Chapter 3: Where the Storm Breaks
Jada didn't say a word when she stepped back into the revel.
Atreus was already there.
Leaning against a tree that hadn't been there before. Emerald eyes gleaming beneath his lashes. One foot propped on a moss-covered root like this was all some leisurely vacation.
He didn't speak at first. Just studied her. The tightness in her shoulders. The set of her mouth. The way she kept her hands too still.
Then, lightly:
"You look like you've either had the best night of your life or were offered a deal by someone who smiled too much."
Jada didn't answer.
She walked past him, toward the edge of the grove.
Atreus fell into step beside her, boots silent on the moss.
"So?" he asked, voice soft now. "What did she offer?"
"Information." Jada's voice was clipped. "Valentine Morgenstern. She says he's alive."
That made him pause.
Just a flicker.
Atreus never flinched unless it mattered.
The silence cracked.
Even Atreus blinked.
"Alive," he repeated.
Jada nodded once.
"She wants me to find him."
Atreus stared at her like she'd grown horns.
"Let me guess. She offered it like a gift. With sparkles. And a kiss."
Jada didn't smile.
"She offered me a favor."
"Oh, even better."
Atreus crossed his arms, the sarcasm dimming—just a little.
"You're not seriously considering this."
"She said the Circle is moving," Jada said. "They're in Idris. The wolves are already dead. The Clave is going to spin it, bury it. If I want answers, I have to go now."
She stepped forward, urgency rising in her voice.
"My father's research is still out there. My parents' death—"
"I remember," Atreus said, too soft.
Jada breathed in hard. "This is the first real lead I've had in years."
He didn't respond right away.
Then, slowly, Atreus reached into his coat pocket.
Pulled out something silver, small, and old. A ring. Threaded on a delicate chain.
He let it dangle between them.
"I was saving this for your birthday," he said. "Or your funeral. You know. Whichever came first."
Jada frowned. "What is it?"
"Ring of Valerius," Atreus said. "Portable escape hatch. Spin it twice, it'll take you anywhere."
She reached for it—but Atreus didn't hand it over.
Instead, he stepped forward and looped the chain around her neck himself. She held still. Not out of trust—but because it was the closest thing to comfort she'd let herself have.
The metal was cold. The weight, heavier than it looked.
Jada looked up at him.
"You think I'm making a mistake."
Atreus smiled—slow, rueful, almost fond.
"I think you're walking into a pit full of vipers wearing gasoline and a smirk."
A pause.
"But I also know better than to try and stop you." He tilted his head, quiet, considering. "Well, go on, peanut. Give it a go."
She twisted the ring.
The portal split open—sharp, sudden.
Pine. Blood. Thunder in the air.
She stepped through.
Atreus followed.
They emerged into silence.
A clearing scorched with memory. The remnants of battle still clinging to the air—blood soaked into dirt, the faint metallic tang of retreat.
Jada didn't flinch.
But inside, something coiled. Waiting.
Atreus didn't move.
He looked at the battlefield.
Then at her.
"Last chance to run, peanut," he murmured, inspecting his nails like this wasn't life and death. "Say the word and I'll whisk you off to Brooklyn. Magnus is probably throwing a party. There'd be music. Overpriced cocktails. Possibly a summoning circle that doubles as a hot tub."
Jada shook her head.
"No, Atreus. No more waiting."
He sighed.
"Of course not."
Then—he reached out.
And booped her nose.
"Be careful, darling," he said softly. "Try not to get ritually sacrificed. I hate cleaning up after people I care about."
She rolled her eyes.
But when she turned toward the battlefield, she didn't smile.
Atreus turned, flicked a hand, and disappeared through a portal of violet flame.
And Jada was alone.
The trees whispered like they were watching her. The clearing sat heavy and quiet, bones hidden beneath leaves.
Then—
Hoofbeats.
Low.
Approaching.
This was the Circle.
And Jada was gambling everything—on one performance, one lie sharp enough to bleed with.
If she slipped, if she cracked, they'd cut her down without hesitation.
She didn't wait.
She vanished into the treeline.
And became the trap.
The werewolves were already dead when the Circle rode in.
Pangborn surveyed the clearing with the kind of practiced detachment that came from seeing too much carnage to care.
Bodies stretched across the clearing in uneven spirals. Two werewolf packs, torn apart by each other's teeth. The survivors were long gone—probably bleeding into the trees, hoping no one was left to track them.
He smelled blood, thick and wet in the soil. Burned fur. Split sinew. The tang of silver where it didn't belong.
It was wrong.
This wasn't how the hunt was supposed to go.
Behind him, Circle men shifted in their saddles. Restless. Expectant. The promise of battle had drawn them like dogs to raw meat, but what they found was already ash.
The sky above Idris was slate-dark, heavy with storm. It hadn't broken yet.
Malachi rode up beside him, straight-backed and sharp-eyed. The scar across his temple caught the light like an accusation.
"We came too late," someone muttered.
"We came as we were ordered," Malachi snapped.
"Valentine didn't say shit," Blackwell grunted. "We came to shut you up, Malachi."
Pangborn didn't turn.
He didn't need to see Malachi's face to know what it would look like: tight-jawed, eyes sharp with ambition. The man wore control like a uniform. Pristine. Desperate.
"The men were restless," Malachi said, drawing closer, voice clipped. "Besides, soldiers are eager to follow—when given the proper direction."
Pangborn lit a cigarette. Dragged slow. "Careful, Councilman. They might start thinking you're the one in charge."
Malachi didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Behind them, the Circle men said nothing. But their stillness wasn't reverent—it was watchful.
Hungry for purpose. And Malachi was feeding them scraps, pretending it was a feast.
Pangborn exhaled smoke into the storm-heavy air.
The Circle's mission had become a waiting room—half of the men pacing, the other half sharpening knives.
There was a time they'd moved like one body. One will.
Valentine spoke, and the world shifted.
Now?
He was still here.
But Pangborn didn't know if the man who had led them at the Uprising had survived the fire.
Or if something hollow had taken his place.
Valentine hadn't given orders in weeks.
And the cracks were showing.
They rode to the center of the clearing. A hunt already finished. No victor. No witness.
Only silence.
Pangborn narrowed his eyes.
Something wasn't right.
"Eyes up," he said, voice low.
The soldiers shifted. One reached for his blade.
The wind changed.
And then—
Someone stepped out from the trees.
It wasn't dramatic.
No lightning. No angelic flare.
Just a girl walking out of the trees like she belonged to the fire.
Small. Bloodied. Smirking.
A wild cascade of black curls framed her face, damp with rain and ruin. A patched leather jacket, boots caked in blood. Her skin—a warm olive tone—was streaked with ash and grit, marked with faint rune-scars that didn't hide. A Shadowhunter.
She moved like a queen. Or a threat.
Like she had already won.
And when the Circle men raised their weapons—
She didn't flinch.
Pangborn stared.
His lips curved, lazy and amused.
"Look, gentlemen," he drawled. "The spoils of war."
A ripple of laughter behind him—low, hungry, cruel.
Someone muttered, "Maybe she's more use alive."
She tilted her head. Not in confusion. In boredom.
Her eyes—deep brown, sharp as broken glass—met his without hesitation.
"You were expecting a hunt," she said, voice calm. "I saved you the trouble."
Pangborn let his gaze drift over the bodies.
She did this?
She was small.
But Pangborn had seen kingdoms fall to smaller things.
This one looked like a knife wrapped in leather and spite.
"And you are?" he asked, leaning forward.
She lifted her chin.
"Jada Buonavento."
The name cracked through the clearing like a whip.
Riccardo Buonavento had been a Shadowhunter. A medic first—but he wasn't soft.
He'd stitched up Nephilim and Downworlders alike—even when the Clave had threatened to kill him for it.
He had stood across from Valentine at the Hall of the Angel in the old days. Before the Accords. Before the Uprising. Debated for Downworlder collaboration where Valentine fought for eradication.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't carry a blade.
And still, the name was spoken in the Circle like a curse with teeth.
The medic who had inspired the Accords.
Malachi's horse shifted beneath him as he surged forward.
"Buonavento," he snarled. "A traitor's legacy."
Jada met his fury with apathy.
"My father was weak," she said coolly. "He believed Downworlders could be saved. I don't."
Pangborn didn't believe her.
Not for a second.
No one who knew Riccardo would call him weak.
And no daughter who remembered him would say it lightly.
But the delivery?
Flawless.
"So you killed the werewolves?" Malachi snapped.
Jada smirked. "I don't wait for permission to act."
The Circle soldiers shifted.
Interest. Approval. Uncertainty.
Pangborn watched her closely.
The tilt of her head. The way her fingers didn't touch the blade at her hip—but hovered close.
That was Riccardo.
Not in body. Not in voice.
But in stance.
In fire.
In the refusal to yield.
"And what exactly are we supposed to do with you?" Blackwell asked, arms crossed, tone unimpressed.
Jada blinked slowly.
Then, with the kind of stillness that only meant danger—
"You could try to get rid of me," she said. "But I don't think you'd like what happens next."
Blackwell snorted. Amused.
"Mouth on her. Just like her father." He glanced at Pangborn. "Only he'd've wasted half a sermon begging for mercy."
Pangborn chuckled.
"Yes, well—clearly she's learned something from his mistakes."
A beat.
Then murmurs. Some laughing. Some wary.
Malachi?
Furious.
"She's lying. A traitor's daughter thinks she can waltz in here and—"
"Let her prove it," Blackwell interrupted, voice like gravel. "If she's lying, we'll gut her."
That quieted the crowd.
All eyes turned to Pangborn.
The silence asked a question.
He flicked ash from his cigarette. Stepped closer.
Jada met his gaze.
Unafraid.
"You want in?" Pangborn asked. "Ashguard Manor. Tomorrow morning. Ten sharp. Don't be late."
She didn't smile.
Didn't thank him.
Just nodded.
Once.
Pangborn watched her walk away, blood on her boots and fire in her spine.
She turned back into the treeline and vanished like a whisper.
He didn't trust her.
Not even close.
But he was curious to see what she'd burn first.
Malachi hissed beside him. "You're making a mistake."
Pangborn took a drag of his cigarette. "Maybe."
"She'll betray us."
"Or maybe she'll light the way."
He flicked the cigarette into the mud.
The embers hissed, then died.
Above the trees, thunder split the sky.
Not a warning.
A beginning.
💌 Love Letters from Fishie:
Jada walked into the fire. Atreus loved her too much to stop her.
📝 What did you think of Pangborn's POV? And how many of you screamed at the nose boop? ~ Be honest ~
Kudos and comments help me craft dark romance faster.
To those who walk into fire for the ones they love,
Love, Fishie 🐟