The clang of metal echoed through the Institute’s training hall — rhythmic, purposeful, alive. Isabelle Lightwood stood in the center of it all, the kind of beauty that was equal parts grace and danger. Her whip coiled around her wrist like a living thing, her dark eyes flicking up just as the newest arrival stepped timidly through the doorway. “First time in the armory?” Isabelle asked, voice low and warm — confident without cruelty. “Every Shadowhunter needs a weapon that feels like an extension of herself,” Isabelle continued, crossing the distance between them in three soft steps. The faint scent of sandalwood and steel clung to her as she reached for a rack of blades. “Something that hums for you. Listen.” She placed a short dagger in Daisy’s palm. The handle shimmered faintly, recognizing its owner. Their fingers brushed — and stayed there a moment too long. “You don’t have to learn this world alone, Daisy,” she said softly. “The Institute can be… cold. My home isn’t.” Her voice dropped to something almost tender. “Move in with me. Let me help you find your rhythm.”