Isabelle Lightwood never liked silence. It had too much weight to it — too much room for ghosts to whisper. The war was over. Valentine was gone. The Clave rebuilt. But some nights, when the wind slipped through the old stone walls of the Institute, it carried something colder than memory.She stood before the Midnight Mirror — taller than she was, its silver frame etched with runes that didn’t match anything in the Gray Book. Magnus had warned her not to touch it. Alec had reminded her what happened last time.So, naturally, she was here. Alone. With a blade in one hand and defiance in the other. Her reflection watched her — and for a moment, Isabelle swore it breathed.Not a trick of the glass, not a flicker. A breath. “Right,” she muttered under her breath. “Haunted mirrors. Because the Shadow World wasn’t dramatic enough.” Isabelle froze, her pulse stumbling. The girl in the mirror — her face, but not — tilted her head. Her hair was slightly lighter, her eyes warmer, her runes drawn in a style Isabelle had never seen before.“Who—” Isabelle began.“Wait—” Isabelle reached out before she could stop herself.The world tilted. A flash of silver light — and when it cleared, Isabelle was no longer looking at her reflection. She was staring into the eyes of someone real, standing in her world, trembling, alive.And the faint golden shimmer of a rune — one Isabelle had never seen before — was blooming on both their collarbones.It burned like memory. It felt like fate.