Clary woke when the curtains to her room were brutally ripped open. Hot sunlight poured into the cracks and crevices of the room; lighting every available surface.

"Rise and shine, princess!" an unfamiliar voice with a thick Idrisian accent squealed as they shuffled around the room.

Clary groaned in frustration and threw her pillow in the general direction of the noise. "Who are you?" she wondered aloud, as she buried herself deeper into the covers. She had never been a morning person, always preferring to stay in late and worry about what to do later.

"I'm Brigitta; your maid, miss. Helaena is just getting your breakfast for you down in the kitchen," the ever so chipper voice responded.

Clary sighed, knowing she wouldn't be going back to sleep anytime soon. She sat up; stretching her limbs like a cat and saw a petite, blonde girl running around the room. Her hair was in an intricate braid, pinned atop her head with multiple clips and she was wearing a light blue, apron dress.

"I'm sorry I threw my pillow at you."

Brigitta paused from her scurrying to give the princess a smile. "No worries miss. Your coordination isn't up to par, if I may add. The pillow missed me by a few feet," she joked.

Another woman with strawberry blonde hair cut in a choppy bob came in carrying a tray. Clary's mouth watered at the sight of the thinly sliced bread, fried eggs, and crisp bacon. "Thank you," she murmured before digging in. It was only until she'd finished an egg and two slices of bread before she looked up to see her maids standing patiently at the door. She wanted to smack herself for forgetting.

"I'm sorry you two," she said regretfully. "You may be dismissed. Go have breakfast, please." The two nodded and they were gone before Clary could have another bite.


After Clary had completed her breakfast, she took it upon herself to re-explore the castle she'd once called home. Her mother's secretary had told her that the queen would be in session with the Clave for the morning and was not to be disturbed, though she wanted to meet in the throne room in an hour to discuss something. Clary wondered what it could be. Clary was about to search for Isabelle when she remembered that the girl had returned with her family for the night, back to their manor.

Clary took in every detail of the halls with her artist's eye. The nooks and crannies she'd once known as the back of her hand seemed foreign and strange. She knew it'd be a while for her to re-discover them all. The architecture was absolutely beautiful; it was a shame that the buildings in America hadn't been constructed like-so. Gothic pillars held its ceilings, roses and rayed suns carved into the footings. The walls were lined with paintings that no doubt her mother had created during her absence, for she recognized none of the actual paintings, but her mother's handiwork itself. She arrived at the end of a hall filled with knight's armor. Thinking it was a dead end, she was about to turn back until her eye caught something peculiar.

It was a golden goddess figure who stood on a pedestal, brandishing two blades and had a mischievous glint in her eyes. It reminded her vaguely of the statuette of the Indian goddess, Kali, which Luke had while in America. Clary ran her fingers over the gold gingerly, admiring the curves and bends. Her hand jerked away when the figurine snapped back, and a piece of artwork swung open like a door. Maybe she hadn't known the castle as well as she'd thought after all. She peered around as a cautionary measure, making sure no one would follow before she stepped inside.

The air was damp and humid; the musky stench was enough to make her gag on impact. It was clear that these halls were long forgotten. They may have been used as secret passages during the time of rebellion during Idris, to keep the royalty safe from the rebel group, The Circle's, attacks. She didn't know much about them since her mother was so persistent for her tutor to skip over that period of history. Yet, she had heard recent rumors that the people of Idris were stirring, wanting change. The Fairchild line had been on the throne for far too long, they said.

She was brought down when the laces of her green sneakers got wedged into the splinters of the wood. She cursed as she tumbled onto the floor, getting scrapes on her hands. Clary was about to brush herself off as though nothing had happened- it wasn't like anyone else was around to testify-when she heard voices. Clear and pristine, echoing around her. It was then she realized a small vent in the wall lead to the boardroom. She had never been allowed to step foot into such areas.

"You're too young, Clare Bear," her brother would constantly remind her.

She crouched down in a very unladylike manner and peered through the opening into the room. She mostly saw the feet of old, noblemen and members of the Clave. Their black shoes all the same and squeaky clean. She strained to hear what they were discussing.

"The Clave of Idris is now in session, Prime Minister Starkweather presiding..."

A man with slick black hair with splattered grey streaks and round glasses sat in his seat front and center in the court-like room. He smashed the gavel and spoke, "Viscount Herondale, you have the floor."

The viscount she'd spoken to the previous night stood. He was tall, broad shoulders and striking golden blonde locks. He reminded her of someone, she instantly recognized, yet who? His robes were immaculately kept, not a wrinkle on the entirety of them and his eyes calculated the room with an air of superiority. Whatever he had to say, was ought to be beneficial to his behalf.

"As we all know, the 18th birthday of the heir to the royal bloodline is indeed a great deal of significance. It signifies that this young person is eligible to assume the throne."

The room nodded and murmured their responses. Clary held in a gasp as she realized that they were talking about her! She snapped her eyes to Prime Minister Starkweather as he let out an exasperated sigh.

"We are all aware of this, Viscount," he shook his head slightly as if it had been the millionth time mentioning this. "The Queen has already stated that the Princess intends to learn more at her side before assuming the throne." Clary saw her mother give the viscount a tired look.

She faced the viscount once more, whose eyes seemed to flicker before continuing, a slight smile bestowed upon his lips. "It was not Princess Clarissa to whom I was referring."

Clary's face contorted into one of confusion. Her brows were knit together and her lips turned to a frown. She found her mother with the same expression. The queen was as clueless as she was.

The man knew he held all the power. It was so clearly in the palm of his hands. He ambled around the room, looking at each of the confused faces of his colleagues. He held their attention, so he gave them suspense.

"As of the 18th of January this year," he started. "Another heir to the bloodline of Idris was eligible to assume the crown."

Clary's eyes shot wide open. It felt as though all the air was sucked from her lungs and she was a fish out of water. This was preposterous! How dare he?

The man now faced the impatient looking queen. He took pleasure in watching her squirm under his stern gaze. Knowing how much it would frustrate her, he smiled. Teeth barring like a vicious alpha wolf, ready to attack its prey. "My son, Lord Jace," he said.

Jace, as in Izzy's brother, Jace? Her mind screamed. He had always had it out for her, but this crossed the ultimate line.

A collection of gasps rang through the room. The Clave muttered their curses and prayed to their Angel Raziel for a miracle that would save them from the hot water the viscount was so determined to drown them in.

"I beg your pardon?" The queen was furious. She had risen from her chair, gripping at the table with her mama bear claws. Her eyes glowed as red as the hair atop her head and she gritted her teeth together so hard the entire council could hear.

"I am pleased to say that my son, Lord Jace, is ready to take the crown."

"Shut up!" The queen exclaimed. She covered her mouth as soon as the words escaped, no doubt trying to think of an excuse as the viscount's smile turned into a scowl.

"Shut up, doesn't always mean, well... 'Shut up!'" The prime minister jumped into the queen's aid. Him rambling on about the various meanings like 'gee whiz' or 'by the Angel'. Clary had zoned out long ago. Her vision blurred.

"Isn't Princess Clarissa first in line to ascend the throne?" Someone piped up.

The crowd murmured in agreement. "Not yet," someone else exclaimed. Clary tried to glare holes into the back of the man's head yet to no avail. "The Law states that a princess must marry in order to become queen."

Marry? Clary wondered. She just graduated high school and they wanted her to get married?

"We have never enforced that Law!" The queen raged. To say she was furious was an understatement. "A man mustn't marry to become king. It's the 21st century for angel's sake."

The oldest member of the Clave rose and the room was hushed silent. He was respected by many and whatever he said goes. His face was wrinkled with age yet his eyes held wisdom that many would never have the chance to experience. "This has been the Law in Idris for the past 300 years. And to be quite frank, my queen, many of us are unsure the princess is the most suitable choice to govern our great nation."

"That is a load of bullshit," Clary growled under her breath. If she could shoot fire with her eyes, she would.

The prime minister stood once more with a bargain on the princess's behalf. "I say, we give the princess one year during which time she finds a suitable man to marry-"

He was cut off by angry council members, who burst out their own opinions as if they mattered. 100 days... 60 days. Clary flinched as the number slowly dropped lower and lower.

"Thirty days!" The elder proclaimed, and that was that. Not wanting to hear anymore, Clary stormed out of the hallway and burst into the throne room, leaving a trail of wet tears behind her. She knew her mother would have an explanation soon.


Clary paced back and forth in front of her mother, her words barely audible as she rambled her thoughts out.

"How could the Clave expect me to fall in love in 30 days? It's like they want me to agree to an arranged marriage or something..." she trailed off as the reality sunk in. Her mother rested a hand on her daughter's shoulder. Clary faced her mother and saw the sadness sunk within her emerald orbs.

"That's it. They want me to agree to an arranged marriage. Who would agree to something like that?" She shouted; her voice trailing off once more as another reality sunk in. "You did, mom," she laughed nervously.

The queen bowed her head and gave her a small smile. "Your father was a good man, he was my best friend. We grew quite fond of each other. Not all arranged marriages end so terribly."

Clary sucked the bottom of her lip before proceeding. "But that's it, mom. I don't want fondness. I want a chance to love someone."

"You have a choice, Clary." The puzzled look on her face led the queen to continue her thoughts. "You don't have to be a queen."

Clary ran a hand through her curls in an impossible attempt to tame them. "This is so unfair," she whispered.

Clary gazed around the throne room, her eyes landing on a portrait of the most recent royal family. She smiled at her father looking down upon her. White blonde hair and a deep set smile, mimicking her brother's features. In the photo, Valentine sat on the throne. A bejeweled crown rested in the sea of white hair. Her mother stood beside him, her hand resting against his shoulder delicately. A six-year-old version of herself was sat in his lap, red curls going haywire and tickling his chin. Her brother stood on the other side of the throne, his head leaning against his baby sister and a protective hand around her small frame. She always loved that picture; less traditional than the other portraits painted of the royal families, however better, more sentimental.

She shook her head profusely. She wiped the dried tears from her face and cursed herself for the momentary weakness. She was determined. "There are five hundred and fifty years of Fairchilds on these walls, and I intend to be up there next to my parents. For Jonathan, who couldn't himself?"


Viscount Herondale strolled through the living room, a shot of whiskey in hand. The meeting had gone quite splendidly today. His boy would be on the throne in no time at all.

"You, my boy, are a true born Idrisian," the viscount grinned. He regarded the son he'd groomed so well since his wife's passing.

His son shared the same glint in his eyes. The same air of confidence and the same smirk as he nodded, "I agree. But how can we make it happen?"

The Viscount took the darts from his son's hands and made his way slowly towards the board. "Let me show you a trick I learned from an old philosopher, Jonathan Shadowhunter. It is guaranteed to help you hit the bullseye every time."

The direction Jace's father was heading was unclear until his father let out some type of battle cry. The man ran towards the darts board and lodged one dead center.

"Yes," Jace exclaimed, as he un-lodged the dart and handed it back to his father. "But that is cheating."

He watched as his father grinned wickedly. The corners of his mouth upturned in such a way that Jace had never seen before, and wasn't sure he liked.

"Precisely."


"Lord Jace has arrived, with that snake of a father." Luke informed Jocelyn as she was headed down the staircase.

"Behave," she reprimanded sternly, yet he knew she was joking when a small smile displayed across her lips. "I want everyone to be on their best behavior."

She met her daughter at the bottom of the steps and kissed both her cheeks. "Clary, darling, you look wonderful. Very appropriate for meeting the viscount and his son."

Clary groaned as her mother fussed over her, straightening the pink blazer and matching skirt she was wearing.

"I can't believe the Clave invited the man who's trying to steal the throne to stay at the palace with us!" Clary huffed in frustration. She turned to a nearby mirror to put on her earrings while her mother fixed her hair.

"Oh, the Clave didn't invite him, I did," her mother shrugged nonchalantly and walked away.

"It was you?" Clary started her rampage, running to have to catch up with her mother. Her mother had always been willowy and tall, whereas Clary found herself short and cute. At eighteen, you were supposed to be beautiful, not cute as a button; which Isabelle had referred to her the other night.

"I offered to hang him by his toes in the front courtyard," Luke grumbled as he came around the corner with a peach-colored coat, which he helped Jocelyn into.

Clary raised her eyebrows and motioned at Luke, "I like his suggestion. What about Luke's suggestion!"

"If there's any funny business," Jocelyn explained, "I want it right in front of my nose."

"I so don't want to be nice to this guy, you know? When we were ten, he was rude, self-centered, and arrogant-" Clary was more than ready to list twenty more adjectives that could perfectly describe the kid she'd once known when Jocelyn rolled her eyes at her daughter and out a stop to her rambling.

"Well, have you seen him since you were ten?" Jocelyn questioned.

Clary thought for a moment before responding reluctantly, "well, no. Not since his mother died."

"Me neither."

The conversation was halted for a moment in memory of Céline Herondale, who Clary had always liked.

"But out of nowhere, he just wants to be king of Idris?" Clary wondered. She spread her arms out and gave an incredulous look at her mother. "What is that about?"

The queen sighed at the dramatic antics of her daughter. She took Clary's hands and brought her to a luxurious sofa where they both sat. Clary relaxed into the plush cushions and took a deep breath, something she hadn't realized she needed.

"We will be charm itself. Nothing less than grace and poise. We'll show the people of Idris who deserves to be queen."

The two women locked emerald eyes and Clary knew instantly that she couldn't let her mother down. For the sake of her mother, her father and Jonathan, she would become queen. No one would stand in her way.

"Presenting Viscount Herondale and his son, Lord Jace."

Clary's head spun towards the doors as they opened, revealing the clean kept man she'd seen that morning in the boardroom. It took every ounce of fiber in her to keep from running towards him and spitting on his shoes. Her mother dragged her over towards them, despite her refusals. It was then she saw Jace. Her eyes widened with shock. She ripped her wrist out of her mother's grasp and her body went still.

It. Was. Him.

It was the mystery guy from the other night. His hair was slicked back with some kind of gel, and he wore an immaculate suit; black as midnight and tailored to the Angels. Her eyes wandered over his body, betraying her mind. She couldn't help but stare at his beautiful honey curls, chiseled jaw and sharp features, and the golden orbs she'd found herself gazing at more than once the night before. She noticed that his eyes were scanning over her as well, and she wasn't sure whether to be flattered or disgusted.

He was effortlessly gorgeous she had to admit, whether Clary liked it or not. She didn't... by the way.

Just because he was insanely attractive, didn't mean she had to like him, Clary had decided.

Pretty boys were always distracting, and arrogant, she found. They reeked of self-confidence and she had no doubt they'd break your heart in an instant if they pleased.

The queen gestured to Clary, who stood beside her shell shocked. "May I present my daughter, Clary."

The queen was finished exchanging niceties and had discreetly nudged Clary to do the same. She reluctantly let out her hand towards Jace.

"It is quite the pleasure having you stay at the palace, Lord Jace," Clary said in a courteous manner that she couldn't tell was sincere or not. To be honest, she wasn't sure her feelings of him staying at the palace; always around.

The sardonic young devil kissed the back of her hand, a pleasant burning sensation etched into her skin by his soft lips. "The pleasure is all mine."

She couldn't quite pinpoint what had thrown her over the ledge. Maybe it was the way his lips rose into a smirk or every fiber of her being remembering his behaviors when they were young. All she knew was a dirty little plan had clicked, and her etiquette was carelessly thrown out the window like an old rag.

Clary refused to meet Jace's eyes. She clicked her tongue while her eyes wandered to every possible surface except for Jace. "Clary..." her mother said sternly.

Clary blinked multiple times before her trance was broken. She painted on a fake smile that she knew she'd become accustomed to soon enough, and stepped toward the boy she hadn't seen in eight years.

"Why, Lord Jace, it's been too long. Hasn't it?"

Before she could reason with herself, she jabbed her heel into his foot, satisfied when she heard him groan in agony on the behalf of her kitten heels.

"She seems to make it a habit of stepping on my toes," Jace gritted his teeth while reassuring the staff with a painful smile as they rushed to his aid. Clary didn't hear any more as she stomped away from the scene, her mother would be chasing after her soon and she needed to make her exit quick. The last thing she heard was Jace grunting, and refusing help as he hobbled out of the entryway.


"Way to go, Biscuit!" Magnus cheered as Clary retold her side of the events that had occurred a few hours earlier. Magnus lounged on a tawny cushioned love seat; settle back as if he owned the place. His sparkly blue vest paired well with his matching blue eye shadow, his hair unruly and swayed from side to side.

His eyes hinted utter amusement, as he re-imagined what his friend voiced. Sapphire glitter was shaken off his clothes as he laughed, the vibrations sending them spiraling through the air. She knew they were now permanently embedded into the furniture. She wondered how Magnus's maids kept up with him. They must've concocted a special glitter remover...

"I don't know, my mother was pretty pissed," Clary recalled. She tried to keep her jitters at bay by biting her lip and twiddling her thumbs back and forth.

Magnus snorted. At least he was enjoying himself. "Not as pissed as Viscount Herondale, I hear. The maids claim they could hear him rambling up a storm all the way from the kitchen, on the other side of the castle!"

Clary flopped onto her plush bed with a groan. Regret pooled into her veins as she mentally smacked herself. "This will make life more bearable, that's for sure," she grumbled, sarcastically.

"Don't feel bad, Clare. Remember that he's your competition now. A Herondale hasn't been on the throne in over six hundred years. What right does he have to the throne, anyway?"

"Agreed."

Izzy entered with a grand entrance, per usual. Clary expected nothing less as she carelessly swung open the double doors and pranced inside, looking as gorgeous as ever: tall and slim, with slick, ink black hair that flowed down her back like a river of dark poison. Her makeup was effortlessly done and her pale long sleeve pink top made her look delicate, whereas her skirt contrasted with a slit that slid up her thigh. She made her way over to the princess and plopped down onto her stomach, and her face was inches from Clary's.

"Isabelle-" Clary was more than ready to stumble out apologies when Izzy shushed her. No hint of malice was hidden in her golden flecked eyes. If not peered into in direct sunlight, her eyes would resemble the sea of black that fell from her head.

"Jace may be like a brother to me, but that's no excuse for what they're doing to you. Viscount Herondale had developed a bone for evil when his wife had died. Céline dying was unexpected and tragic, I understand. But it's no excuse for the viscount's behavior and Jace following him around like a blind puppy dog is not any better."

Izzy readjusted herself so that she lay on her side now, her arms bent and her head resting against her hand.

Clary mimicked her position; lay on her side opposite from Izzy. If the two hadn't looked so different, Magnus would've thought he'd been staring at a mirror.

"What do I do then, Iz?"

This was what prompted Magnus to rise from his chair and stand before the two girls. It may not be the most favorable conclusion, but it was better than that Herondale on the throne. He may have promised to Alec to try and get to know Jace, but this was his little secret. His friend was in need, and he couldn't deny his princess.

"You have thirty days to marry. The Viscount doesn't believe you'll go through with it."

Clary nodded her head in agreement, willpower behind her eyes so strong that Magnus had seen only once before. Jonathan.

"I can't let my mother down. But I've never been in love! I mean sure, I dated a guy or two in high school but I would hardly call that love. Who could I possibly chose to spend the rest of my life with?" She looked to Magnus for answers, and answers he supplied.

"I've got it all figured out, Princess." He smoothed the frizzy red hair atop her head until it looked somewhat presentable again. He took Clary's hand and jerked her up, earning a mangled noise of surprise. He did the same to Isabelle, who was more prepared than Clary. With the two girls in tow, he hauled them out of Clary's chambers.

"Let's go find this Biscuit a husband."