Disclaimer: disclaimed

Time has crawled to an absolute standstill. She gave up screaming a long time ago. Opening her mouth is unimaginable effort; breathing hurts too much for her to even think about inhaling more than she has to. Dark eyes stare blankly, seeing nothing.

The whip comes down again, slicing through layers of skin and muscle. Pain flares above her threshold—it burns stronger than any of the other cuts, then dulls into an aching throb to match the beat of the blood flowing out of her calves, her thighs, her stomach, her arms. The pool of red spreads ever wider, staining her clothes and matting in her long, tangled hair. She does not move.

He laughs now, and whips her again. Agony explodes in her hand and unbidden, her eyes water. Again. A tear slides down her nose. Sadistic taunts crawl into her ears as she thinks of Alec and Jace and Simon and her parents and Clary and all the Shadowhunters and Downworlders about to die for nothing.

Another lash. I'm so sorry, she thinks, thoughts slow as blood. Max, I'm so sorry.

Sebastian cackles again, lifting her bloodstained weapon. The irony of the situation is not lost on her: a Shadowhuntress's favorite weapon, practically an extension of her own arm, used to kill the monsters whose blood he shares, being used by her enemy to end her own life.

I'm going to die, she realizes listlessly. This is it. I'm going to die without avenging Max or saving Jace. Another tear traces her cheek. What a failure.

The half-demon says something, but there's ringing in her ears and the will to move has vanished, and his words go over her head. He sneers, brutally kicking her already-injured shoulder and exposing her throat. All she can do is stare up into his black eyes with every piece of loathing she can muster and pray to whoever's listening that he dies horribly. Even as he raises the whip to slash her throat she glares at him with pure, undiluted hatred, refusing to be intimidated in her last moments.

Then Sebastian opens his mouth, looking more surprised and vulnerable than she would have ever thought was possible. He turns, already falling, and she's distantly pleased none of the hybrid's blood touches hers.

But that doesn't matter, because suddenly Jace—breathing, living Jace—is standing behind Sebastian's body, looking very empty. He sways, and she forces herself to move, to push herself into a sitting position.

And, oh God, it hurts. Raw pain rips through the multitude of wounds, and her breath is stolen by the primal torment smothering her. Her body is on fire, and all she wants to do is lay back down and sleep.

Jace's knees hit the ground, and Isabelle doesn't care about her pain as he goes down. It takes more effort than she thought she was capable of using to push herself to her knees, then to her feet. Her whole body is shaking and her jaw is clenched and her vision is spotty, but she'll be damned if she loses another brother to Valentine's experiment.

So as she crawls to a fallen stele, picks it up with trembling hands and draws another iratze and calls his name, she chants again and again: I won't lose to him.

And she doesn't.

First time in the MI fandom. Leave a review, yeah?