Hello darling readers! I would like to thank all of you for clicking on my story and hope you will enjoy reading it. Before we begin, I have a few things to say. One: obviously, I don't own the Mortal Instruments or any of the characters in this story. But if you're here, you probably already knew this. Second: at the start of each chapter will be italicized song lyrics along with the title and artist of said song. All songs that have inspired me to write this story that I personally believe fit well to the storyline have been compiled into a Spotify playlist you can find by searching "Runes of Disillusionment" on Spotify or messaging me to get the link. Not necessary, but cool if you want the story's ~full experience~. Each song goes with a particular character or scene in the story. Thank you all so much for indulging this uninteresting wall of text!

I said mama was insane,

And daddy was a criminal

- "Mustang Kids" by Zella Day

Breathe in. Run the blade cleanly from the left side of the neck to the right, successfully severing the head from it's prop; tilt the blade up slightly at the end to topple the head to the side. Breathe out. Spin on my heel and repeat the actions with the figure behind me. Pause. Assess the damage, and think about what you could have done better.

The same words that always run through my head during training run through it now - in Father's voice. I grit my teeth and look at the sad looking dummies, all headless and all lying limp around my feet. I curl my lip and drive my blade through the chest of the nearest one, putting so much force into the thrust that the floor grates at the tip of the blade with a low groan.

"Clarissa." I turn, pushing a lock of red curls that has escaped from my ponytail behind my ear. Jonathan stands in the doorway, watching me with a smirk on his face. His eyes run from me to the decapitated dummies and then back to me. I pointedly stick out my bottom lip at him and grind the blade into the floor before releasing the handle, letting it stick in the floorboards. Jonathan's silvery blonde hair is wet and hangs limp arond his face - he must have just showered. "Father wants to talk to you."

I kick one of the dummies out of my path, making my way across the small training room in our apartment. "What about?" I ask, running my hands along my waist out of habit. Four dagger blades run under my fingers, a familiar and comforting weight at my belt. Jonathan's eyes flick from my hands to my face.

"Not sure." I lift an eyebrow at him. He's using the tone he often uses when he's hiding something. He pretends not to notice, and turns his black eyes away from me. "Good luck," is all he says, and he disappears down the hall.

I frown after him. Jonathan has always seemed to know more about me than I do about him. I smooth down my black training shirt and go in the opposite direction from Jonathan, towards Father's office. I knock on the mahogany door, two times, then once. "Come in," rings out from behind the solid slab of wood.

I push the door open. Father sits at his desk, which is directly in the middle of his study. The dark wood floor is covered with a thick red rug that seems to dissolve any promise of an echo. The windows behind him show a snowy landscape, though just this morning it was sunny outside. We must have moved again. "Jonathan said you wanted to see me?" I lean against the door.

He looks up, a strict smile set across his face. "Sit, Clarissa." I do, in the chair across from his. He clicks the point of a ballpoint pen in and out, filling the air with sound. "I wanted to talk to you about runes."

I sit up straighter. Save the Voyance rune on the back of my right hand that allows me to see through glamours I got at age twelve, Father hasn't let me draw Marks, or given me a stele. Jonathan, on the other hand, has runes etched darkly across his pale arms, neck, and chest - which I've always found unfair. I'm a shadowhunter too, after all. "Yes?" I inquire, twisting my slightly sweaty fingers together in my lap.

"You have studied up on them, I trust?" His dark eyes are wide and searching.

I nod, forcing myself not to show enthusiasm. Father has told me more than once that enthusiasm is not a trait he likes to see in his children, unless there is a cause that is obvious and reasonable. "Of course."

He smiles. "Oh, you always have been so enamored with them, Clarissa." He leans back in his chair and sets the pen down on his desk. Without the clicking, the room sounds too quiet. "I think it's time that you are allowed a stele of your own. But," he continues smoothly, "first you will have t prove that you have the responsibility of a shadowhunter. Of a Morgenstern." He says our last name with an air of proud finality.

"Yes. Anything. Whatever you need me to do." My pulse pounds in my wrists. Maybe he's sending me out on a mission likes he does with Jonathan. Maybe he finally thinks I'm ready to fight with him. Maybe he'll even let me leave the apartment. Unlike Jonathan, he keeps me under strict lock and key. I'm allowed a shopping day supervised by Jonathan once a month to buy new clothing and anything else I might need. Other than that, Father only lets me out on missions to kill demons that he sets up and takes me on. I know why, of course.

As if reading my train of thought, Father nods. "You remember what I taught you, Clarissa. The Clave doesn't trust you. They don't trust me. In fact, they would be quite cheerful if I was to turn up dead." Despite his heavy words, his tone is light and airy. "All because of the Uprising. Shadowhunter turned against shadowhunter, and parabatai against parabatai. Downworlders sided with the shadowhunters who wanted to kill mundanes for sport. Vampires especially. My side, the side devoted to keeping the mundanes out of harm's way, was defeated. I barely got you and Jonathan out alive. You mother...she wasn't so lucky."

I swallow hard at the mention of my mother. Father gave me one picture of her, from their wedding day. She looked utterly beautiful - red hair tired up effortlessly, gold dress glimmering in the Idris sun, smile as bright as freshly fallen snow. Father says I look just like her. Looking at the radiant woman in the photograph, I'm tempted to disagree. I will never look that graceful. "It was us or her," I remind Father. "You chose us, and it's what she would have wanted."

A shadow crosses his irises. "Yes. It is what she would have wanted, Clarissa." He allows a moment of silence to stretch between us. I trace the Voyance rune with my left pointer fingernail. "So, for your mission." He smiles at me, a real and genuine one. I smile too. He's going to let me prove myself. "I have relocated the apartment to New York City." I think to the maps of the world Father made me study, the hard schooling he drilled into me. Everyone knows about New York City. He lifts an eyebrow at me expectantly.

"New York City," I recite carefully. "Largest US city by population. Of New York state, 'the Empire State'. Capital, Albany."

Father looks pleased. "Good, Clarissa. So, as you know, some of those who fought with me in the Uprising joined the other side as a last ditch attempt to save their own hides." His proud smile melts into a scowl of distaste. "Among them, those I thought I could trust. Those I did trust, with my life. Maryse and Robert Lightwood. And, as it turns out, their four children: Alexander, Isabelle, Maxwell, and Jace." He says the last word like it's something dirty.

"Cowards," I supply. Father nods.

"Indeed, Clarissa. So here is my task for you. Runeless, you will turn up in the city and let them find you, let them take you into their Institute. Once you are inside, gain their trust. Slowly but surely, I need you to convince them that your mother-" he breaks off before continuing, "-was killed in front of you, by someone who was boasting about murdering Valentine. That you have dreams about this figure, and need time to figure it out." He is not smiling anymore.

I nod slowly. "So. I turn up and let them 'save me.' I pretend to know nothing of the shadow world. Then I tell them my mother was murdered by a man who killed Valentine, and that my dreams over a course of time will reveal who he is." I pause. "Your name is Valentine."

Father nods. "Yes. It will put them off my trail. Now, remember this. Jonathan will be watching your progress."

I smile a little bit, not enough to show my rapid heartbeat and fluttering stomach. "I will not disappoint you."

"There is an issue, Clarissa. Your Voyance rune. If you know nothing of the shadow world, you would not have it." His voice is gravelly, with a hint of...what? Fascination? Intrigue?

I frown. "It's a permanent rune, Father."

"I know," he says. "But I believe I've found a way to remove it." He stands up, and I do too. "Come with me."

We walk in silence through the apartment. I figured out long ago that it is enchanted with some sort of magic. It moves from place to place, lingering in each for only a few months at a time. It has three stories, despite being small and insignificant from the outside. I am not allowed in the lowest level, but it is where we head now - Father pushes open a door to the dark stairway winding down, and we descend into darkness.

Sickly bulbs click on, bathing white tile scrubbed clean with sterile light that glows faintly blue. Father opens the door to a small room and I enter, ignoring the shivers that crawl up and down my spine. I can't show fear. It is a mundane thing to do, and Father would not want me acting like a mundane. He may have fought for their well being in the Uprising, but it doesn't mean we should act like them. The door closes and I survey the room.

The walls are white, as is the ceiling. The floor is the same white tile as the hallway, but all sloping slightly to the center of the floor, where a grate sits sedentary. Chains attached to the wall slump silently in one corner. Black stains jump out at me from in between each tile. I do not want to know what happens in this room. "What are we doing down here, Father?" I ask, proud of myself for keeping my voice so steady.

"Taking off your rune, Clarissa. I didn't want to get your blood on the floor upstairs."

This time I can't push down the shiver that runs through my every nerve. "What?"

He grabs my right hand, pushing up the sleeve of my black training shirt. I stare at the rune. My only rune. The one I have lived with for the last three years. "There's no other way," he reminds me. He pulls a small vial from his jacket and considers it for a moment. "Now, Clarissa. Be brave. This may hurt."

He uncorks the vial and unceremoniously pours the contents over the back of my hand. At first, it is just cold, spreading like ice over my skin. The world comes so clear into focus that it is dizzying; each breath I take feels like my first or my last; I stand taller than I every have before. Then it begins to burn. I try not to, but I scream. My knees give way and I sink to the floor. cold white tile against my forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut. Tendrils of clawing, snarling flames shoot over the back of my hand, sizzling ominously. I sneak a glance through my tears and see that the skin of my hand is literally melting off.

Father Grabs me, pulling up the hem of my shirt, and I feel a sight sting at the small of my back. The pain in my hand eases, and I watch in wonder as the skin knits itself back together, like a fast motion video of stitching. The sting ebbs away, until my hand looks glowing and healthy again, without the rune. I gasp. "What was that?"

"I poured demon ichor on your hand to melt away the rune, and then used an iratze to remedy it. Don't worry - the iratze is faded and in a place covered by clothing." Father sounds proud. I do enjoy making him proud, but this was a bit much even for me.

I nod along, a wave of fatigue making me tongue tied. "Go get some rest, and pack. You leave tomorrow morning." Father tells me, and leads me out of the awful room and up the stairs back to the main floor. Jonathan stands at the top of the stairs with a scowl on his face.

"What did you do down there?" he asks.

"Take Clarissa to her bedroom," is all Father says in response, and closes himself back into his office. I begin to walk down the hall before my knees weaken, but Jonathan doesn't hesitate in placing one arm beneath my knees and the other my shoulders, lifting me carefully in his runed arms.

He kicks open the door to my room and lays me down on the bed I've pushed up against the window. The New York skyline shines through the unbreakable, unopenable glass. "Are you okay, Clarissa?" Jonathan asks.

"Fine. Just tired." I reply carefully.

He grabs my right hand and runs his thumb over the newly healed skin. "No scar," he says in awe. "This is good." His black eyes bore into mine, and then he pulls the blankets of my bed up around me. "Rest up, sister of mine."

I push my head into my pillow. "Goodnight, Jonathan."

He pauses in my doorway. His gaze lingers on me for a moment too long before he shuts the door and leaves. I am too tired to think of anything but sleep right now. I allow my eyes to flutter shut, and resign to the heavy wave of fatigue that overcomes me.