Helloooo! There's going to be a lot of firsts for me with this story!

This is my first story for The Mortal Instruments - and my first M-rated fic. This will also be the very first time when I shall choose (and try to) keep my chapters of a relative short length, so that I can update more often.

And I'd hate to be a bother doing this, but I want to set review limits (first time I've ever decided this) until I post the new chapter, so I know I'm not doing this story in vain. For this introductory one, however, I will not be asking for a certain amount of reviews - I just hope at least one person does.

Anyway, enjoy!


"If the king is pious, the subjects become so; but if the king is vicious, the subjects become the same."


"Master, he says he wants to see you," the soldier rasped. The other knights laughed and cheered, filling the Great Hall with a cacophony of noise.

It was sweet music to his ears.

"So he's ready to play? Bring him in then - and make sure he's appropriately dressed," the king said, winking.

The laughter increased and the king stalked back to his throne to await his prisoner's arrival.


It had roughly been half an hour later when his solider returned with the prisoner in tow and the king could see why. He was naked, as he had requested, and covered in fresh and festered wounds, which only served to rally up his court's bloodlust as he was dragged down the aisle. They spat, shrieked and clawed at him as he moved in between them, laughing even harder when he winced. Yet, they would not touch him - and that made the king even happier.

They knew that this was his kill.

"Brother," the king said silkily. "I hear you're ready to talk."

"We're not brothers," he spat weakly. Weak from his new wounds, his infected ones, the endless sleepless nights, or his defeated hope - the king did not know. However, the king also did not care.

He chuckled and stood up from his throne. His purple cloak fluttered behind him as he descended the short steps to where his dying brother lay. "What are brothers, brother?" He asked rhetorically. "Are they not males raised by the same parent?" His expression turned furious at his brother's lack of response. "I never said we were blood brothers. We are only brothers in spirit, by name and by our father."

There was still no response from the boy, and the king had had enough. He knew - they all knew - the prisoner wasn't dead yet, and defiance to the king by not answering his polite questions was intolerable. He looked to the guard who delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. The boy groaned but didn't look up. The king didn't need to give any indication to his guards to tell them what comes next.

His matted hair was yanked back and he was forced to look at his new king. "You said you wanted to talk, Herondale, so let's talk. Where is my sister hiding?"

"I'm not a Herondale-"

"It just so happens that I don't care what your name is. Herondale, Lightwood, Wayland - Morgenstern - what does it matter? You're the last of your line either way. What I care about is bringing my sister home and giving her a life free of hiding."

There was no reply from him. The king growled.

"I'm not against having you possessed, brother, if it means I get what I want. Tell me where my sister is, and I'll welcome you into my court, where your wounds will be treated. When my sister comes home, I'll even allow you both to be married as long as you take the Morgenstern name - because the line will continue." He paused contemplatively and stared at his brother's feverish face. He then said more quietly, "Through me or through you, the Morgenstern line will continue."

The prisoner used his strength to spit by the king's feet. "I'd rather die," he said hoarsely.

The king could see that no matter whether he believed it or not, it was difficult for him to make these sorts of promises. He knew that his brother had considered the possibility of how else the Morgenstern line will continue, if not – apparently - through him.

"I'd rather die than be trapped in a court run by a monster, and followed by demons. I would rather die, and make sure you never know where Clary is, than to be married to her, trapped inside this... hell-on-Earth."

"Clarissa belongs with her family!" He abruptly shouted, unable to bear the thought of her being anywhere else.

Promising her to this weakling in front of him had already crossed a line in his conscience, never mind her being possibly dead, without his knowledge – or living any longer without him to protect her, as he should've done ever since she was born. She was supposed to be with him.

He backhanded the prisoner across the face in a fit of rage. He composed himself quickly. "Fine. Alistair, possess him. Find out if she really is where the scouts said."

The king strutted back to his throne and languidly settled on it, with the air of someone who had already won.

Alistair stepped forward onto the dais, and his own mob of guards seized the king's brother. They held his head up, exposing his neck, and placed him firmly on his own two feet. Such was the position and state of the prisoner, he gasped for air; black, sticky fingers quickly found their way into his mouth and held it open. His energy was depleted so much that there was barely a fight of resistance.

Alistair's ethereal body floated into the prisoner (once he was close to unconsciousness, when there'd be the least resistance), in a body of black smoke. He travelled down his throat from his mouth, through his ears and nostrils - anywhere on his naked body that had an opening. The body jerked slightly at the new sensation, then stilled, then pulled itself upright of its own accord. The possession was complete.

The king smirked as he watched his newly possessed brother run his hands all over his body, exploring his new form. More blood and puss oozed from the wounds as he moved, but there was no registration of pain. Both curiously and disgustedly, Alistair stroked the prisoner's penis, and then grasped it roughly. He pumped it a few times, enjoying the feel of this man's body and the sensation. The penis twitched in his hold; the court and he jeered, while some others leered crudely at the man's body.

The king watched those leering in an equally lustful manner, and noted who they were within his court. Maybe I'll start dishing out rewards, he thought; but he didn't know which side he'd be rewarding – the demons or his brother. He looked over his brother once more, lingering on his semi-erect penis. "I'll ask you one more time, brother." The court laughed. "Where is my sister?"

"She's...she's hiding. With the other rebel forces," he replied, his voice as strong as ever. "Clary is under close watch; we know that you have demons looking for her, to bring her to you. She knows the offers that you'll make to have her, and they all know that she will accept them."

"Yes, yes," the king said exasperatedly. "But where - where is she hiding?"

"Only her guards knew. There have been some rumours that she escaped her guards and is making her way to your palace, to accept your offers."

The king contemplated what had been said. "I want the scouts tripled," he said lustfully. "I want the vanguard assembled. We are going to increase our searches across the countryside; we are going to murder, burn, possess and rape any and all villages in our wake. Whatever drives her faster to us. We will leave destruction in our wake, caused only by the foolishness of the Shadowhunters that have defied my rule."

He stood up suddenly and gazed around at his cheering court. They loved him. And they would love his sister too. They were Morgensterns; they were warriors; as beautiful and fierce as Lucifer, where their namesake had originated.

Who was better to rule over demons than a Morgenstern?

"We will find her," he muttered crazily to himself. "She will come home."

Home? He thought suddenly. Home. Am I home? He looked around pensively. He was indeed home; his old home, before his mother had abandoned him. Morgenstern Manor. It wasn't really his home, he knew, but it was the home of the Morgensterns and that is where he and his sister should be. He didn't think there was any other example of being home.

The king nodded and Alistair fled the body, going back into his own corporeal form in the same black smoke. The prisoner fell back to his knees, crying out in pain and the repulsion he felt for informing the king of Clary's whereabouts, as well as the unwanted fondling from the demon that'd possessed him.

"Thank you, brother," the king said jovially, pleased with his new information. He stood up from his throne and commanded quiet from his followers. "For his valuable information and as proof of my generosity, I would like to welcome my brother, Jonathan Herondale, into my court. He will be treated for all wounds, and, once healed; he will be given freedom privileges around the court. He will be treated with respect, as the next in line."

They stared at their new prince, silent for a few moments. This, in front of them, was a boy with no demon blood within him - only the blood of angels. Yet, they knew that this Angel Boy was also Valentine's son, and would've been raised in the same manner as their current king - they knew themselves that it wasn't hard to revert back to previous lifestyles. They knew and trusted that their king would train his successor to follow in his footsteps.

All of a sudden, there was a flood of noise that washed over everyone.

The king was pleased.


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