Shadowveil

The Silent City

Clary eased her cramped fingers. 

Blisters popped and stung on her palms; gravel marks imprinted into her knees. Sweat trickled down the collar of her gear as she turned to look behind her at the day's work. 

Three solid feet of runes were marked onto the cold gray slate around the Silent City, all speaking of protection and light and safety, of hallowed ground and sacred shelter. Warlock-created barriers shimmered in a massive bubble over the whole central building, patches of blue and pink and amber magic blending seamlessly into a humming dome. 

The Clave was surprisingly fast when it wanted to be. All Nephilim had been evacuated to the Silent City, not wanting to take shelter at an Institute and risk the demons carving a path through the mundane world to find them. 

Anyone who wasn't training was drawing up strategy plans, blocking tunnels, plotting exits, or contributing to the city's defense. Some, like Clary, drew rune after rune until their steles snapped. Others set up barricades, trenches, and hair-trigger traps, helped by warlocks and werewolves and vampires. 

Because for the first time in its ancient history, the Silent City had been opened to Downworlders. 

Apparently, the Clave had learned that alliances were very important after almost being exterminated by Sebastian. So, an offer of shelter was extended to everyone in the Shadow World, even the fairies. They'd declined, of course, and there were several subgroups among the other three Downworlder species who'd refused to come at all. But the Night's Children, the Moon's Children, and Lilith's Children were all represented at least two hundred strong, flocking from all over the globe. 

Clary finished marking her last rune into the ground and stood up, swaying a little as blood rushed to her head. She limped her way to the meeting hall, passing several others on the bone road--all pale and grim-faced, lines of worry cutting through their foreheads, weapons bristling at their sides.  Alec was already sitting at the table, his dark hair powdered with stone dust--or maybe crumbled bone. Clary decided not to look too closely. 

She sat beside him with an exhausted sigh, overlooking the city. Wards shimmered everywhere; runes marched in neat lines, and figures swarmed through the streets, gleaming with metal. It wasn't enough, she thought. It would never be enough to keep everyone safe.

 She looked uneasily at the cavern ceiling, half-expecting to see flashes of hellfire reflecting off its glossy surface. Her palms were clammy with nerves that never seemed to go away; under a hundred tons of rock, she felt as entombed as any of the long-dead Shadowhunters whose ashes built the city.

The redhead glanced sideways at Alec. Though he was dressed in gear and fully armed, none of it could hide the dark shadows under his eyes. She could see the iratze on his forearm struggling to heal the bloody scrapes on his hands from training and helping set defenses. The hunch in his shoulders belied the utter weariness of worrying and working and planning and trying to take care of his husband and children all at once.

In a way, she thought it was terrible that he had to go through this, that they all had to go through this--but at the same time, she understood that this was the sacrifice of a Shadowhunter. It was their birthright to train, to fight, to bleed. To stand before the darkness and sacrifice themselves for a brighter world. 

She looked out on the city again and wondered how many of the people she could see would die in the upcoming battle. 

They had two days left until the deadline. Frantic research had turned up nothing about the Sons of the Underworld, so nobody knew what they might be facing. Everybody was tired and irritated and hanging by a thread. There was going to be another meeting with the Clave in a minute or two to talk about next steps. Probably nothing would be accomplished, though.