Disclaimer: Cassandra Clare owns the original TMI series and characters. Any familiar quotes that you recognise from the TMI books should, of course, be attributed to the ingenuity of Cassie. However, the plot lines and other character developments etc. in this story belongs to me, xxmadworldredemptionxx. Please do not copy, reproduce, translate, or repost these stories elsewhere without my permission.

CHAPTER 1: FALL FROM GRACE

January 1, 500 (Part II)

A splash of cold water upon his face jolted Jace awake from the fresh memory of his mother's death that plagued his mind's eye unsparingly during his slumber. He sat up, fuming as he came face-to-face with the culprit who had thrown the bucket of water on him.

White-blond hair, pitch-black eyes like a demon—

His mother's murderer.

Instant rage flared in Jace's eyes, and he bared his teeth into a snarl, an animalistic growl emanating from deep within his throat. He didn't even register the feelings of fear and hopelessness that had taken hold of him the night before. Now, there was only one emotion that controlled him: anger. He could feel it simmering in his blood, scorching hot that even his skin burned with fever. He didn't care if the man were to take his sword and run it through his chest. Jace had never been raised to be violent, but he wanted nothing more than to beat the man into a bloody pulp—to end him.

"Murderer," he seethed, his nails unconsciously pricking into his own skin. "Heartless, spineless—"

The man chuckled, seemingly amused with his attempts to intimidate him. "Aww… Look at that. Stephen did teach his son a few words after all. Impressive," he jeered sarcastically as he patted Jace's head, mocking him as if he were a pet dog.

Jace didn't even hesitate with his response. "Go to hell," he spat, jerking his head up to bite the fiend's hand. It only lasted for several seconds, but he sank his teeth into the flesh as hard as he could, drawing the latter's blood into his mouth. It reeked of iron and tasted foul, but at the same time, Jace didn't mind it. Let the contemptuous monster feel what little pain he could inflict, he thought bitterly.

Shouting in pain, the man drew his hand back and punched him squarely in the face, causing blood to trickle from his nose and down his chin. As his head whipped to the side, Jace spat out the dreadful-tasting ichor before agilely springing to his feet. His efforts to retaliate proved to be futile as he discovered that his hands were, unfortunately, bound to the wall by chains.

Patting my head. Chaining me up like a dog. Great, just great, Jace thought scornfully as he kicked at the gravelly ground, the chains rattling noisily with his movements.

His bitten hand clutched to his chest, the man leveled him with a disdainful glare. "You will regret your actions soon enough, child," he spat out venomously. "The spawn of Stephen and Celine Herondale, I promise you—You will rue the day that you were born," he said, pointing a finger at Jace threateningly as the latter, unfazed, matched his glare. Irked by his unflagging recalcitrance, the man growled loudly before turning to exit the room, the metal door falling shut behind him with an unnecessarily loud clang.

Jace rolled his eyes at the detestable man's dramatic exit. And I'm supposed to be the ten-year-old throwing a tantrum here? He shook his head, took in several deep breaths to compose himself, before assessing the room that he was imprisoned in.

As expected, it wasn't much to begin with. The room was relatively small and stuffy; its only source of light came from the wooden torch hung by the wall closest to the door. A heavy putrid smell, suspiciously like blood and rotting flesh, hung in the air, making Jace feel slightly nauseous. He didn't even want to think about whose bodies were dumped down here with him, so he bit down on the tip of his tongue, forcing back the bile from making an unwanted appearance. The glaring absence of windows seemed to indicate that his cell was located underground, although where exactly he wasn't sure. He couldn't recall there ever being dungeons within the palace grounds.

"Where is this place?" Jace asked to no one in particular. Letting his head drop backwards against the moldy wall, he let out a loud and frustrated sigh. He might have been left alone for now, but for how long? Why didn't the man just kill him like he'd killed his parents? What was his motive for keeping him alive?

Curse that DEMON, he thought derisively, the anger and contempt building up in him yet again. Could his mother hear his thoughts right now, he was certain that she would have flushed a deep scarlet with anger. Jace had been taught to never curse—although he had heard plenty of such words from his father's soldiers in passing. The one time he had ever said something remotely profane in front of his mother, she had slapped him silly on the mouth and told him to never spout such things ever again, lest he wanted to have his mouth washed with a bar of soap.

Well, she's not here anymore, is she? A bitter voice whispered at the back of his mind. And the more Jace thought of it, the more he felt that his anger was warranted, justified even. If his mother were in his shoes, wouldn't she have felt the same way he did? Even a kind and gentle soul like her wouldn't have found any of this tolerable; she would have cursed at the people who were hurting them, too.

Why would it even matter? SHE'S NOT HERE! The voice repeated, causing Jace to fist his hair in his hands. As he gingerly moved them to rub his palms over his face, his mind flashed back to the previous night's events—

The chaos that had woken him up from his peaceful sleep. His mother rushing into his room and pulling him underneath his bed to hide. His father's yell as he was killed outside his room. His mother attacking the man before he overpowered her. His mother's screams as she was raped. Her dull, lifeless golden eyes even before the man slaughtered her in front of him.

His chest throbbed with the pain and loss of his family, yet the tears refused to come. Instead, he only felt his hatred for the man grow, blossoming in his chest like another entity, a demon impatiently awaiting its release from its pentagram.

I will avenge my parents. And I will return the favor tenfold, he vowed. I'll kill him, if it's the last thing I'll ever do. He and his family will pay.

The sound of the heavy metal door being heaved open broke Jace out of his loathsome trance. He dropped his hands to his sides and glanced up at his visitor, his face automatically screwing into a frown.

In the doorway stood a man clad in military attire similar to his mother's murderer, though from the looks of it, he was more likely his subordinate. He had messy dark brown hair that fell just over his ears, and gray-blue eyes that, for some strange reason Jace could not comprehend, held a tinge of warmth and compassion—much unlike the other man, whom he decided for the time being to refer to as 'the demon'. His memory could not chalk up the man's actual name, and he really didn't care to try remembering either.

"Prince Jace," the soldier greeted him. Oddly, he sounded gentle and apologetic, which surprised Jace. Nevertheless, that did not stop him from scowling bitterly at the man as he approached him.

"What do you want?" Jace snapped coldly, his golden eyes harboring the smolder of hatred he felt for the demon, and his followers in general.

"Lord Valentine has ordered me to bring you to the market. You are to be sold as a slave." The name sparked a bitter reminder of last night and Jace pressed his lips into a thin line. Ah, so that was his name.

"Valentine?" He hissed as if it were a curse. For all intents and purposes, it should be. "You mean that demon who raped my mother and murdered my parents?" The man's eyes flickered, seemingly taken aback by his words, but he composed himself rather quickly, returning Jace's glare with a steady and neutral gaze. He opened his mouth in a gesture to speak but Jace cut him off.

"Why sell me as a slave? Why not just kill me?" He taunted him, self-preservation the furthest thing from his mind. Why couldn't he have been like this last night? Why only now, after his mother was gone, did he finally grow a spine? Jace shook with anger—at Valentine, his people, but mostly, at himself. "Letting me live while he takes over my father's kingdom… He's making a stupid mistake, if you ask me. Mark my words… I will kill him. And I will kill his entire family for what he's done to my family."

The man's mouth hung agape at his spiteful words but before he could attempt to say anything, another voice cut in.

"I would like to see you try, young prince." The cool, steely voice belonging to Valentine boomed as he sauntered into the room. Jace's hands shook furiously at the sight of man's ascetic face, the chains clattering as he clenched and unclenched his fists. "Why keep you alive? Making a stupid mistake you say..." Valentine stroked his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. It didn't escape Jace's attention that his hand—the one he had bitten earlier—was now bandaged. "I say it's all part of my well-thought and elaborate plan to get revenge on your pathetic excuse of a father."

Valentine grinned as he folded his arms across his chest in an authoritative stance, his gaze hard on Jace's. "Picture this…the last bloodline of the Herondales and former heir to the Idrisian throne reduced to the bottom of the common trash, serving commoners, no less." He chuckled darkly. "That's sure to make your father roll over in his grave in humiliation as his feeble and helpless son is treated and tortured like a worthless slave. Even in death, your father won't be able to rest in peace. He'll watch as his only beloved son crumbles from his former life of glory while his enemy takes over the kingdom he worked so hard to build and protect."

Bending down so that he was eye-level with Jace, Valentine uttered in a low, calculated voice, "Think of yourself as the collateral damage. Your father had crossed me deeply—on more than one occasion in the past, if I may add—and you are simply..." He twirled his hand in the air carelessly. "Atoning for his mistakes."

His hands shackled tightly in front of him, Jace trudged forward as Valentine's second-in-command, who had introduced himself as Lucian Graymark, or 'Luke' for short, flanked him on his right. They had set off for the market just shy of an hour after Valentine had come to bid Jace farewell and 'good luck' for his new life as a slave, and despite the amount of time that had passed, he was still fuming.

Jace wished he could have done more, tried harder to pounce onto Valentine, maybe even bite his other hand for good measure, but the latter had been smart enough to keep his distance, eyeing him as if he were a rabid dog that needed to be put down.

Good riddance to him, he thought, only half-heartedly. He loathed being in the man's presence, but knowing that he was alive and soon to be out of his reach, Jace loathed the idea even more. How was he supposed to kill Valentine if he couldn't see him? For all he knew, their encounter in the cells was probably the last time he would ever see of the man.

Jace nearly ran his hands through his hair, but stopped when he realized that the movement would be stunted by the shackles binding his wrists. He scowled at them. Valentine had made sure that they were chained onto him unnecessarily tight, that if he moved his hands too much, the metal would cut into his skin and hurt him. As a matter of fact, his skin was already throbbing. He wouldn't be surprised that once they were removed, he would see angry red scars circling his wrists.

"Are you hurt?" Luke sounded genuinely concerned as he regarded the chains surrounding Jace's wrists. Jace snapped his head towards him, his golden eyes sharp and cold despite the warmth he saw in Luke's.

"Hurt seems like an awfully inadequate word, considering the circumstances," he said in a flat tone. "If you're referring to the physical state of my wrists, then yes, they clearly hurt." He held Luke's gaze, calculating his reaction. He knew that he was being rude, and unnecessarily so, but he couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry or regretful. After all, if Luke was truly a good man, then why was he aiding Valentine?

"If you're referring to my mental and emotional state after losing both of my parents, my home, and very soon, my right as a human… I'll leave that to you to think about when you're on your way back to report to your king." He lowered his voice. "I may be a child but I'm not stupid. I just hope you realize what a huge mistake you're making by allying yourself with Valentine. He may have won my father's kingdom now, but one day he won't have it anymore. One day, I'll be back. I will take back what's mine and I won't be as kind."

Stark silence fell over them in the aftermath of Jace's words. Valentine and his followers might have underestimated him, but he knew that they weren't just a bunch of empty promises. One of the many lessons his parents had imparted unto him was to never lie—and he wasn't lying now. His future might be gray with uncertainty, but he knew this one fact like it was a guarantee: he would return to Idris one day to seek his vengeance. He would live through whatever hurdles that his slave life would throw at him, because it would be worth it in the end when he finally killed Valentine. It will be worth it.

As they entered the market, Jace noticed that it was much more packed than usual, people milling about their business and chattering idly amongst themselves. He recognized some of the townspeople—the shopkeepers, mostly, while the rest were a blur of foreign faces.

He growled underneath his breath as one too many people shoved past his shoulder, but none stopped to glance back, much less utter a quick 'I'm sorry'. Where had all their manners disappeared to? Even if he weren't royalty, it was still basic courtesy to apologize for running into someone, Jace thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

He considered the possibility that he was overreacting—and perhaps, to an extent, he was. He definitely couldn't deny the fact that he was frustrated, or disappointed, or angry. After all, just a couple hours ago, the kingdom had been invaded and their king and queen slaughtered, yet the people reacted as if it were any other day to be frolicking about the market and gossip about the day's affairs. There were no tears, no mourning, no show of respect for recently fallen royal family. It was as if they had never existed. It was as if no one cared—and that hurt Jace more than he wanted to admit. Was it possible that the Herondales meant so little to their people, despite all they've done for them?

What am I to them then? Just another name? Another face in the crowd?

"Stick close to me," Luke advised as he took Jace by his forearm. Jace was too weary to protest, so he let the older man guide him to wherever they were going to, rolling his eyes impatiently every now and then.

After several more instances of 'accidental' shoulder-hits—his irritable self was convinced that the insufferable passers-by were doing it on purpose—he decided to behave a little immaturely and retaliate, earning him some dirty looks and expletives in return. He didn't care enough to react to them though, his face seemingly twisted into a permanent scowl. After the initial dread had come to pass and acceptance set in, Jace was ready for all this hassle to be over and done with. He was ready to start his life as a slave and live with his new master. After all, the sooner, the better, right? At least once he was settled in and adjusted to his slave life, he could start planning his escape and how he would confront Valentine.

All in good time, his conscience interjected.

That, too, nearly made him roll his eyes. After last night, time seemed an awful lot like a luxury. Jace had thought that he'd have more time—years to spend with both of his parents—and look at where all that time had disappeared to, gone within the blink of an eye. It was almost impossible to be patient anymore.

"Here we are," Luke announced, stopping in front of a makeshift wooden stage that was set up in the middle of the market's square.

Perched on top of the stage was a portly gentleman dressed to the nines, much like most of the aristocrats in Idris. Behind him, in stark contrast, stood a line of men, women and children alike dressed in drab attire—or in Jace's frank opinion, rags.

Slaves, he thought, his eyebrows furrowed deeply as he scrutinized them. The stout fellow on stage must be in charge of the slavery trade then.

Jace winced as Luke reached for his hands and freed the shackles from his wrists. His earlier suspicions proved to be right; he could already see the red marks circling his wrists, and he was even bleeding a little. Luke's thumb hovered over one of the raised red lines, and he dug into his pocket to retrieve a small brown vial. Without warning, he unscrewed the cap and poured a transparent-looking liquid onto Jace's scarred wrists, causing him to yelp in pain.

"Sorry about that," Luke apologized. "I wanted to make sure that your hands didn't get infected."

Jace wrenched his hands away, clenching his jaw a little. "A little warning would have been appreciated," he muttered underneath his breath, before gingerly rubbing at his throbbing wrists. "Thanks," he added, a little begrudgingly.

"Ahh, General Graymark." A cheery voice interrupted them. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Looking for some slaves for the new king? I am sure I will be able to find him some suitable ones to accommodate his needs," the corpulent gentleman Jace had singled out earlier spoke in a much too eager voice.

"On the contrary, Malachi, no, that is not why I am here. King Valentine has sent me here to hand this boy over to you. He is to be sold as a slave," Luke replied good-naturedly as he gestured towards Jace. Jace stood up straighter as he was mentioned, his chin angled upwards, exuding an air of confidence like his father had taught him.

Malachi's eyes raked Jace up and down as if he were examining a specimen (or a piece of antiquity to be sold at an auction), before a look of recognition flashed over his face. "The boy?" He pointed to Jace. "P-prince Ja-Jace?" He stuttered questioningly, an eyebrow rose in confusion and partial disbelief. The way he was looking at him was akin to a man coming face-to-face with a ghost.

Jace scoffed in disgust. Yes, I'm still alive… Sorry to disappoint you.

Beside him, Luke nodded. "Yes, he is."

Malachi continued to stare at Jace, his mouth slightly agape. "I know I'm a stunningly attractive child, but you don't need to stare," Jace spoke up cockily. "It's terribly impolite. If my father was here, he wouldn't approve of your actions."

Malachi cleared his throat as his face flushed in slight embarrassment. "I-I…um," he stuttered, a complete opposite to his previous demeanor. "What I meant to—I meant…"

Jace quirked his eyebrow at him in challenge, though he was silently chuckling at the man's inability to string together a coherent sentence. "Go on," he said, flourishing his hand mockingly. "Time is ticking…I'm sure we all can do without your lack of speechlessness. You seemed so excited before."

Malachi cleared his throat again before asserting himself, his eyes turning hard. "Right. Though it may be, your father is neither the king, nor is he alive—therefore, I don't take orders from you anymore. Come this way," he finished hastily before gesturing for Jace to come join him and the other slaves onstage.

Luke gave Jace a parting nod, which the latter, despite himself, found returning before the soldier finally took his leave. Jace heaved a slow breath through his mouth. Giving himself a silent speech of motivation, he strode up the steps confidently, where he was immediately directed to the front of the stage.

As he positioned himself next to Malachi, he became fully aware of the attention that he had acquired from the crowd idly meandering through the square. Amongst the throng of people that had gathered in front of the stage, he spotted faces light up in recognition of his identity, some looking appalled and others simply surprised. Hushed whispers and murmurs ran through them, each one curiously musing about the young prince and what he was doing amongst the slavery stock.

Once Malachi had finished addressing the crowd's inquiries, the square erupted in a pandemonium, though not in the way Jace had been hoping for—not even close. He had hoped that someone, loyal or simply compassionate, would come to his defense, to put an end to this slavery nightmare, but no dice. Just like everything that had happened last night, his life only continued to spiral downward.

"Two hundred silver shillings!"

"Three hundred and one!"

"Five hundred!"

"Eight hundred!"

"Eight hundred and fifty!"

Jace kept his disposition collected and indifferent, tuning out the noises of people shouting over one another their bidding prices in order to earn him as their slave. Each one of them sent prickles of heat shooting through his heart, but he let nothing show. Not his rage. Not his disappointment. His mind was a different story altogether. His head burned from all the pent-up anger he was struggling to hold in.

So this is what it means to be nothing, he thought sourly. Traitors, every single one of them. None of them cared for him. None of them cared about what had happened to the royal family—The royal family that had, up until their deaths, been looking after all these ungrateful people and keeping them out of poverty and starvation, he added to himself.

Look around again, Jace, his conscience urged him. How many of these people do you actually recognize to be your own? Other than the shopkeepers and busybodies, you don't see the usual crowd. Your father's councilmen, your mother's friends…none of them are here.

Jace's blood went cold at the realization. He had been so blinded with rage over his own personal loss, he didn't even stop to think about whether the rest of his people—the good, loyal ones—had survived Valentine's attack last night. Had the demon gathered all of them for a mass execution, or held them hostage elsewhere to be tortured? The strong smell of decomposition that had been present in the cells… Were those bodies belonging to his people?

For the hundredth time that day, Jace felt sick to his stomach. How many of them were dead? He wondered, his face turning as white as a sheet. He wanted to double over and puke his guts out on-stage, but then he remembered—these weren't his people. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him weak; he had been humiliated enough.

Breathe, he remembered his mother telling him last night. In, out, in, out…

To distract himself, Jace began tapping his foot in an incessant rhythm, all the while humming the tune of a lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a toddler. An unconscious smile ghosted his lips as he remembered his mother's face. His mother, who had always seemed to look at him with adoration and affection, even when he misbehaved. His mother, who had held him on pedestal, loving him unconditionally—who was now gone. Because of Valentine.

Jace's smile faded into a scowl as last night's events began to wash over him for the umpteenth time. His mother and father weren't the only ones dead, he reminded himself. But this time, instead of feeling sick, it only fortified his desire to bring Valentine to justice.

As he was musing about how he would execute his revenge on the man whom he hated with a fierce passion, Malachi tapped him on the shoulder, ceasing his plotting effectively and snapping his attention back to the present.

Jace glanced over at Malachi, who was now shoving him excitedly towards a cloaked figure standing by the right corner of the stage.

"Hurry up, boy. We haven't got all day," he was saying with a wide, greedy grin.

Jace shrugged him off and rolled his eyes. "I am perfectly capable of walking myself, no thank you!"

Malachi turned to him with a glare. "Suit yourself, Your Highness," he sneered sarcastically. "As long as you remember your place now." He stalked off ahead of him, leaving Jace to scowl at his back.

Deep breaths, Jace. He's not worth it. Jace clenched his fist and let out another angry breath. Everyone was out to bait him, apparently. No matter; he wasn't going to fall for any of it. Not now, at least.

Approaching the pair at a purposely slow gait, Jace took his time to examine his new master. He was fairly tall, with a square jaw and curling dark hair, and wore a small, reserved smile on his face. Somehow, he looked oddly familiar—it was almost as if Jace had known him from another life. It both startled and unsettled him. How could a man whom he'd never even met before today looked like someone he was certain he did know? It didn't make any sense.

"Come, boy." The man waved Jace over. His voice sounded deep and husky, though not nearly as rough or stern as he'd expected it be.

The moment Jace reached him, the man proffered his bid—three bulging sacks of coins, to be exact—to Malachi, who accepted it with poorly concealed excitement. When the latter was satisfied with his payment, the man then took Jace by his forearm and led him away from the market.

As Jace trailed after his master, he searched his memories for signs of recollection about the man. The familiarity wasn't lost on him, but the question remained: WHO IS HE?

"My name is Michael Wayland. You may address me as Master or Sir," the man spoke, as though he had heard Jace's silent question.

Wayland…Michael Wayland? Why does that name ring a bell? Jace pondered, a crease appearing in between his eyebrows. He fought hard to remember the important detail that he was certain was buried somewhere within the deep recesses of his mind, but it remained elusive. Think, Jace! Think!

"I am—or was, rather—your father's General, before I resigned from office a couple of years back and moved to Alicante to take part in some other…entertaining activities, shall we say… Activities that your father and your grandfather did not particularly condone," he continued while Jace listened on intently.

Michael paused as he regarded Jace with a meaningful smirk. "Have you ever heard of gladiators, son?"

"Gladiators?" Jace echoed questioningly. He shook his head slightly, giving Michael the indication to continue explaining.

"Gladiators," Michael repeated, "Men who take part in armed combat against other men or wild animals in arenas to entertain large crowds of people. They're warriors, who are occasionally forced to fight to the death, though usually the crowds have the final say on whether a gladiator lives or dies, depending on the value of the match," the man explained, his hands clasped together behind his back as he walked. "These gladiators are usually slaves. Though in certain instances, once they've proven their worth in the arena, they are freed."

Jace sucked in a sharp breath, a knowing look filled with a deep sense of foreboding etched onto his face, though he dared not speak up. He didn't like where this one-sided conversation was leading to at all.

"Surely your father has trained you a little? Self-defense and all that?" Michael inquired.

Jace merely nodded, his feet slowly growing heavier with each step. He eyed the plain-field meadow ahead of them, where a gray horse was apparently waiting for them, its reins tied securely around the trunk of a lone oak tree.

"Well, Jace, I may as well be forward with you." Michael turned to him. "I understand you are still a young boy, but I see a lot of potential—fight—in you. You will make a fine gladiator one day, but until then I will train you. Make you stronger, faster. Then maybe one day, you'll be good enough to earn your freedom."

Jace smiled back stiffly before schooling his features into a placid expression. Internally, he felt like he was about to combust. How much bad news did he have to take in in less than twenty-four hours? As if it weren't bad enough that he'd been sold as a slave…now he's being roped into some gladiator rubbish that he didn't even want to understand. He swallowed against the lump threatening to form in his throat. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest—almost as violently and painfully as it had the night before. He hated being a pessimist, but he was fairly certain that at the rate his heart was acting, he would die sooner than he would become a teenager.

Upon reaching the gray mare, Michael lifted Jace up easily, allowing him to settle himself first before climbing up to sit behind him. After adjusting the reins, he kicked at the horse's side with his boot, then led it into a steady gallop away from Idris.

"We'll start anew, at Kirekwall—"

"Kirekwall? Where is that?" Jace asked in a panicky voice. He had known, mentally prepared himself even, to leave Idris. But he hadn't been prepared to move to a country he'd never even heard of. It terrified him. "I thought you lived in Alicante…"

"I believe in finding new beginnings in new places. From what I've heard, Kirekwall is relatively new to the gladiator games. It would be a good place for you to start—from the bottom," Michael said, a disguised emotion in his voice led Jace to believe that there were more to his reasons than he was willing to let on.

"But I—"

"I have faith," Michael interrupted, "that you'll settle in just fine, Jace. Don't worry about it." His chest vibrated with silent laughter against Jace's back.

Jace felt sorely tempted to twist around and punch Michael in the face for telling him to not worry about it, but he didn't. Instead, he dug his nails into the front of the saddle and grit his teeth in aggravation. It was all he could afford to do. Save for the clothes on his back, his old life was gone. He had no one but his master, a man whom his father apparently used to know. He didn't trust Michael—in fact, after how everything had panned out, he didn't think he could trust anyone other than himself—but this was all he had now. He had to allow life to run its course.

Amidst all the chaos running through his head, a sudden calming thought hit him: I will train hard. I will fight hard, and I will earn my place in the arena. And once I'm free, I'll come back to Idris and drag Valentine by his head and kill him in front of his family and the thousands of people watching. And finally, I will reclaim my birthright in Idris.

And with that in mind, Jace allowed a genuine smile to spread across his face.

A/N: Alrighty, now that we've set the scene...be prepared for gladiator Jace's debut next chapter! And if you're a returning reader, then you'll know that's where our favorite redhead comes into the picture too.

Please remember to review! And while we're here, I'd like to give a shoutout to Jling and Laurinis who have been so supportive over PMs these past couple of trying days. You guys are amazing!

Also, to elerian . shenar, I received your PM from my old account xxmadworldreveriexx, so this is me giving you a heads-up that all is cool with the plagiarism situation. Thanks for reaching out to me! :)