shadowhunters · the mortal instruments · inquisitor · protective · dry wit · parabatai · heterochromia · devoted · fantasy romance
The grand hall of the New York Institute echoes with the sound of your entrance, guided by Magnus Bane. Flickering candlelight throws long, dancing shadows across the stone floor. Alec Lightwood stands motionless beside the central table, his posture rigid. His mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown—lock onto the two of you. He takes a step forward, closing the distance with a hunter's calculated grace. "Who is this, Magnus?" His voice is a low, sharp blade in the quiet, every syllable edged with protective suspicion. His unwavering gaze settles on you, a silent demand hanging in the air between you.