"Daddy, what's down there?" The young princess asked, pointing to the series of stairs leading to the dungeon. Her father, King Lucian of Alicante, knelt down beside her.
"Darling, that's the place where bad, bad people are locked up."
"Can I go see?"
"Clary, it's very scary down there," the King warned. He knew it would be of no use anyway. Princess Clarissa, even at age 6, was a determined little thing.
"Please?" Clary stuck her bottom lip out, her green eyes widening. She clasped her tiny hands together, begging and pleading.
"Oh, very well," the King sighed. He could never deny his daughter anything when she made a face like that. "Now, you mustn't go too near the bars, Clary."
"There are bars?" Clary frowned as she descended the stairs beside her father. At the base, two guards stood, and at seeing the King and the Princess, bowed their heads in respect.
"Your Majesty, Your Highness."
"The Princess wishes to see the prisoners," the King said.
"Of course, Your Highness," the guards bowed, chuckling softly. Everyone in the kingdom was quite fond of Clary, for they all knew she would be just as good of a ruler as King Lucian is, if not better.
"What bad things did they do?" Clary asked curiously. They didn't look like bad people.
"They're from Idris," the King replied. Clary's eyebrows scrunched together tightly, as if she was trying very hard to remember something.
"Isn't that where King Valentine lives?"
"Yes, that's right, sweetheart," the King nodded. Clary smiled, delighted that she remembered correctly. The smile faded quickly, as she took in the huddled figures in each cell.
"But Daddy, you want Valentine, not them. Why are they locked up?"
"Because they're his people," the King's eyes hardened at the mention of Valentine. Clary just shook her head.
"I think you're being very mean, Daddy. Why are you being mean to them? You're never mean to me."
"It is what must be done," the King sighed heavily. Clary walked tentatively towards one of the cells. There was a small boy, maybe a year or two older than Clary, laying on the straw mattress, sleeping. She gasped at the sight of him.
"Daddy, why is he in there?"
"He's Valentine's son," the King said, gently pulling Clary back from the bars. She wrenched herself free, stumbling forwards.
"But he's so small. He's like me. What if he misses his mommy and daddy?"
"Clary, we are at war with Idris. Sacrifices must be made," her father reminded her. Clary refused to listen.
"I want to talk to him," she declared.
"Clary, you—"
"I want to talk to him," Clary repeated, stomping her foot for emphasis. The King drew a long breath, shaking his head in resignation.
"Alright, alright. But only for a little while, okay?"
"Thank you, Daddy!" Clary threw her arms around the King's neck. Chuckling, he motioned for the guards to open the cell. The keys rattled as the door creaked open. Clary took small quiet steps, inside, as if afraid to wake the boy up. Seating herself on the straw besides him, she watched him sleep for a while, before poking his cheek. The boy stirred, rolling over. He forced his eyes to open, blinking groggily before focusing on Clary. Immediately, he sat up, scooting further into the corner. His eyes darted back and forth, as if something was going to pounce on him any second.
"Who are you?" he growled, glaring at Clary. She paid him no mind, staring at his aureate eyes in fascination.
"You have pretty eyes," she grinned. The boy, taken aback by her comment, didn't say anything.
"What's your name?" Clary asked, playing with a piece of straw. The boy was silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether to answer or not. Clary, as if sensing his unease, smiled.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"Jonathan Christopher Herondale," the boy said quickly.
"Jonathan Christopher Herondale," Clary tested the name out. Beaming, she introduced herself. "I'm Clary."
"Clary," Jonathan repeated, a small smile forming on his own lips.
Days passed into weeks, and weeks passed into months. Clary made sure she went down to the dungeons every single day to talk to Jonathan. She never got much time, her father always called her up after a while.
"Jonathan Christopher Herondale. Jonathan Christopher Herondale. Jonathan Christopher Herondale," Clary muttered over and over under her breath. He stared at her in confusion.
"What're you doing?"
"Jonathan Christopher. Jonathan Christopher... J.C.," Clary ignored him, continuing her muttering.
"J.C…Jacie!" Clary's face broke into a broad grin. "I'm going to call you Jacie," she declared. Jonathan's nose scrunched up, his head shaking in disagreement.
"That's too girly."
"It is?" Clary frowned, biting her lip. "How about Jace, then?"
"Hm…" Jonathan thought for a moment. "I like it."
"Me too," Clary nodded, giggling.
It was dark. Clary had never been in the dungeons when it was dark, but tonight, she had something very important to do. Creeping silently, down the steps, she inched her way past the sleeping guards. One of her hands was in her pocket, clutching a key tightly. The guards had forgotten to put it away that afternoon. Tip-toeing to where Jace was, she saw him waiting for her. He told her what to do a few days ago, and although she was sad to see him have to go, she would help him. She would help set him free. Inserting the key into the lock, she turned it as quietly as possible. Eagerly, Jace pushed the door open.
"Jace, promise that you'll come back to—" Clary was cut off as she felt a burst of pain near her stomach. Looking down, she saw a knife protruding from her side. Her eyes followed the hilt, all the way to the small, trembling hands that were holding it, and finally, to Jace's face. His eyes were squeezed tightly, his jaw clenched.
"I'm so, so, sorry, Clary," he whispered, tears falling from his eyes. She didn't speak. Maybe it was shock, or the overwhelming pain that prevented her from screaming, but her eyes said everything. Betrayal.
"Why?" she choked, black spots clouding her vision. There was so much blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on her dress, blood on the knife, blood on Jace's hands. Her knees buckled, and with a small whimper, Clary fell onto the floor surrounded by a puddle of red, darker than her hair. Jace stared at his own hands in horror. Then, on instinct, he ran.