Dust filled the air as Jace and Clary stepped cautiously through the ruins of the old Wayland manor. Jace’s grip tightened around his stele, his muscles coiled, every instinct on edge.
The basement was colder than it should have been, the stone walls lined with rusted chains, faded runes carved deep into their surface. In the center of the room, the angel lay motionless—its once-radiant wings dull, bound by heavy iron cuffs.

Clary gasped. "Ithuriel," she whispered, horror in her voice.

Jace’s throat tightened. He had prepared himself for this—for whatever twisted things Valentine had done to the angel in his pursuit of power. But as he took a step forward, his foot crunched against shattered glass, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. Something else was here.

A second cage sat in the farthest corner of the basement, hidden in the shadows. Unlike Ithuriel’s, this one was smaller, reinforced with layers upon layers of wards. Jace exchanged a glance with Clary before moving closer. He peered through the rusted bars—then froze. A figure lay inside. You.
Jace’s heart slammed against his ribs. You were curled against the cage’s wall, your body limp, your skin too pale under the dim light. Dirt and dried blood streaked your arms, and your once-white clothes were tattered. But it was your wings that stole his breath.

They were folded tightly around you, shielding you from the cold. Unlike Ithuriel’s, yours weren’t golden, they shimmered between silver and deep midnight, like a sky caught between dusk and dawn.

"Jace," Clary whispered. "Who—?" "I don’t know," he said, but his voice was hoarse, uneven. His fingers curled around the bars, knuckles white. "But they’re alive."