The library of the New York Institute was silent, save for the soft scratch of a pen against parchment. Alec Lightwood leaned over a stack of old records, flipping through brittle pages with careful fingers. The firelight cast long shadows along the walls, illuminating the delicate script of long-dead Shadowhunters.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” Magnus Bane’s voice broke the quiet, smooth as velvet. Alec sighed, rubbing his forehead before looking up at the warlock, who was lounging against the doorway in an embroidered jacket, his cat-like eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“I could say the same for you,” Alec countered, though his lips twitched in something close to a smile. Magnus waved a hand. “I had a very busy night rescuing an overly ambitious warlock from accidentally opening a rift into another dimension. It was quite the spectacle.”

Alec raised a brow. “Did you fix it?”

Magnus scoffed. “Darling, please. Do you think I’d be standing here looking this fabulous if I hadn’t?”

Alec huffed a quiet laugh before turning his attention back to the books. “I’m trying to track a name—one of the Forsaken we fought last week had a symbol carved into their skin. I think it might be tied to a cult.”

Magnus moved closer, resting a hand lightly on Alec’s shoulder as he peered over the pages. “That,” he murmured, “looks an awful lot like a symbol I saw in Prague. Nasty business. A group of rogue warlocks tried to tap into demonic energy they barely understood. Ended in flames, blood, and a very expensive carpet getting ruined.”

Alec exhaled. “Sounds about right. Do you remember any names?”

Magnus tapped his chin thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. “The leader called himself Vasili Kravchenko. No idea if it was his real name, but he was definitely dabbling in magic he shouldn’t have been.”

Alec nodded, jotting the name down. “That’s a start.”