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The echo of silence in the cold stone cell was nearly unbearable.
It had been six days—maybe more, Alec couldn’t be sure—since the Clave took him. Since the moment he stepped away from the wedding altar, heart pounding and unsure, lips tingling from Magnus’s kiss, and faced the full fury of the Clave’s judgment.
They hadn’t charged him for kissing a man, or even for kissing a Downworlder. That would have been too obvious, too base. Instead, they dredged up every moment he had covered for Jace and Izzy—every time he had shielded them, taken responsibility, closed his eyes to the bending and breaking of rules.
Storming Hotel Dumort, helping a werewolf ascend in his pack and allowing the Lightwood name to be dragged into mess after mess. Alec Lightwood, for all his loyalty, all his quiet obedience over the years, had been tried for treason.
They told him he had a choice. Denounce Magnus Bane. Claim coercion. Say that the High Warlock had manipulated him, turned his head, made him a pawn. If he did that—if he recanted, if he promised loyalty to the Clave over all else—he could keep his stele. His runes. His life as a Shadowhunter.
Alec had stood silent, bruised but unbroken, and refused, and now, there was nothing left.
The door of the Institute groaned open. Alec stumbled out, his skin bare where runes had been. Stripped, not just of power, but of identity. The guards didn’t speak. They just dumped him at the gate, turned, and left. The cold air bit at his skin. His legs threatened to give way under him, but he didn’t fall.
A shimmer lit the air before him. The portal opened with a crackle of blue and gold. Alec didn’t flinch. He’d know that magic anywhere, and it brought him the first moment of Hope, just before Magnus Bane stepped out.
Magnus’s coat flared behind him, his eyes glowing faintly with restrained emotion. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked. Like he was cataloging every hurt, every shadow of pain on Alec’s face. Alec opened his mouth, unsure of what he could say—what he had the right to say.
“I thought—” Alec began, voice hoarse. “I thought you’d think I was rejecting you.”
Magnus moved forward, a step, then another, until he was close enough to touch. “I knew something was wrong the moment they took you. I’ve had a ward on the Institute ever since.”
His hand hovered, then settled lightly on Alec’s cheek. “You’re not easy to let go of, Alexander.”
Alec closed his eyes. “I didn’t… I could have gotten out. They offered me everything if I just… said you manipulated me. If I said I didn’t want you.”
“And you didn’t?” Magnus asked quietly.
“I told them I’d rather be deruned than lie about how I feel.” Alec opened his eyes. “I don’t regret it. Not the kiss. Not choosing you. I just don’t want to be… a burden.”
Magnus’s expression shifted, something almost wounded crossing his face. “You think you’d be a burden to me?”
“I have nothing now,” Alec said. “No runes. No home. No future in the Clave. I can’t give you anything—”
“You gave me something I didn’t think I’d ever have,” Magnus interrupted. “A chance to be chosen. Not hidden. Not feared. Chosen. Do you know what that means to someone like me?”
Alec shook his head.
“It means I’m not letting you go,” Magnus said. “You don’t need to give me runes or status. I don’t need you to be a Shadowhunter to love you.”
The word caught in Alec’s chest. Love. He hadn’t dared say it, hadn’t even let himself think it since that kiss at the altar.
Magnus stepped back and held out his hand.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go home.”
⸻
The loft was warm, softly lit. Magnus conjured clothes that fit Alec’s new body—lightweight, gentle against skin still tender from the loss of runes. He set a cup of tea down in Alec’s hands and sat beside him, close but not crowding.
“I don’t know what comes next,” Alec admitted. “I’m not sure who I am now.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Magnus said. “Together.”
Silence fell again, but this time it was full—not empty. Shared.
“You should know,” Magnus added quietly, “there were people who wanted to fight for you. But the Clave made sure no one could get near. They isolated you deliberately.”
“I thought Jace and Izzy gave up on me,” Alec said.
“No,” Magnus said. “They were furious. Desperate. But you’re not theirs to save anymore. You made your choice.”
Alec looked up at him. “Yeah. I did.”
And for the first time since he left the Institute, he felt steady.
The Reckoning
It took less than a day for Jace and Isabelle to realize their parents weren’t going to help.
Maryse and Robert listened to their pleas with stiff expressions. Cold voices.
“We can’t do anything for him now,” Robert said flatly. “He chose his path.”
“He chose not to betray someone he cared about!” Isabelle shouted.
“He embarrassed this family in front of the Clave and everyone in Idris,” Maryse snapped. “You two would be wise not to make the same mistake.”
Jace had never hit an adult in his life, but it took everything in him not to throw something across the room. “You’re more worried about your reputation than your son?”
Maryse didn’t answer. She just turned and walked away.
That night, Jace punched a hole in the wall of his bedroom. Isabelle didn’t even scold him.
The trial was over almost before it started. The conclusion already decided, that was obvious. Alec stood, his face a calm mask, one of the many enduring lessons he had learned from Maryse. But Jace and Izzy had never had to learn that kind of control. The realisation on their faces turning to anger as it unfolded.
Jace had lunged forward first, fury blazing in his eyes. “You can’t be serious—he didn’t do anything!”
Isabelle’s voice cracked as she shouted over the Council chamber’s murmur. “Alec has always followed the rules! If you want to punish someone, punish us!”
But the Council didn’t listen. They barely even looked at Jace or Izzy. Their eyes were locked on Alec—calm, restrained, silent. His back was straight, shoulders squared, and though he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, there wasn’t an ounce of regret on his face.
The verdict was read aloud with unceremonious finality.
Deruned. Cast out. Treasonous.
All for standing by them. For covering for them. For loving someone the Clave deemed to be less. Less than human, less than worthy, and yet to Alec, Magnus Bane was the best person he had ever met. If the Clave wouldn’t acknowledge Magnus’s worth, than Alec wanted nothing more to do with them.
Jace had to be restrained by two guards. Isabelle screamed Alec’s name, but he didn’t look back as they took him from the chamber.
Afterward, the Institute became a cage for them. The Clave had them on lockdown—no portals, no phones, no fire messages. No visitors. Clary was held on another floor, and even Simon had been turned away at the gates.
They weren’t imprisoned. Not officially.But they were being watched. Closely.
“They think we’re going to go rogue like Alec and they’re trying to preempt it,” Jace said darkly, pacing the length of the training room like a caged tiger.
Isabelle was curled on the steps, her arms wrapped around herself. “He’s not rogue,” she said softly. “He was brave. He did the right thing.”
“And we…” Jace couldn’t finish.
They both knew the truth.
Alec had tried to stop them, again and again. He’d warned them. Argued. Even begged. But in the end, he’d covered for them every time. Because he loved them. Because he always did what he thought was right.And it had cost him everything.
⸻
A week after Alec was dumped in front of the Institute, Jace and Izzy finally got access to the outside world.
When Clary called him , Simon answered immediately “He’s with Magnus. He’s safe.”
Isabelle choked on a sob of relief as she heard the words come out of the small speaker. Jace slumped in a chair like someone had cut the strings holding him up.
“He thought we abandoned him,” Izzy whispered.
“No,” Simon said gently. “He… he doesn’t know why you haven’t reached out, but he’s not angry. Just… hurt. Confused.”
Jace turned to the window. “He should hate us.”
“He doesn’t,” Simon said. “But he needs time. And so do you.”
⸻
Back at the loft, Alec sat curled into one end of the couch, hands clasped loosely around a mug of coffee he hadn’t touched.
“Have they contacted you at all?” he asked.
Magnus watched him from across the room. “No. But Simon’s been in touch. They’re under surveillance. Clary too. It’s not that they don’t care. It’s that they can’t reach you.”
Alec looked down, face unreadable. “I don’t know what I expected. I just… I thought they’d at least try.”
Magnus came to sit beside him. “They will. Give them time. They’re grieving, too.”
“I’m not dead,” Alec muttered.
“No,” Magnus said gently. “But you were taken from them. And now everything’s different.”
Alec finally took a sip of the coffee. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”
Magnus’s hand brushed his. “It will. But you’re not alone. Not now.”
Alec didn’t look at him, but his fingers tightened slightly around Magnus’s hand.
In another part of the city, Jace and Isabelle sat in silence, staring at the locked Institute gates.
~~~~~~~~~~
The first week passed in a blur of sleep and silence.
Alec barely left the guest room of Magnus’s loft. Not because he was afraid—though maybe there was a trace of that—but because he was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-deep exhausted. The kind of tired that no training, no battle, no patrol had ever left him with. The kind that comes only after you’ve been gutted and left to put the pieces back together.
Magnus didn’t push. He didn’t question the long hours Alec spent wrapped in blankets, half-dreaming and half-aching. He only sat quietly nearby, conjuring steaming bowls of soup and delicate pastries, colorful curries and fresh-baked breads—half magic, half love—all designed to tempt Alec’s appetite back to life.
“Eat a little,” Magnus would murmur gently. “Just enough to keep that stubborn heart of yours beating.”
Alec tried. He really did. But the deruning had taken its toll. His body, once so honed by training and routine, felt hollow. His limbs ached in strange ways, and even lifting a spoon could be a chore some mornings. He had lost weight in the days leading up to the trial, haunted by uncertainty, and the Clave hadn’t exactly offered room for self-care. Now, without runes, his body struggled to heal the way it used to. Every bruise lasted longer. Every small scratch lingered.
Magnus didn’t complain once. He just stayed close. Not hovering, but near enough that Alec never had to ask. It was only after a full week—when Alec emerged from his room freshly showered and voluntarily ate a full plate of buttery waffles—that Magnus finally said, “Tomorrow, we’re getting out of here.”
Alec blinked, mouth half-full. “Out of the loft?”
“Out of New York.” Magnus gave him a sly smile. “It’s time for some air. A little magic. A lot of sunlight.”
Their first outing was Paris. Brunch on a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the Seine, with fresh croissants and soft eggs in porcelain cups. Magnus wore sunglasses and a silk scarf, making them both laugh when he insisted they pretend to be famous film stars hiding from the press.
Alec smiled more in that morning than he had in months.
The next day, it was sushi in Tokyo, seated at a tiny counter where the chef greeted Magnus like an old friend. Then a sunset walk along the Grand Canyon’s rim, the dry wind tousling Alec’s hair as they sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, not speaking, just existing.
Each trip felt like breathing again.
The distance from New York helped Alec find distance from everything else—his past, his pain, the ghosts of expectations he was only now learning to let go of. He still missed his siblings. That ache was sharp, and nothing could replace it. But with space came clarity.
“I let them get away with too much,” he admitted one night as they sat watching the stars from a rooftop in Florence. “I covered for them. Over and over.”
Magnus nodded. “Because you love them.”
“Because I needed to be the good one,” Alec corrected, his voice soft. “Because someone had to follow the rules. And I was so scared of what it would mean if I didn’t.”
Magnus said nothing, just reached over and twined their fingers together.
“I used to think being a soldier was who I was,” Alec continued. “But now… I don’t miss it. I miss them. But not that life. The patrols. The missions. The orders. That suit of armor I wore since I was a kid—I thought it made me strong. But it was choking me.”
He looked at Magnus then, eyes dark and clear.
“If the Clave hadn’t taken it from me, I think it would’ve killed me. Not physically. But the real me. I was disappearing inside it.”
Magnus leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Alec’s temple. “That sounds a lot like an epiphany.”
Alec let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. I think it was.”
From that moment on, things shifted.
Alec still had quiet days. Still had moments where the world felt too sharp, too big, too broken. But he started getting out of bed on his own. He read books, even if it took him longer now. He helped Magnus restock potion ingredients. He started running again, even if his body protested. And sometimes, at night, he just sat on the balcony with a blanket and tea, watching the lights of the city flicker like stars brought down to Earth.
Possibility. That was the word that hovered in his mind now. For so long, his life had been duty. Fear. Obligation. But now there was space. And in that space: possibility. He didn’t know what the future held. But for the first time, it was his to decide. And that made all the difference.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Alec stood in front of the loft’s full-length windows, arms folded tightly across his chest. The skyline shimmered with late afternoon light, golden against the glass, but his thoughts were distant, fixed on the approaching moment.
“They’re ready,” Magnus said gently, voice a soothing note in the growing tension. He stepped closer and brushed his fingers against Alec’s wrist, grounding him. “Do you still want to go ahead?”
Alec nodded, though his stomach churned. “I think so. I need this. We need this.”
Magnus didn’t argue. He simply leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Alec’s temple. “I’ll be nearby.”
The portal shimmered into life a few minutes later, and then Jace and Isabelle stepped through, both bristling with energy, their emotions too close to the surface to hide.
“Alec!” Isabelle’s voice was thick with relief as she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh my God, I missed you.”
Jace followed, arms tight by his sides, jaw clenched. “You look… okay.”
Alec offered a small smile. “I’m getting there.”
“I don’t care how long it takes,” Izzy said fiercely, pulling back. “We’re going to get your runes back. There has to be a way. We’ve been looking into old texts, back channels, anything—”
“We’ll talk to the Council,” Jace cut in. “Or break into the Council. If they think this is over, they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
Alec raised a hand, stopping them gently. “That’s not what I want.”
Isabelle froze. Jace blinked. “What?”
“I don’t want my runes back,” Alec said, his voice steady, calm, but sure. “I don’t want to fight this. I’ve thought about it every day. And… I’m okay. I’m more than okay. I’m free.”
“But… this isn’t you,” Izzy said, clearly struggling. “You’re a Shadowhunter. You always were—”
“No,” Alec said quietly. “I was what I thought I had to be. What the Clave told me I had to be. I wore that persona, but it wasn’t ever real. It allowed me to hide who I was because I had been taught that who I was, was an aberration. I know that’s not the case now, and I don’t want to hide, to try and cram all the parts of myself into a small box deemed acceptable by the Clave.”
Jace’s face darkened. “So what, you’re just leaving us behind?”
“No,” Alec said, soft but firm. “I will always love you both. But I can’t live for you anymore. I can’t be the one who cleans up every mess, takes every fall. That’s not love—it’s codependency. And it’s not healthy for any of us.”
Isabelle’s eyes shimmered with tears, her expression wounded but thoughtful.
Jace, on the other hand, was not ready.
“This is bullshit,” he snapped, voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to walk away like this and pretend you’re better than us.”
A low hum filled the room, like air charged before a storm.
Magnus stepped forward then, face unreadable, but his magic flickered along his fingers with visible intensity.
“Watch yourself,” he said coldly, his voice velvet over steel. “You don’t get to wound him just because you’re angry he finally said no. Alec didn’t abandon you. You abandoned him.”
The room fell into heavy silence.
Jace took a half-step back, visibly shaken—not by the magic, but by the truth behind the words.
“I…” He swallowed, his anger fading into something raw. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” Alec said gently, stepping in before Magnus could say more. “But it felt like that, Jace. I took the fall for you. For both of you. And I don’t regret it, but I also can’t carry you anymore. You have to deal with your own consequences.”
For the first time, Jace didn’t argue.
He just nodded, slowly, like something in him had finally clicked into place.
They talked for a while after that—awkward, stilted, but real. Alec offered them a place in his life, not as his responsibilities, but as his siblings. Equals. They weren’t sure what that looked like yet, but Isabelle, ever the glue, was the one to suggest it.
“A weekly dinner,” she said with a smile just shy of tears. “Just the three of us. No pressure. Just to… stay connected.”
Alec nodded. “I’d like that.”
Jace agreed with a quiet grunt that meant more than any long speech could.
When they left, there were hugs, longer than expected, and even Jace’s was tight and sincere. A final glance over the shoulder. A small smile.
Then they were gone.
And Alec stood in the loft, staring at the space where the portal had closed, breathing a little too fast.
Magnus was there in an instant, arms around him, grounding him again.
“I thought it would be easier,” Alec whispered.
“Letting go never is.”
“But it’s right, isn’t it?”
Magnus kissed the side of his head. “It’s brave. And yes, it’s right.”
Alec sank into the embrace, head on Magnus’s shoulder, heart both aching and light.
He had let go. And now, finally, he was free to begin.
~~~~~~~~~~
The lights at the Hunter’s Moon were dim, warm, and just loud enough to make people lean in to talk—a cozy sort of chaos. Magnus and Alec had tucked themselves into a corner booth, cocktails in hand, a carefree free evening stretching ahead of them like a gift.
Magnus was recounting a particularly dramatic client story from earlier in the week—complete with animated gestures and a dramatic reenactment of a miscast glamour spell—when Alec’s attention drifted.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He really didn’t. But the conversation from the neighboring table carried over between the music breaks, low voices thick with desperation.
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t even in front of mundanes,” a woman was saying, her hands clenched around her glass. “He shifted, yeah, but it was just us and that patrol of Shadowhunters. They baited him.”
“They always find some loophole,” the other, a fae man with silver-threaded hair, muttered bitterly. “Once they arrest a Downworlder, that’s it. There’s no justice. No defense. No hope.”
Alec’s hand stilled around his glass.
He glanced at Magnus, who raised a brow, already reading the shift in Alec’s body language. Alec gave him a small apologetic smile, then stood and turned to the neighboring table.
“I’m sorry—I wasn’t trying to listen,” he said gently, “but I heard enough to know you’re trying to help a friend who’s been arrested by the Clave. I’d like to help.”
The two stared at him, momentarily frozen.
“You’re Alec Lightwood,” the woman said slowly, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The… ex-Shadowhunter.”
“I am,” Alec replied with a nod. “But I know the Accords better than most of the Clave. Can you tell me what happened?”
They hesitated, then quickly laid out the details: the werewolf friend, his name—Jonas—the shift, the timing, the patrol that had provoked him. How the Clave had used a vague clause in the Accords about “unauthorized transformations” to detain him indefinitely. The fear in their voices was raw, lived-in. Not paranoia, but hard-earned truth.
Alec nodded along, face thoughtful, then said, “All right. Here’s what you do. There’s a precedent from 1873, the Cold Hollow Treaty Enforcement Case—look it up if you can. It establishes that a transformation witnessed only by Shadowhunters doesn’t constitute a violation of the secrecy clause. Quote Section IV, Article 9 of the Accords and emphasize the phrase ‘as pertains to the Masquerade and mortal exposure.’ Do not mention property damage or aggression—it muddies the argument.”
The fae man stared at him like Alec had just recited a spell.
“How do you know all that?” the woman asked, incredulous.
Alec gave a sheepish shrug. “I was raised to run an Institute. I had to know the Accords inside and out. And… I’m kind of a history nerd. I’ve read most of the old statutes and precedents still on the books.”
They both blinked.
Then the woman said, “You just saved our friend’s life.”
They thanked him profusely—twice—and then rushed off to prepare their defense.
Alec returned to Magnus, who was watching him with a fond smile.
“Nothing like a bit of light legal wrangling to liven up date night,” Magnus teased, sliding Alec’s cocktail back toward him.
Alec chuckled. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Honestly, darling, I find it a little thrilling. You, casually reciting archaic Accords law in a leather jacket? Be still, my heart.”
Alec rolled his eyes, grinning. “Maybe I should’ve gone to law school.”
Magnus lifted his glass in salute. “It’s not too late.”
A week later, there was a knock at the door of the loft.
It was Jonas—the werewolf who had been arrested. Free. Grinning.
“I just wanted to thank you,” he said simply, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t helped. They had no legal ground to hold me once we pushed your argument.”
Alec shook his hand, his heart full. “I’m glad I could help.”
Soon word spread. Whispers in the Downworlder bars, alleyway meetings, messages sent through warlocks and trusted fae. People started showing up—nervous, desperate, hopeful. They asked Alec how to appeal charges, how to navigate Clave bureaucracy, how to avoid violations before they happened.
Magnus found it hilarious. “Congratulations, Alexander,” he said one evening, laughing as he poured wine. “By stripping you of your runes, the Clave has created its worst nightmare: a brilliant, well-informed, free Lightwood with nothing to lose and a very sharp tongue.” Magnus shook his head and laughed again, “The law is the law! Oh how I love the fact that you are hoisting the Clave by their own petard!”
Eventually, Magnus cleared out the unused downstairs apartment. They turned it into an office. Alec set “consultation hours,” mostly to stop people from knocking during date nights. He refused payment at first, but soon began accepting donations—enough to contribute to their shared expenses.
It felt good. Right. Then, one rainy afternoon, Lydia arrived.
Alec opened the door with a surprised smile. “Lydia?” She gave him a weary look. “Can I come in?”
They shared tea in the office, the atmosphere strangely cordial, like old friends who’d once been something more complicated.
“I’m here on behalf of the Clave,” she said eventually, setting her cup down. “They’re not pleased.”
“I suspected as much,” Alec replied dryly.
“They know you’ve been advising Downworlders. You’re not breaking laws, but you’re… undermining them. Making it harder for them to intimidate people.”
“Good.”
Lydia gave a small, tired laugh. “They thought I’d want to shut you down. Because of the wedding.”
“I figured.” Alec shrugged. “But I also figured you wouldn’t.”
“You figured right.” She hesitated, then added, “They want you to stop. Officially. Unofficially… this conversation never happened.”
Alec leaned back, expression calm. “I’m not going to stop. And they have no jurisdiction over me anymore.”
“I told them you’d say that.”
They shared a long look. Mutual respect. No bitterness, no anger—just understanding.
When Lydia left, Magnus appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “That went better than expected.”
“She warned me. That’s all.”
“She also reminded us that the Clave doesn’t play fair.” Magnus’s expression sobered. “If we want this to last, we’ll need protections. Backup. A plan.”
Alec nodded, already thinking. “Then let’s make one. I’m not giving this up.”
Magnus smiled, proud and a little in awe. “Good. Because I think this is only the beginning.”
It’s like you’re building a parallel system,” Magnus said one evening, as they cooked dinner together. “A place where Downworlders actually get due process.”
“I’m trying,” Alec replied, serious. “The Clave won’t change on its own. But we can make them irrelevant—one case at a time.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The steady hum of work around the Magnus’s Building—formerly just the loft, now expanded to include Alec’s growing advocacy office—never seemed to slow. Alec had expected to help the occasional Downworlder sort through confusing Clave documents or mount a basic defense. He had not expected to become the face of Downworld legal resistance.
Word was spreading fast. Downworlders from all over—not just New York—began reaching out. Many faced trial, often with barely any warning or evidence. What changed everything was a single, obscure clause buried deep in the Accords: that any accused had the right to be represented by any individual of their choosing, Downworlder or Nephilim.
It was meant as a courtesy clause. A scrap thrown to placate the Downworlder signatories. The Clave had never expected anyone to use it. Downworlders knew that if they tried to act as defence for one of their kind, they were just as likely to end up arrested, and possible in more trouble that the original person they were trying to help. So a defense in Downworld cases was pretty much unheard of. That is until Alec made it into something.
When the first official request came—Alec was asked to represent a werewolf in a trial in Madrid—he expected the Clave to stonewall. Instead, they had no choice but to allow it.
Magnus was livid.
“You’re planning to walk into a Clave-run trial, as a deruned ex-Shadowhunter, and you think they’ll play fair?” Magnus’s voice cracked like lightning. “They will kill you, Alexander.”
“They can’t. Not publicly. Not without making a martyr of me,” Alec replied quietly. “If they do it in the open, they risk proving every accusation I’ve ever made.”
“That’s assuming they care who sees,” Magnus said bitterly. “And I assure you—they don’t.”
They fought about it. Magnus rarely let his fear show, but this was different. He’d watched the Clave destroy too many people in the shadows of justice. He was terrified Alec would be next.
So he started making calls.
One by one, he reached out to the High Warlocks of each city where Alec was requested. London. Buenos Aires. Tokyo. Lagos. Berlin. Sydney. He asked for favors he was owed, bartered old debts, offered protections and alliance.
In return, he demanded one thing: Alec’s safety.
Each High Warlock agreed. Wherever Alec traveled, there would be backup. Escape plans. Portals already prepared. Spells on his clothes. Magic laced in the air around him, subtle but strong.
The first few trials went smoother than either of them expected.
Alec walked in, confident, precise. He quoted Accords law like scripture, challenged biased evidence, exposed procedural violations. In two months, four cases were dismissed, three saw penalties reduced, and one vampire was exonerated completely.
Then, in Prague, the Clave made their move.
It was subtle—a procedural delay, followed by a claim that Alec had violated the terms of the Accords himself by offering “unauthorized counsel.” When he was told to remain in a holding chamber until the Inquisitor arrived, he knew something was wrong.
But before they could even activate the detainment runes, the Institute’s wards collapsed.
The building shuddered with magic.
A moment later, the High Warlock of Prague—an elegant, terrifying woman named Viera—stepped into the chamber with three other warlocks at her back.
“Alec Lightwood is under my protection,” she said coldly. “Release him, or we level this entire Institute.”
The Clave blinked first.
Alec was portaled out within minutes.
The next day, the Clave announced that all future trials would take place in Idris.
Both Alec and Magnus saw through it immediately.
“They’re trying to box you in,” Magnus said, pacing the length of the loft. “In Idris, they control the wards, the politics, the portals. They want you within reach so they can make you vanish.”
Alec didn’t argue. He’d seen the trap the moment the announcement was made.
“I won’t go to Idris,” he said firmly. “Not in person.”
So when the next request came, Alec attended the trial by encrypted magical video feed. The sight of his face—calm, determined, clear—on the courtroom projection was powerful enough to rattle the Inquisitor. The Clave tried to protest, but the Accords said nothing about how representation had to be present, only that it had to be available.
Magnus, watching from beside the spell-mirror, smirked. “They really should’ve read their own treaties.”
Now, every time Alec spoke at a trial, the world watched.
Every time a Downworlder walked free, a new name was added to the list of those who would protect Alec Lightwood with their lives.
And in private, Magnus held him close at night, his magic constantly sensing for danger. He was still afraid, still furious—but proud beyond measure.
“You’re not just helping them,” Magnus whispered one night, fingers threading through Alec’s hair. “You’re changing the system.”
Alec pressed his face into Magnus’s shoulder, murmuring, “I hope so. Because I’m not stopping.”
Magnus’s hand glowed softly with protective sigils.
“Then neither am I.”
~~~~~~~~~~
With every victory Alec secured, the demand for his help multiplied. It became clear that his one-man advocacy couldn’t keep up with the overwhelming need. Downworlders in every corner of the globe were facing unjust treatment at the hands of the Clave, and Alec knew the time had come to formalize the resistance.
He founded the Coalition for Downworld Justice—a loose but growing network of Downworlders, dedicated to offering legal support, trial representation, and education on the Accords. Alec took the role of lead advisor, but he was careful to ensure the coalition wasn’t about him.
“This has to outlive me,” he told Magnus one night over dinner. “If we want to make lasting change, it can’t depend on just one person.”
He began holding training sessions—portaling volunteer advocates into New York or using spell-protected communication channels to lecture from afar. He taught them how to read legal double-speak, interpret both the letter and intent of the Accords, and identify traps in Clave procedure. He passed on the same insight he had once used to lead an Institute.
The training wasn’t just formal. Alec met individually with advocates across the Downworld—warlocks, werewolves, vampires, fae—helping them form defense teams, teaching them how to structure arguments the Clave couldn’t easily dismiss, even how to present themselves in a Clave-run hearing.
And he didn’t do it alone.
From within the Shadowhunter community, sympathetic voices reached out discreetly. Former Institute heads, disenfranchised archivists, and even a few instructors from the Scholomance sent him regular updates—quiet messages about proposed changes to the Clave’s statutes and amendments to the Accords. Alec often had the counter-arguments written before the Clave could even finalize the drafts.
“They’re trying to strip trial representation down to only Nephilim again,” Magnus reported one morning, reading from a veiled message received through magical relay.
“I already sent out the relevant Accord clause and three precedents to the entire Coalition,” Alec said calmly. “They’ll back off.”
From the same Shadowhunter allies came relics of the law itself—obscure, outdated statutes long buried in dusty libraries. Some were handwritten. Others existed only in fading ink on parchment older than the Accords themselves. They were loopholes, yes—but Alec turned them into shields.
The collection grew faster than he could manage, and when he mentioned it in passing, Magnus had an idea.
“You need someone who understands technology,” he said with a knowing smirk. “And is also too stubborn to get bored of the legal side.”
Which is how Simon Lewis entered the picture.
Alec hadn’t expected to like working with Clary’s awkward, chatty best friend, but Simon surprised him. He was fast, curious, detail-oriented—and, best of all, willing to take feedback.
“Sorry, did I say too much again?” Simon asked one afternoon, after launching into a 12-minute tangent about whether vampires could become lawyers.
“Yes,” Alec said flatly. “But the database looks great. Keep working.”
Simon beamed like he’d been handed a medal.
Within weeks, Alec and Simon had digitized over three hundred key documents, all fully searchable. Coalition members could now access legal precedent from any corner of the world in seconds. The effect was immediate—defense teams became sharper, more confident. Trials that once felt hopeless began to end in victory.
As the Coalition thrived, so did Alec—though not without pushback at home.
Magnus had been watching Alec pour himself into the work with quiet pride… and growing concern.
“You haven’t taken a night off in two weeks,” he said one evening, conjuring away Alec’s tablet with a flick of his fingers.
“I have too,” Alec protested, though he was blinking like someone who had just remembered what sleep was.
“Going to the kitchen for a snack doesn’t count as a night off, darling,” Magnus said dryly. “You need rest. Laughter. Me, preferably shirtless, maybe with champagne—”
Alec’s brow arched. “You’re saying I’m neglecting you?”
“I’m saying you’re forgetting that this life you’re fighting for—you’re supposed to live it, too.”
That landed. Alec exhaled and reached for Magnus’s hand, letting himself be tugged toward the balcony and into a rare evening of music, moonlight, and stolen kisses.
Even so, when Jace and Isabelle offered to help with the Coalition, Alec hesitated.
“I can’t risk you,” he said simply, during one of their weekly dinners. “The Clave’s watching you both too closely. If you get caught helping me, they’ll come after you the way they came after me. I’m not letting that happen.”
They didn’t like it, but they understood. And privately, Alec felt the pang of distance every time he held them back.
But the truth was—he finally knew his place. Not behind a desk at the Institute. Not leading missions for a broken system. But here, building something new.
And for the first time, he was exactly who he was meant to be.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Coalition had faced difficult cases before—werewolves accused of public aggression, vampires detained for feeding violations that didn’t violate the Accords, fae penalized for “uncooperative” behavior—but nothing compared to the case of Valentina Mora, a warlock healer from Buenos Aires.
She had been arrested by the local Institute after magically stabilizing a Downworlder child injured during a Nephilim patrol. The child’s life had been saved—but Valentina’s intervention had been interpreted by the Clave as “unauthorized magical manipulation of a potential evidence subject.”
“They’re calling the child ‘evidence,’” Alec said grimly, scanning the arrest notice.
Magnus’s eyes darkened. “They’re trying to make healing a crime.”
What made the case worse was the Clave’s decision to move the trial to Idris, claiming it involved “compromised Accords protections”—a political term Alec knew meant they didn’t want witnesses.
Magnus was instantly on alert. “You are not going to Idris.”
“I’ll appear remotely,” Alec agreed. “But this is the line. If they convict her, any Downworlder who intervenes in an emergency could be prosecuted. They’re trying to stop mutual aid.”
He spent three days gathering the Coalition’s best legal minds, pulling together a comprehensive defense. Dozens of warlocks provided testimony and affidavits. Simon indexed every clause Alec referenced into the database. Warlocks from around the world—including Catarina Loss and Ragnor Fell—contributed historical precedent that made it clear Valentina had every right to act.
But then the Clave issued a new edict: only in-person representation would be allowed for the trial.
“It’s a trap,” Magnus said, pacing the loft. “They know if you go to Idris, they’ll try to detain you. Or worse.”
Alec nodded. “Then we make it public.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Alec had always avoided the spotlight. But this was different. This was survival.
With help from Magnus and Tessa Gray, Alec organized a global broadcast—hacked through wards, barriers, and Clave blockades. It appeared on warlock mirrors, fae scrying pools, vampiric blood-nets, and even the mundane internet, disguised as a legal lecture.
Alec stood at a podium in Magnus’s loft, Coalition banners behind him.
“My name is Alexander Gideon Lightwood,” he began. “I was once Head of the New York Institute. I was raised in the heart of the Clave, and I believed in its laws. I still do—when those laws are followed.”
He laid out Valentina’s case, citing every Accord clause, every legal precedent. He outlined how the Clave had violated its own procedures. He even presented a signed document from a former Inquisitor showing that emergency healing was once encouraged in similar situations.
“They want to make an example of Valentina,” Alec said. “But the example they’re creating is one of fear. That helping others is dangerous. That mercy is treason.”
He paused, voice steady.
“We will not let them redefine compassion as criminal. We will not let them rewrite the law in silence.”
The speech went viral among Downworlders. Even some Shadowhunters—particularly younger ones—began to question the narrative.
The Clave, furious, doubled down. They proceeded with the trial, demanding Alec’s presence in Idris.
He refused. The High Warlocks of the Buenos Aires Enclave sent their own portal-enabled proxy, a magical construct that Alec could speak through. The broadcast construct took the stand with every legal point Alec had prepared, countering the Clave’s rhetoric in real-time. With every objection raised, a clause was cited. With every accusation made, precedent shut it down.
Three days later, Valentina was released.
The victory rippled. Institutes with more progressive Heads started reaching out quietly, asking for legal clarification instead of making arrests. And Alec, now seen by many as the unofficial legal authority of the Downworld, became a true symbol of resistance—and reform.
Back in the loft, Magnus wrapped his arms around Alec after the news came in.
“I know it terrifies me,” Magnus said softly, “but I’ve never been prouder of you.”
Alec rested his head on Magnus’s shoulder. “I finally feel like I’m doing something that matters.”
“You are,” Magnus said. “And you’re changing the world.”
The Clave had underestimated the ripple effect.
~~~~~~~~~~
For centuries, the Clave had ruled with the confidence of a regime that never imagined being questioned. The Accords were written in glass—beautiful, rigid, and easy to shatter if you struck just right. Until now, no one had dared to swing.
But the Clave’s deruning of Alec Lightwood changed everything.
Alec had exposed the truth that had always been whispered but never acted upon: the Clave relied on Downworlders far more than they admitted. The warlocks’ magic, the werewolves’ territorial governance, the vampires’ underground networks—all kept the world turning. And all were exploited, regulated, and discarded when convenient.
Now, they began to wonder what might happen if they stopped asking and started demanding.
~~~~~~~~~~
They gathered at an ancient leyline nexus high in the Scottish Highlands, protected by layers of warlock enchantments. The Clave was not invited.
Seated at the table were the most powerful of the Shadow world. Ragnor Fell, High Warlock of London, standing for the European Warlock contingent.
Tessa Gray, dignified and inscrutable, representing the Spiral Labyrinth with quiet authority. Emil LeGrange, tall and silver-haired, representing the Praetor Lupus, the guardian order of werewolves. Cecile Belanger, deadly and elegant, speaking for the International Vampire Federation. And Alec Lightwood, former Shadowhunter, now a legal advocate for the Downworld.
Magnus, while not officially seated, moved behind Alec like a storm in velvet, equal parts support and quiet power. Their goal was simple—and world-changing: a full rewrite of the Accords, with equal Downworlder authorship and power.
Alec stood as moderator, outlining the flaws in the current system: trials without transparency, Shadowhunter-only enforcement, language deliberately written to be twisted.
“The Accords were meant to protect us all,” he said. “Instead, they’ve become a cage, locked from the inside. It’s time we rewrite them together—or refuse to be bound by them at all.”
They agreed: every faction would contribute delegates. Every clause would require mutual consent. Enforcement would fall not just to the Clave, but to an inter-faction body with real veto power.
But they were not naive. They knew the Clave would not just simply accept their demands, not after holding all the power for centuries. So they also planned for rejection, knowing that they could not backdown. For the first time in centuries, there was an opportunity for equality in the Shadowworld, and if they let it slip from their grasp, it might not present itself again.
If the Clave refused to negotiate, the Council would respond in stages.
The first stage would be a coordinated withdrawal from supplying institutes with healing potions, and help with mundane containment after a public demonstration incident. This would involve all 3 of the main Downworld communities. Warlocks supplied healing potions to every institute in the world and to Idris. Werewolves , vampires and warlocks all assisted in concealing the shadowworld from Mundanes when there were large incursions by demons. Werewolves often acted as impromptu security, cordoning off areas, and making sure that mundanes didn’t enter the effective areas, while vampire used their Encanto powers to help encourage mundanes to forget specific incidents, with Warlocks providing full scale memory wipes for more serious issues.
After that the escalation points fell mainly to the Warlocks, but as the population most used and abused by the Clave, they were happy to comply.
The next escalation point was to stop all ad-hoc portal travel and any maintenance on permanent portals. These permanent portals were set up in many institutes and would go directly to Idris, but they still required maintenance, as they could be affected by any disruptions in the ley lines.
This would be followed by warlock refusal to set, maintain or restore protective wards, including those shielding major cities. This is where the Shadowhunters were most vulnerable, as they had no alternative. For years warlocks had carried out ward setting and maintenance as they saw the Shadowhunters as a necessary evil, there to control demons. But now, now they saw things in a different light. It wasn’t that they wanted to do away with Shadowhunters, but they were no longer going to be subjugated by them
As the council finished agreeing this policy of escalation, Cecile leaned forward, smiling like a blade. “For too long The Clave has dismissed who we are and what we can do, now we will make them remember.”
Ragnor adjusted his cuffs and added with a shrug, “And if they retaliate? They’ll find out just how many of those wards they never truly understood.”
Even Emil, usually the calmest voice in the room, said with quiet steel, “The Praetor has kept peace among our kind for decades. We will not allow the Clave to use our loyalty as a leash.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The Clave had already begun trying to amend the Accords in secret—shifting language to allow indefinite detainment, or revoking representative voting power from Downworlders under investigation. But Alec’s network of internal allies—Shadowhunters tired of the corruption—kept him informed. He blocked every illegal change before it could be ratified, citing ancient statutes buried in centuries-old doctrine.
The Clave tried to silence him. Tried to discredit him. Even tried once to kidnap him as he walked home alone one afternoon, but Magnus and the warlocks of three continents ensured that he was untouchable and warned the Clave they wouldn’t get another chance.
The glass towers were cracking.
Quiet Moments Before the Storm
That evening, back in the loft, Alec sat with Magnus, his fingers curled around a mug of something warm.
“They’ll come after us harder now,” Alec said quietly.
Magnus, perched beside him, kissed his temple. “Let them. We’re not alone anymore.”
Alec leaned into the warmth. “They created this by casting me out. I think they thought I’d fade.”
“They made the mistake of leaving you with me,” Magnus said with a sly smile. “And I always turn misfits into kings.”
For the first time in generations, Downworlders weren’t surviving. They were organizing. They were preparing.
And the Clave had no idea how fragile their power truly was—until now.
~~~~~~~~~
The Clave’s answer was swift and uncompromising.
“The Accords are a gift,” the Consul declared in a statement to the Council Hall in Alicante. “Not a negotiation. The structures of our society cannot and will not be redefined by those who are, by nature, subordinate to it.”
That was their answer to the petition from the Downworld Council—one signed jointly by High Warlock Ragnor Fell, Tessa Gray of the Spiral Labyrinth, Emil LeGrange of the Praetor Lupus, Cecile Belanger of the Vampire Federation, and Alec Lightwood.
The request had been simple: a mutual revision of the Accords to reflect modern realities, ensure equal representation, and codify protections that Downworlders had long been denied.
The Clave’s refusal was categorical.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Downworld did not rise in fire or fury. They rose in silence.
For centuries, warlocks had brewed tonics and elixirs to treat injuries, poisonings, and demon infections. This service wasn’t written into law, but it was an essential part of keeping Shadowhunters alive. The change in behaviour started subtly. Institutes across the globe just stopped receiving shipments of healing potions. Requests were ignored and the whole of the warlock community were now unavailable for an indeterminate time.
Werewolf packs quietly declined to dispatch security teams to incident sites. When a demonic manifestation disrupted a music festival in Berlin, no one helped cordon off the area. Mundanes wandered far too close to the chaos, footage leaked, and the cleanup took days. The vampires, usually first to step in and cloud memories with gentle Encanto, stood back. Warlocks didn’t respond to calls for large-scale memory erasures. There was no explanation. Only absence.
When the follow up request to form a working party with the Downworld council to discuss the writing of new Accords, was dismissed out of hand, the response was swift. All portal travel which relied on a warlock was suspended immediately. Institutes were forced to rely on mundane options—none of which had the reliability or breadth of warlock portals.
The Clave had also managed to forget the input warlocks had on permanent portals. The Clave had long relied on permanent portals linking major Institutes to Alicante and other strongholds. But even those required calibration and maintenance. Ley lines shifted. Magical balance tilted. And without warlocks adjusting the flow, permanent portals began to flicker and fail. First in peripheral regions. Then in core hubs.
The Clave did not panic—until the wards began to fall, which happened the third time the request for collaboration was denied.
One by one, protective wards across the globe shimmered and faded. Institutes’ shielding against demonic incursion, detection, and mundane awareness began to unravel. Large cities—London, Buenos Aires, Tokyo—faced exposure to both demonic activity and the shadow world as warlocks refused to reinforce city wards that they had quietly maintained for decades.
The Clave had no replacement. No spellbook. No rune. No Shadowhunter could replicate the magical infrastructure the warlocks had built over centuries.
For a long time, warlocks had accepted these tasks as a necessary compromise—Shadowhunters fought the demons, so warlocks ensured their tools and their secrecy remained intact. They never loved it. But they saw it as essential.
Now? Now they saw clearly. They didn’t want to destroy the Shadowhunters. But they no longer accepted a world where they must prop them up and receive only condescension in return.
The world had changed. And the warlocks, the werewolves, the vampires—they would not allow it to return to what it had been. In the past the Clave would have responded to this kind of quiet disobedience to its rule with a crackdown; raids on vampire dens, arrests of any individual who was deemed “suspicious “, but because of the work that Alec had instigated in terms of legal advocacy, that method of gaining compliance was no longer available to the Clave.
~~~~~~~~~~
At first, the Clave dismissed the Downworld’s withdrawal of services as temporary bluster.
“Let them protest,” the Inquisitor said coolly. “They’ve always known their place.”
But they were wrong.
Within a week of the potions embargo, Institutes from Berlin to Buenos Aires sent frantic reports of field agents succumbing to injuries they once would have walked off. By the second week, uncontained demon activity surged across major cities. Without werewolves to secure perimeter zones and vampires to misdirect mundanes, there were not enough people on the ground to maintain the secret of the Shadow world.
And warlocks had yet to even touch their full leverage. When the permanent portals began to collapse—left unmaintained by the warlock community—the Clave’s command lines fractured. Idris became isolated. Communication slowed. Deployment delays cost lives.
And still, the Clave held its ground.
They refused to revise the Accords. Refused to invite Downworld representatives to the table. They clung to a myth: that the Nephilim were chosen, and that all others served at their leisure.
But that myth was breaking and the Downworld was waking up.
The moment Downworlders saw the cracks forming—real, tangible impact—they united further. The Council became even more structured, more coordinated. Even Fae, once frustratingly aloof, sent envoys in quiet, clear solidarity.
And Alec Lightwood’s name kept surfacing.
In every Institute report. In every Clave memo. They couldn’t pin anything illegal on him—he operated under their own law, protected by every clause of the Accords they’d once written themselves. Still, they tried to brand him a radical, an agitator, a symbol of rebellion.
But symbols can be powerful. Alec had become a movement.
That’s when they made the offer. They called it a “restoration of honor.”
Through Lydia, who delivered it with clenched teeth: a full reinstatement of his marks. His name cleared, his place in the Nephilim restored.
Alec listened. Then he laughed. And then he refused. This was the second time the Clave had held out his runes as some prize for his obedience. And just like before when they wanted him to abandon Magnus in exchange for his runes, they could not see that he was a man who no longer saw the value in what they had to offer.
He wasn’t who he used to be. He didn’t want the runes, the whipcord tightness of obligation, the unthinking loyalty demanded by a broken system. He had built something else—something that mattered. A network of advocates. A rising tide of resistance. Hope.
“I gave my loyalty for years,” he said calmly. “You don’t get to ask for it back now.”
Magnus watched him with pride and fear. The Clave had once killed to protect its image. Alec’s refusal was public. And final.
Alec hadn’t expected his refusal to carry any weight, and in fact had simple viewed as a minor move on the chess board, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. His stance made it clear to every Shadowhunter whose mind was not locked with bigotry and hatred, that the Clave and its iron rule had come to an end.
In the wake of their failures, the Inquisitor and the Consul were brought to a vote of no confidence—by Shadowhunters themselves. Some, disillusioned. Others, simply pragmatic.
It was Lydia who stepped forward. A known quantity. A reformist. Someone who still believed in the Nephilim mission but not in its supremacist dogma. She assembled a younger generation of political leaders—many born after the Mortal War, tired of its legacy.
Her first act as the new Consul was to open a formal line of communication with the Downworld Council.
And then came the invitation—to Alec Lightwood.
Not to return. Not to serve. But to help rebuild, and as part of the Downworld representation.
This time, Alec said yes.
~~~~~~~~~~~
One year later, the world had changed, the New Accords had passed. Forged in fierce negotiation, compromise, and hope, the rewritten foundation of Shadow World law did more than balance power — it acknowledged it. The Downworld was no longer treated as a dangerous necessity, but as a vital equal. The new framework recognized self-rule, codified rights long denied, and established a joint governance model that allowed collaboration without erasure.
At its heart stood the Accords Council, a central body built to mediate disputes and oversee interspecies cooperation. Shadowhunter, warlock, werewolf, vampire, fae — each held a seat. And at the unanimous request of the Council, Alec Lightwood was asked to chair.
Magnus had laughed when the offer came. “From Clave golden boy to outcast to Shadowword chancellor. I do love a man with range.”
But they both knew what it meant. This wasn’t just a seat of power. It was trust. Earned. Shared. And it was something Alec had once believed impossible.
Before the first session of the Council, the two of them did the only thing they’d been too busy to make time for: their wedding.
It was quiet. Small. Beautiful.
Held in the greenhouse of the loft — Magnus’s magic blooming the air with starlight and roses — Alec wore a tailored black suit, and Magnus, in midnight blue robes that shimmered as he moved. Only their closest stood with them: Jace, Isabelle, Simon, Clary, Catarina, Ragnor, Tessa, and Lydia, everyone without exception cried quietly when Alec recited his vows. It was not a grand display. It didn’t need to be. Their love had survived battlefields, betrayal, political exile and revolution.
It was a love that had changed the world.
They took a few weeks for themselves after that, finally allowing the exhaustion of change to melt into joy. Sunlit villas, mountain strolls in the Alps, quiet nights in Paris. For once, there were no crises, no secret meetings or late-night planning sessions. Just them.
Until the call came.
The message bore the seal of the Downworld Council — urgent, but not panicked.
Still, Magnus was already packing before Alec finished reading.
When they arrived, it was Ragnor who spoke first. His face was unusually serious.
“It’s not a crisis,” he assured them. “It’s a conversation. One the Council felt had to be held in person.”
Alec tensed. “About what?”
“You.”
A pause. Then Cecile Belanger picked up the thread.
“You’ve brought something to the Downworld no one else could have — not just leadership, but continuity. A bridge. A vision for something long-lasting.”
Emil nodded, his sharp eyes soft for once. “It will take decades — generations — before the Accords are fully accepted and woven into all our communities. You are the first leader we’ve all agreed on. We’d like to make sure you can be the last.”
Tessa slid a sealed vial onto the table. It glowed faintly green-gold.
“It’s a gift,” she said softly. “A rare one. A potion of immortality. It can only be brewed by a warlock, with offerings from both Seelie and Unseelie realms. The last time it was made was over five hundred years ago. But the fae courts agreed — because you earned it.”
Alec stared at the vial, speechless. Magnus reached for his hand under the table.
He asked for time to think about it, and course they gave it.
That night, in the quiet of the loft, Alec held the vial in his hands. His fingers trembled.
“It’s everything I ever wanted,” he admitted. “But I need to know… do you want this too?”
Magnus didn’t answer immediately. He stepped closer, reaching out to rest his palm against Alec’s cheek.
“I’ve watched centuries rise and fall, Alec”, he said softly. “But I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.. … you’ve changed everything. I want every year, every decade, every century I have left — with you.”
Alec closed his eyes. Then nodded.
He drank the potion under the light of the stars. It tasted like fire and moonlight and possibility.
And when he opened his eyes, something in him had shifted — not just his body, now untouched by time — but his sense of the future. Time no longer pressed against him like a closing gate. The world was theirs to shape.
Magnus kissed him long and slow, and when they pulled apart, he whispered with a grin, “So, Mr. Immortal Accords Council Chair… shall we get to work?”