Chapter 7: Games of War


The Ring of Valerius turned cool against her skin. Once. Twice.

Jada didn't hesitate.

The portal tore open in front of her, snapping reality with a shimmer of heat and steel—and she walked through it like it owed her something.

Idris was quiet.

Too quiet.

No city buzz. No heartbeat. Just cold air and the kind of stillness that felt… expectant.

Jada adjusted her coat, brushing stray curls from her face.

The dirt path ahead twisted toward Ashguard Manor's black iron gate, towering and ornate.

And sitting at the top of it—

A raven.

Silver-feathered. Head tilted at an unnatural angle. Eyes like polished glass.

Jada slowed.

"Weird."

She hated omens.

Even more, she hated when they made eye contact.

The raven didn't blink.

Neither did she.

Then she passed under the gate, spine straight, pulse steady.

Ashguard Manor rose before her—gilded, ostentatious, and as hollow as the men who kept it upright.

She'd expected another war council.

Malachi's droning voice. Pangborn's fake yawns. Blackwell eating the table centerpiece out of boredom.

What she stepped into instead—

Was a battlefield.

The grounds were alive with sound.

Blades clashing. Boots skidding. The ring of steel and the low grunt of impact.

Circle recruits were already sparring.

Some practiced, controlled, vicious. Others green, clumsy, desperate to impress.

Jada didn't slow.

She walked through them like they were set dressing.

Then her gaze locked on him.

Valentine.

Standing on the sidelines.

Not commanding.

Just watching.

Hands clasped behind his back. Spine straight. Face unreadable.

Cold. Detached.

Like a god watching mortals try not to embarrass themselves.

Jada's blood simmered.

Of course he wasn't participating. That would imply effort. That he had something left to prove.

Instead, he just… watched.

Dissected. Judged.

What a dick.

She didn't break stride.

But she did flex her fists.

They still ached from punching the vampire bar wall in Milan last night.

"Miss Buonavento!"

Ugh.
That voice was too chipper. Too polished.

She turned just enough to clock the source: a man mid-40s, dark hair streaked with aristocratic silver, dressed like he'd stepped out of an old painting and into the wrong war.

He beamed.

Extended a hand.

"Thaddeus Ashguard. I had the pleasure of seeing you at our last assembly. This—" he gestured grandly at the gilded estate behind him, "—is my home."

Jada stared at him.

Blink.

Of course it is.

A micro-beat. A flicker of amusement, contempt, maybe both.

Then—

"I'd be delighted to give you a proper tour of the Manor afterward," Thaddeus offered, smile blinding.

"I'd rather be thrown through a window."

Thaddeus chuckled, beaming like a man who had no idea he was moments from getting roundhouse kicked into a hedge.

"Ah! Witty as always!"

Blackwell, standing nearby, actually snorted.

Pangborn, shirtless and gleaming with sweat, called out lazily:

"So? Do you actually fight, or do you just scowl and spit fire?"

Jada didn't blink.

"Why don't you stop running your mouth and find out?"

Pangborn smirked, rolling his shoulders.

"Feisty. I do love breaking in new recruits."

"You'll have to catch me first."

He gestured to the ring.

The others paused, turning to watch.

Valentine still didn't move.

But he was definitely watching.

They stepped into the sparring ring.

Pangborn, tall and loose, walked like someone who enjoyed the theater of violence.

Jada bounced on the balls of her feet—fluid, coiled, calculating.

He struck first.

Fast. Intentional. But relaxed.

Jada slipped under it.

Pivoted.

Slammed her elbow into his ribs.

Pangborn grunted—more surprised than hurt.

"Rude."

Jada smirked.

"Not here to make friends."

"Good. Neither am I."

The game changed.

Pangborn moved faster.
Sharper.
Testing her like he meant it now.

Good.

Let him try.

Jada matched him beat for beat—scrappy, brutal, a blend of raw instinct and ugly precision.
There was no grace to her fighting. No elegance.

She hadn't learned in a training yard.
She'd learned in back alleys, in Brocelind basements, in pack territory and vampire bars, where the rules weren't about honor—they were about not dying.

She learned to fight from werewolves who brawled like earthquakes.
From warlocks who could break your ribs with a flick if you telegraphed your next move.
From vampires who never played fair.

No teacher.
Just survival.

Just her, bleeding and breathing and getting up again.

Pangborn swung wide.

She ducked.

He tried to trap her wrist—standard maneuver, practiced, predictable.

She twisted, slammed her knee into his thigh—hard.

He staggered.

She didn't wait.

One clean sweep.
One pivot.
One twist of her hips.

And Pangborn hit the dirt.

Hard.

Jada didn't give him time to blink.

She straddled his chest in one fluid motion, knee to his sternum, blade to his throat.

Breathing calm. Controlled.

She didn't need elegance.

She needed control. Dominance.

Victory.

The ring was silent.

Except for Pangborn.

"Thought you were a medic," he wheezed.

Jada's voice was razor-glass.

"My father was a medic."

"I learned how to survive."

She stood.

Offered no hand.

Pangborn stayed on the ground, grinning up at the sky like he'd just seen a fucking angel.

Blackwell clapped once.

"Now that's a fight."

Jada turned.

Straight into Valentine's gaze.

He didn't speak.

Didn't clap. Didn't nod.

Just looked at her.

Expression unreadable.

But she felt it anyway.

The judgment behind the silence.

The weight of a man who saw everything and said only what mattered.

"Efficient," he said finally.

A pause.

Then:

"But unrefined. Your form is improvised. Lacking discipline. Structure."

Jada scoffed. "Translation?"

"You do not fight like a Shadowhunter."

Jada's stomach twisted.

There it is.

"Funny," she said coolly. "I don't remember losing."

"Then we have differing interpretations of success."

"Maybe," she said, voice cool. "Or maybe I don't need a god-complex and a fancy Shadowhunter family name to survive."

The silence turned sharp.

A few Circle recruits nearby shifted, suddenly remembering they had things to do elsewhere.

Valentine's gaze narrowed.

Not in anger.

In interest.

Again.

He stepped closer. Just enough to make the air shift.

"And yet, here you are. Bleeding with my men. Speaking in my war room. Battling my most trusted."

His voice dropped an octave. Controlled.

"You may not fight like a Shadowhunter. But the fire in your blood proves you are one."

Jada didn't look away.

Didn't soften.

"Get used to it."

A long pause.

One heartbeat. Then another.

Valentine turned.

"Walk with me."

Not a request.

And somehow not quite an order.

Something in between.

Jada didn't move at first.

Then she followed.

Measured steps. No rush.

Behind her, Pangborn let out a long exhale, still sprawled on the ground.

"Try to not say anything stupid," he muttered.

Jada didn't answer.

But she was smirking as she fell into step beside the devil.

The moment she stepped out of the sparring ring, the air changed.

No cheers. No nods of approval. Just silence.

Valentine was already walking.

Not a glance. Not a word.

He simply turned his back and started toward the garden like he assumed she'd follow.

Of course he did.

Jada rolled her shoulders and did.

The path wound through black thistle hedges and glassy pools of water that didn't ripple. The garden was impossibly still, full of baroque statues of angels and ancient runes carved into onyx archways. It was too clean. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you wonder what had been buried beneath the roses.

Valentine didn't speak.

So she didn't either.

When they reached the reflecting pool, he stopped.

No movement. No flourish.

Just stillness.

"You fight like a creature raised on instinct," he said finally. "Efficient. Brutal. But lacking tradition."

Jada scoffed.

"So sorry I didn't grow up in a glass tower with a tutor and a family crest."

He didn't turn.

"Your bloodline did."

She stiffened.

Here we go again.

"Why do you care so much about my lineage?"

"Because lineage is power. And you carry more of it than you realize."

She crossed her arms.

"If this is another speech about my mother, you can keep it."

"It's not just about your mother."

Now he turned.

His gaze pinned her like a sword through silk.

"It's about what you could be."

Jada didn't flinch, but her stomach coiled.

He was winding up to something. Something sharp.

"You are the daughter of Riccardo Buonavento," Valentine said, slow and deliberate. "He healed more Downworlders than any warlock clinic in Brocelind. Half the Night Children in Paris still tell stories about the Shadowhunter with ink on his hands instead of blood."

A pause.

"And you are the daughter of Marie Verlac. Pure bloodline. One of the first. A name the Clave still whispers when they think no one's listening."

He took a step closer.

"That makes you rare."

"So I'm a novelty. Great."

"No."

His voice was quieter now.

Sharper.

"You're a legacy being squandered."

Jada's jaw tightened.

"Wow. That was almost a compliment before you fucked it."

"You've wasted years playing nursemaid to wolves and parasites," he said. "But the blood in your veins? That's legacy. That's empire."

"If you let go of the rot they dragged you through—you could rule the Clave."

That stopped her.

Not because she believed him.

But because he did.

Completely.

"You think all my years in Downworld were just... wasted time?" she said, voice tight.

"I think they were detours. Emotional indulgence. You're not one of them, Miss Buonavento. You never were. They know it. So do you."

She didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Because deep down, some part of her—some ugly, tired, bitter part—wondered.

"You have the blood. The name. The potential," Valentine said. "You could lead the Clave into a new era. One without apology. One with strength."

He turned from her again, walking slowly around the edge of the reflecting pool.

"All you have to do is stop pretending the strays you've surrounded yourself with deserve your loyalty."

Jada stared at him.

And hated how calm he looked.

How sure.

"And if I don't?"

He didn't stop walking.

"Then you'll burn yourself out trying to serve a world that will never call you its own."

She wanted to scream.

Or punch him.

Or say something that would crack his porcelain certainty.

Instead, she said nothing.

And that silence scared her more than anything else.

The wind shifted.

Just slightly.

Enough to ruffle the collar of his pristine white shirt, to draw the fabric tighter across his chest.

And there it was.

Only a glimpse.

A flash of black ink, jagged and wrong, like it had been burned into the skin and never healed. Like it didn't want to.

Jada's eyes narrowed.

She'd seen that before.

Not the mark itself.

But the energy. The shape of it. On men who'd begged demons for strength and paid in pieces of their soul. Most of them didn't last. The ones who did… weren't really men anymore.

Atreus had one just like it.

Valentine didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just held his posture like stone.

"So you played with the wrong demon, huh," she murmured.

Now he turned.

Too fast.

His expression was blank, but his eyes were sharp.

Too sharp.

"You're mistaken."

"No, I'm not."

Her smile was slight. Almost sweet.

"That's a Soul Brand."

Valentine's jaw locked.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do."

She stepped toward him—slow, deliberate.

Letting the tension stretch.

"That's why you wear your collar so high. Why you always turn with your left shoulder first. Always keeping it out of view."

"Enough."

His voice was steel now.

The kind of steel that wanted to be a sword.

"You will not speak of it again."

Jada didn't stop.

Didn't retreat.

"Do the others know?"

A beat.

Silence.

And there it was—the answer.

He said nothing.

And that said everything.

She grinned. Just a flicker.

Got you.

They stood in silence again.

But it felt different this time.

Not cold.

Loaded.

Like they were on opposite sides of the same fault line—and both knew it was going to crack eventually.

Then he turned.

Fast.

Walked past her without a glance.

His voice came flat, sharp, thrown over his shoulder like a knife:

"You will be useful, Miss Buonavento. If you learn to not waste your fire on what does not serve you."

And then he was gone.

Jada's defiant grin clung to her mouth, but her heart was no longer in it.

Not because she had seen something she wasn't meant to.

But because for the first time—

She wondered how many pieces Valentine had already carved off himself in the name of power.

And whether the man still bleeding underneath the myth even remembered how to stop.

She followed him out of the garden.

The gravel crunched underfoot, sharp and fast, like it resented the silence between them.

Behind them: words unsaid.
Ahead: the sounds of war.

Steel. Grunts. Impact.

The Circle was still sparring—training like the world was about to crack in half.

Jada spotted Pangborn leaning against a wall, sweat-slick and grinning.

"Still standing?" he called, breathless. "That's good."

"Not for you," she shot back, deadpan.

Blackwell snorted. Pangborn clutched his chest.

"Ah, venom. Beautiful."

Jada didn't smile.

The garden had taken too much of her.

"She's got grit," Blackwell said, voice rougher, more grounded. "We could use her in Barcelona."

Jada stilled.

The hell?

Valentine said nothing. Watching. Measuring.

Again.

"We?" she asked carefully.

Blackwell grinned.

"The Circle. You want in? Here's your chance."

"I'm not a pawn waiting for orders," she snapped.

Blackwell raised a brow.

Pangborn just laughed.

Valentine remained silent.

As always.

Then, finally:

"Very well, Miss Buonavento."

Jada grit her teeth.

He always sounded like he was delivering judgment.

"If you will not follow," he said, "then lead."

Her stomach dipped.

It wasn't a gift. It was a test.

Another chain in silk.

"And if I refuse?"

Valentine didn't flinch.

"Then we'll see where your real loyalties lie."

A slow breath. Measured. Controlled.

"Say I agree. How the hell am I supposed to get to Spain?"

"You tell me," he said simply. "You're the one with the portal ring."

Jada's stomach dropped.

"I don't know what you—"

She didn't get to finish the lie.

A shadow sliced overhead.

Her pulse spiked.

She looked up to see the silver raven cut across the sky—sharp, fast, unerring. The one she had seen when she walked up to Ashguard Manor this morning.

It didn't circle.

It dove.

And landed neatly on Valentine's shoulder.

Jada froze.

The bird was Valentine's.

It had been watching her. Watching everything.

Pangborn chuckled. "God, that never gets old."

Blackwell shook his head.

Jada clenched her fists.

She'd walked right into it.

Valentine lifted one gloved hand and stroked the raven's feathers, calm as ever.

He didn't smirk.

He didn't need to.

"So you're spying on me now?"

Valentine looked at her—flat, unreadable.

"I watch what matters."

Her breath hitched.

Not from fear.

From knowing that he meant it.

She crossed her arms.

Didn't answer.

Didn't blink.

Valentine turned away.

The raven stayed perched, gleaming silver, sharp-eyed and still.

The silence that followed felt final.

"Don't disappoint me, Miss Buonavento."

He didn't look back.

Didn't need to.

She stood there long after he vanished into the manor.

Jaw clenched. Nails digging into her palms.

Stupid bird.
Stupid bastard.
Stupid fucking Barcelona.


💌 Love Letters from Fishie:

What was your favorite moment of power in this chapter—Thaddeus's derpiness, Jada annihilating Pangborn, Valentine's quiet manipulation, or that delicious silver raven reveal?
Drop your favorite quote or moment below! I am hungry for reactions.

With battle maps and broken silence,
Love, Fishie 🐟