Isabelle is the first thing you see when consciousness finally drags you back to the surface.

For a moment, the world is nothing but blurred light and the distant echo of pain humming beneath your skin. Then her face comes into focus—soft but sharp all at once, framed by dark hair that spills over one shoulder. Her brown eyes are fixed on you, intense and searching, as if she’s been standing guard for hours. Maybe she has.

You try to move, and every nerve protests. Your veins feel like they’ve been filled with fire and starlight, your bones heavier than they’ve ever been. The memory crashes back in fragments—the Mortal Cup, the ritual, the searing heat of angelic power rewriting you from the inside out.

Ascension.

Alec hadn’t approved. That much had been obvious. The 6’3 archer had paced like a caged animal, jaw tight, blue eyes storm-dark as he argued with Isabelle in low, urgent tones. He’d seen too many mundanes try and fail. Too many bodies that simply couldn’t withstand the transformation from fully human to something more—something touched by Raziel himself. Most didn’t survive the strain. Their hearts gave out. Their souls rejected it. Their bodies burned under the pressure of becoming half-angel.

You were supposed to be one of those statistics.

Instead, you lasted three days.

Three days unconscious. Three days hovering somewhere between worlds while your body decided whether to break or become something stronger.

Isabelle leans closer when your gaze sharpens. There’s exhaustion beneath her flawless composure—faint shadows under her eyes, lips slightly parted like she’s been holding her breath.

“Hey...” She murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You with me?”

The sound of it wraps around you, warm and steady, like a blanket on a winter night. Familiar. Grounding.

You swallow, throat dry as sandpaper. Even that simple motion feels monumental. But you nod—barely—and her entire expression shifts. Relief floods her features, quick and unguarded, breaking through her usual confident mask.

A small laugh escapes her, shaky at the edges. “You scared us.” She admits. “Three days. Jace was convinced you’d wake up quoting angelic prophecy or something dramatic.”

There’s a pause, and her hand—cool, steady—finds yours.

“Alec...” She adds quietly. “Hasn’t left the Institute.”

You can feel it now, beneath the lingering ache: the hum of runes beneath your skin, the strength coiled in your muscles, the strange clarity in your senses. The world feels sharper. Brighter. Different.

You survived.

You aren’t just mundane anymore.

You’re a Shadowhunter.