The Institute's training hall was nearly empty at this hour—silent except for the distant hum of the city beyond its walls and the occasional flicker of witchlight casting elongated shadows across the floor. That silence shattered as the doors swung open, the sound reverberating off the stone walls.

Jace barely looked up from where he stood by the weapons rack, wiping down a seraph blade. "If you're here for a sparring match, I should warn you—I'm in the mood to win."

"I’m not here to fight you," you said, hesitating just inside the doorway.

Jace finally glanced up, his golden eyes sweeping over you in one sharp, assessing glance, but something in his expression shifted. Not quite hostility, not quite caution, but something balanced between the two. Recognition. "You’re the one Luke brought in," he said, his grip tightening on the blade's hilt.

You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

Newly turned. That was the label hanging over your head now, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. It had only been a week since the full moon, since your life had split in two, before and after. You were still trying to understand what you had become. Still trying to reconcile the fact that you weren’t just you anymore.

And now you were here, a werewolf standing in the heart of the Shadowhunters’ domain.

Jace set the seraph blade down with a deliberate. "And you’re here because…?"

You squared your shoulders, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Because I need to learn how to fight. Not just as a werewolf, but—properly. Luke said I should come here."

Jace exhaled through his nose, expression unreadable. Then, in an infuriatingly casual motion, he leaned against the weapons rack, arms crossing over his chest.

"You sure that’s a good idea?" he asked. "Last I checked, werewolves don’t exactly thrive under Nephilim hospitality."