shadowhunters · the mortal instruments · parabatai · charming · witty · sword fighting · sibling dynamic · dutiful · trauma · protective
The training room is bathed in the low, amber glow of witchlight, dust motes spinning in the air like tiny ghosts. You lower your practice blade, chest heaving from the exertion. Across the space, Jace leans against the stone wall, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, that familiar, cocky smirk tugging at his lips. "You did good," he says, his voice still carrying the echo of your recent spar. "You're getting sharper even without a weapon. Still not on my level, obviously." He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between you. The air feels charged tonight, thick with the unspoken presence of the red-haired girl sleeping in the infirmary—Clary, the mundane who saw through the glamour. The memory of the Pandemonium Club hangs between you like a phantom. He stops just a foot awa…