The next chapter is 34 pages in Word and counting, but Jace wanted an interlude of his own, so I wrote him one. I hope this can tide you over until the next chapter is ready!
Interlude
Orrery
Jace was so tired. And when Sariel was whole again—when Alec stepped back through the Portal and Jace and Izzy could feel his heartbeat in their chests again—when all was as safe and well as it could be, with the Mortal Sword in Valentine's hands and the world at stake, with Magnus dying and Simon so still and silent in the secretari's care—when there was, for a little longer, nothing he could do to help any of the ones he loved, Jace did as any Shadowhunter with a spare moment did, and rested.
He slept. And in his sleep his hand curled around the pendant at his throat, the sphere of gold he'd taken before it could spill from Simon's fingers.
And, sleeping, he dreamed.
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He dreams of having wings and eyes that see more colours than he has names for, a long and powerful tail that helps him steer as he flies beneath a green sky. He dreams of two suns, one huge emerald and a smaller amethyst, and a fist-sized moon like a silver coin; he dreams of sheets of golden light in the sky, a daytime aurora. He dreams of a mountain and a city atop it like a crown, spires of stone and coloured glass and mosaic, and other people, winged as he is winged, darting between them.
He dreams of a crystal palace shaped like a blossom with a thousand petals, floating suspended like a suncatcher in a sky that is not green but milky turquoise. He dreams of walking through the sanctuary's halls, past hosts of alien beings, some of them beautiful to him, and some of them ugly, and all of them strange. He dreams of the one who summoned him here, who chose him: The Fire That Lights Herself, the creator and caretaker of this place, who wears the form of one of his own people—swan-winged and opal-scaled—to greet him, but he recognises her nonetheless, for she is more-than-mortal, the only deathborn to ever join the deathless Iyrin, and the truth of her shines through whatever shape she takes.
"Irio-dainurma-só-tehirte," she calls, curling her tail in a smile, and she does not speak any language Jace knows, but still he understands. "Be welcome to Iadnah. And please," she says when he tried to stutter some accolade or epithet, "call me Zariel—"
He dreams of a library staffed by four-armed golems of black and gold, unravelling the secrets of the multiverse under her patient, brilliant tutelage. He dreams of her other student, Esirath, whose scales are a poem of blue and whose wings are draconic, not feathered like his own. He dreams of late nights with heads bent together, and days spent sketching in each other's holographic works; passionate debates and competitive song-writing and flights where their wing-tips just barely brush as they skim through clouds.
He dreams of the day his mentor walks into the library with another of the Iyrin at her side, one clearly unused to wearing matter: xyr skin is a golden star-map, the light of stars and suns moving over xyr body like living tattoos, and there are universes in the eyes xe doesn't need to look inside not-Jace and Esirath, to reach into their minds and speak to them there. Jace dreams of Zariel introducing them all, and when she speaks of the other Iyr the word she uses means 'life come from my life'; and that could be so many things, but he jolts, because it can also only mean one thing, that this is the Firstborn, the Only-Born, here with them in the flesh—
He dreams of one of those golden hands held out to him, a tiny golden sphere nestled in a palm that still doesn't quite know how to be flesh and bone, but is trying, learning. He dreams of the Iyr whispering inside his head, his heart; *This is us, all of us, watch—*
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But Jace woke before he could see.