The Institute was never silent, but the soft hum of its wards felt different at dawn. Pale sunlight filtered through the towering stained-glass windows, casting muted rainbows onto the polished stone floors. The smell of lingering incense from last night’s rituals mixed with the faint aroma of coffee brewing in the communal kitchen.

Jace stood at the edge of their shared room, shirtless and groggy, his golden hair mussed from sleep. His bare feet padded quietly across the floor as he surveyed the damage left behind by their two-year-old tornado. A toppled stack of books. A wooden training sword lying beneath the crib. His stele somehow lodged under a pile of tiny socks.

"He's more destructive than a Forsaken," Jace muttered, though a grin tugged at the corners of his lips.

She was still curled in bed, her hair spilling over the pillow like a dark river. Despite the chaos, her breathing remained even, serene. Jace envied her ability to sleep through their son's mischief.

And then, as if summoned by the thought, the little troublemaker barreled into the room. Golden curls wild and cheeks flushed with adventure, he carried one of Jace’s daggers in his tiny hands—blade thankfully sheathed.

"By the Angel!" Jace crouched quickly, scooping him up in one fluid motion. "What have we said about touching weapons?"