, disputes and enforcement inside New York territory. Especially if recruitment expands."
Magnus finally looks up at me.
"And aesthetically?" he asks.
I pause slightly.
Then answer honestly.
"I want people to feel proud wearing them."
That gets his attention properly.
Because suddenly those gold eyes sharpen slightly with interest instead of amusement.
I continue before I can overthink it.
"The Collection doesn't have culture anymore. It has survival. That's different. People here don't belong to anything. They endure it."
Jace nods quietly at that.
"We need the Institute to feel intentional again," I say. "Dormitories need redesigning. Food quality needs improving. Lighting. Infrastructure. Weapons and technology need upgrading. Everything currently feels temporary and neglected."
Then finally I stop because Magnus is writing something instead of looking at me.
"...What are you doing?"
"Making an estimate of how much this will cost," Magnus mutters without looking up.
I blink.
Oh.
That's... better than expected honestly.
He snaps his fingers once toward Chairman.
Chairman immediately grows larger beside him, stretching upward enough to comfortably lean over the paperwork while peering down with immense professional concern.
Magnus begins speaking almost absently while writing elegant figures across the margins.
"Structural renovation... electrical replacement... plumbing likely catastrophic judging by the smell..." He glances upward briefly. "Ventilation system bordering criminal."
"It whistles at night," Jace offers helpfully.
Magnus looks horrified.
"Why would you admit that to me."
Chairman taps one paw against the parade uniform thoughtfully.
Magnus notices immediately. "Yes, Chairman?"
Chairman chitters sharply while pointing toward the cape detailing.
Magnus hums. "Agreed. The embroidery should be reinforced internally otherwise younger Nephilim will destroy it climbing over things unnecessarily."
"I did not climb over things unnecessarily," I say automatically.
Both Magnus and Jace look at me.
"...You once jumped through a church window because someone insulted me," Magnus says flatly.
"That felt necessary."
Jace snorts loudly while Magnus sighs like I'm personally exhausting.
Then Magnus flips another page in the proposal before finally leaning back slightly.
"This is expensive," he says.
I brace automatically.
Then:
"...which means it may actually work."
Magnus has numbers beside practically everything by the time we finish the initial proposal review.
Actual numbers.
Precise ones.
Margins filled with estimates written in elegant slanted handwriting while Chairman periodically taps sections with growing concern like an accountant realising his employer intends to buy a country for decorative purposes.
Then Magnus closes the folder.
"I require a proper tour."
Not a request.
A statement.
So that's how Jace and I end up escorting Magnus Bane through the rotting corpse of The Collection while he judges every inch of it with increasing visible offence.
I show him everything.
The leaking drainage pipes in the east wing that apparently have been “temporarily patched” for four years. The strange damp smell lingering through lower dormitory corridors. The tiny sleeping quarters where two Shadowhunters currently share spaces smaller than Orlando storage closets. The cafeteria food which somehow manages to look emotionally defeated.
Jace physically recoils when Magnus lifts one of the cooked vegetables with his fork.
"...What species of root vegetable committed such crimes against you all?"
"We think it's potato," Jace says.
Magnus looks at him in horror.
"You think?"
I show him payroll reports next.
That actually makes him stop walking.
Magnus stares at the payslips silently while Chairman rises onto his hind legs beside him peering down at the figures too.
The silence stretches long enough to become dangerous.
Then Magnus slowly lowers the papers.
"They are being paid this monthly?"
"...Yes."
Gold eyes slide toward me.
"...Alexander."
That tone alone tells me these salaries are apparently offensive enough to qualify as hate crimes.
I keep walking before he decides to personally murder the Consul.
Every problem I know about, I show him.
Broken heating systems. Training rooms needing reinforcement. Outdated weapons. Rune stock shortages. Insufficient medical wards. Ancient communication systems still functioning on patched together magical infrastructure from before I was born.
Magnus never interrupts.
Never complains directly.
He just observes, writes notes, mutters occasionally to Chairman in languages neither Jace nor I recognise.
Sometimes he sounds irritated.
Sometimes genuinely thoughtful.
Once or twice he stops entirely, staring at structural walls while speaking rapidly under his breath in something old and sharp sounding. Chairman responds with tiny growls and flicking tails before Magnus sighs like civilisation itself personally disappointed him.
Then he writes more numbers down.
At one point Magnus abruptly scales an exterior wall.
Actually jumps upward onto a stone support ledge halfway outside the Institute before landing effortlessly despite the cane and layered clothing.
"What the fuck—"
I immediately follow him outside mostly because watching Magnus climb architecture in expensive shoes activates several stress responses simultaneously.
Jace stays behind muttering something about “absolutely not doing roof activities today.”
Outside, Magnus stands overlooking the surrounding district with one hand resting atop his cane while Chairman perches beside him on the railing.
"Does this belong to The Collection?" Magnus asks idly.
Chairman sniffs the air before answering.
"No. But Master purchased this land and surrounding territory several centuries prior. Therefore technically Master owns the property beneath it."
Magnus hums thoughtfully.
"We can force the Clave to purchase the land rights from me officially," he says casually, like discussing weather instead of extorting a governing body through historical real estate ownership. "Then construct secondary dormitory sectors separately from the primary Institute."
His eyes scan the skyline critically.
"Ground-up construction. No restoration framework. Restoration is inefficient once rot settles into foundations."
He taps the cane lightly against stone while thinking aloud now.
"Modern classical architecture. Interwoven infrastructure. Preserve authority aesthetics while modernising function."
Then without looking at me:
"How many Shadowhunters do you estimate once momentum stabilises?"
I hesitate slightly before answering honestly.
"...Around fifteen thousand eventually. New York is massive."
Magnus clicks his tongue immediately.
Too low.
"In the New York Police Department there are approximately fifty thousand personnel," he says. "To avoid overworking operatives and stretching territorial coverage too thin you require similar minimum distribution."
I blink.
Fifty thousand.
Magnus continues calmly.
"The Downworlder population exceeds the mortal population in concentrated districts. Especially undocumented magical populations."
Right.
This.
This is why Magnus manages Institutes.
Not power.
Scale.
Everyone else thinks like cities.
Magnus thinks like civilisation.
"The Collection alone," he continues while writing more figures down, "will require minimum nine hundred million dollars simply to repair and modernise existing structural decay."
I nearly choke.
Jace outright swears behind us.
Magnus ignores both reactions.
"Uniform implementation..." He flips pages. "Three standard issue divisions. Approximately five thousand dollars per individual set minimum once proper materials are utilised."
"Five thousa—"
"Alexander, if I permit Nephilim to wear polyester in my city I deserve execution."
Fair enough honestly.
Magnus continues listing costs almost absently now.
"Cloaks require alchemical reinforcement by lower-tier warlocks and witches. Shoes need enchantment stabilisation. Seamstress contracts. Factory negotiations. Equipment production."
Numbers continue growing.
"Additional dormitory construction. Plumbing. Electrical infrastructure. Staffing. Kitchen redesign. Ventilation replacement. Medical sectors."
Then finally he lowers the paperwork slightly and looks out over New York.
And for the first time since arriving he doesn't look annoyed.
He looks interested.
Which honestly might be significantly more dangerous.
"I will need to speak to people, Alexander. Important people. People who owe me favours."
Magnus turns one of the rings on his finger absently while speaking, eyes fixed out across the city instead of on me.
"I may be able to cash some of them in."
Then finally he looks at me directly.
And immediately I know this is going to become a lesson.
Magnus only gets that expression when he's about to say something annoyingly insightful that changes how I think about a problem forever.
"The issue is not money, Alexander."
I stay quiet.
Boston taught me silence is sometimes more useful than immediate answers.
"It's perspective," Magnus continues. "Your people need to perceive you as the authority in charge. That includes the Clave. That includes your own personnel."
His gold eyes narrow slightly.
"I cannot become the easy solution. Not for you. Not for them."
Right.
I hadn't thought about that.
If Magnus simply paid for everything outright then New York wouldn't become mine. It would become Magnus's project with Alec Lightwood acting as middle management.
Magnus taps the cane once against the stone beneath us.
"I can provide a fixed sum. You will delegate it. You will manage it. You will repay it eventually."
"How?" I ask automatically.
Magnus looks almost offended by the question.
"You've been to Vegas."
Right.
Spire.
Revenue streams.
Technology contracts. Security divisions. Downworld partnerships. Infrastructure deals. Training programmes. Territory licensing.
Institutes under the Veil didn't survive off Clave charity.
They became economically necessary.
"Learn to create your own financial ecosystems," Magnus says calmly. "And if you struggle with that concept, refer to Sir Vance. He enjoys explaining capitalism almost as much as he enjoys violence."
That's unfortunately true.
I nod slowly.
Understandable.
Terrifying.
But understandable.
"How much are you willing to offer?" I ask quietly.
Magnus exhales softly and runs elegant fingers through his long dark hair while visibly calculating things beyond my understanding.
"Give me a day," he says finally. "Chairman needs to finalise estimates. We will review everything with you afterwards."
Then he disappears.
No goodbye.
No lingering glance.
No private smile.
Nothing.
One second he's standing there in moonlight and expensive fabrics looking impossibly beautiful and ancient and the next the space beside me is simply empty.
My chest physically hurts.
Not because he refused.
Not because he left.
Because it wasn't personal at all.
Professional. Controlled. Distant.
Couldn't he have looked at me softer at least?
Touched my arm.
Stayed a second longer.
Something.
Why was he so cold?
How could he separate himself this completely while I still felt split open every time he entered a room?
"You okay, bro?" Jace asks eventually while awkwardly climbing out the window beside me instead of vaulting the wall directly like Magnus had.
Honestly safer.
"I don't know," I admit quietly. "I feel... something."
"You're disappointed."
I glance at him.
Jace leans against the wall beside me, arms folded loosely while New York traffic hums somewhere far below us.
Five years ago he would've mocked me.
Now though his expression is thoughtful in that very Elara-trained way where he observes first instead of immediately reacting.
"He came," Jace says after a moment.
"That isn't enough."
"No," he agrees surprisingly easily. "But I don't think you're actually upset about him leaving."
I frown slightly.
Jace shrugs one shoulder.
"You're upset because he treated you like a Head instead of..." He gestures vaguely. "You."
I stare out over the city quietly.
Because annoyingly that's exactly it.
"I spent five years becoming someone worthy of standing beside him," I say slowly. "And now he finally treats me like an equal professionally and somehow that feels worse."
Jace snorts softly.
"Yeah. Elara says people are idiots about getting what they want."
I huff a laugh despite myself.
"That's not therapy."
"It's close enough."
We stand in silence for a minute.
Then Jace speaks again, softer this time.
"You know what Vance said to me after New York?"
I glance over.
"He said Captain wasn't angry I punched him."
That surprises me enough I fully look at him.
"What?"
Jace scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.
"I thought he was gonna kill me honestly. Or Izzy was. Maybe both. But Vance said something weird." He pauses trying to remember properly. "'People who have truly suffered disappointment stop expecting immediate understanding from others.'"
That sounds painfully like Magnus.
Or worse.
Like something Magnus taught Vance.
"I think..." Jace hesitates visibly now which means he's thinking carefully instead of speaking instinctively. Another Elara thing. "I think Magnus isn't separating work and feelings because he doesn't care."
He looks toward the skyline thoughtfully.
"I think he's doing it because he does."
I stay quiet.
Jace continues slowly.
"Captain does that too. He'll help someone survive. Change their whole life. Then act like it wasn't personal at all." He frowns. "But it is personal. That's the weird part. It always is. They just... don't let themselves indulge in it."
The wind shifts around us carrying distant city noise upward.
"You think he still loves me?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Jace looks at me like the answer is obvious.
"Alec," he says quietly. "That man looked at your shitty leaking building like he was preparing for war."
"I will need to speak to people, Alexander. Important people. People owe me favours. I may be able to cash some of them in."
Magnus turns then, gold eyes settling on me properly and immediately I recognise the expression. Not affectionate. Not annoyed.
Educational.
Great.
He's about to say something irritatingly wise again.
"The issue is not money, Alexander."
I stay quiet and let him continue.
"It's perspective. Your people need to understand you are the man in charge. That includes the Clave. That includes personnel here." He taps the cane once lightly against stone. "I cannot become the easy ticket. Not for you and certainly not for the Clave."
Right.
That actually makes sense.
If Magnus simply paid for everything outright then I wouldn't be running New York. Magnus would be. I'd just be the acceptable Nephilim face attached to his project.
"I can provide a fixed sum," Magnus continues. "You will delegate it. You will manage it. Eventually you will repay it."
"How?" I ask softly.
He gives me a look.
"You've been to Vegas."
Right.
Spire.
Revenue.
Investment.
Vance once spent four hours explaining why relying on charity creates institutional weakness while actively sharpening knives. Apparently economics and violence are interconnected concepts to him.
"Create your own finances," Magnus says simply. "Learn how to make this Institute economically valuable. And if you struggle with the concept, refer to Sir Vance."
I nod slowly.
Understandable.
Terrifying.
But understandable.
"How much are you willing to offer?"
Magnus runs elegant fingers back through his long dark hair while clearly calculating something enormous in his head.
"Give me a day. Chairman needs to crunch some numbers. We will run everything back through you."
Then he disappears.
Just like that.
No goodbye.
No lingering glance.
No softness.
Nothing.
My chest aches immediately.
Not because he refused me. Not because he left. Because there wasn't even personal acknowledgement underneath it all. He couldn't even look at me a little softer? Touch my arm? Smile?
Why was he so cold?
How could he separate us this completely while I still felt split apart every time he walked into a room?
"You okay bro?" Jace asks finally while climbing carefully through the window instead of jumping the wall outright like Magnus had.
Honestly safer.
"I don't know," I admit quietly. "I feel... something."
"You're disappointed," Jace says gently.
I laugh once under my breath without humour.
"Wouldn't you be?"
My hand rises automatically toward the dog tag beneath my shirt. Fingers brushing over the engraved date of our first kiss. Proof. Evidence. Reminder I hadn't hallucinated loving him. Sometimes after five years apart it honestly felt unreal. Like I'd invented this impossible relationship in my own head.
"Alec," Jace says carefully, leaning against the wall beside me. "You're the Head now. And it's been over five years."
I stay quiet.
"You guys also didn't exactly finish well," he continues cautiously. "I remember you threatening to turn evil if he didn't take you back."
"...I was going through something."
"You were going through several things."
Fair.
"Maybe he's unsettled too," Jace says. "You changed."
I snort softly.
"Jace, he has a demon butler. I don't think I scare him."
That actually gets a laugh out of him.
I turn away before the conversation can become anything deeper and climb back through the window into the building. The stale air immediately irritates me again.
God this place really did smell awful.
Jace trails after me while I head downstairs toward storage.
The underground corridors are dim, cluttered and somehow colder than the rest of the Institute. I dig through old supply crates until I finally locate boxes of replacement bulbs shoved behind cleaning supplies older than me.
I pick one up.
Then another.
Well.
If Magnus wanted leadership perception then leadership starts now.
I carry the box back upstairs before setting it heavily down in the main corridor.
"Right," I call toward the nearest cluster of Shadowhunters. "Let's start replacing bulbs before evening comes around and we all die falling down stairs."
Several people blink at me.
One actually moves immediately.
Good.
I leave the box there and continue walking back toward the office without stopping.
Magnus had been here around three hours total now. Two spent touring the Collection. Thirty minutes with me directly. The rest dealing with administrative handovers and glaring at infrastructure.
Three hours.
And somehow despite all that distance, all that cold professionalism, the building already felt different.
Not fixed.
But awake.