Chapter 17: The Institute Siege - Part 2
Dawn light filters through broken Institute windows like accusation, illuminating destruction that speaks of supernatural warfare fought in supposedly sacred space. Shadowhunters count casualties and secure perimeters while Dexter regains consciousness in the medical wing, his system displaying warnings that burn against his vision like fever dreams.
[VITALITY: 5/100 - CRITICAL]
[LUNAR ESSENCE: 10/100 - CRITICAL]
[ALL BORROWED ABILITIES OFFLINE FOR 48 HOURS]
[TRANSFORMATION CAPABILITIES LOCKED]
[ENERGY RESTORATION REQUIRED URGENTLY]
Human limitations returned with brutal clarity. No enhanced senses, no supernatural speed, no hybrid abilities to compensate for ordinary flesh and blood. Just knowledge I can't share and power I can't access, watching events unfold from the sidelines while people I care about make decisions that will determine everyone's fate.
Through the medical wing walls, Dexter hears arguing about the Cup—voices raised in frustration, fear, and growing desperation as Shadowhunters realize their most sacred artifact remains vulnerable despite surviving the siege.
Hodge hasn't acted yet. His canonical betrayal delayed by paranoia, by suspicion that I represent some faction he doesn't understand. But delayed doesn't mean prevented, and my powerless state makes me useless for intervention.
Dexter struggles to his feet, muscles screaming protest at movement that should be effortless. The corridor outside medical wobbles like a mirage, and only Aria's supporting arm prevents him from collapsing against the wall.
"You need to rest," she says quietly, reading exhaustion in the way his hands shake. "Your body just survived something that should have killed you. Recovery takes time."
"No time," Dexter manages, tasting blood where his curse extracts payment for trying to explain temporal urgency. "Hodge will move soon. The Cup—we have to protect the Cup."
But even as I speak, enhanced hearing detects magical energy building in the Institute's lower levels. Portal magic, dimensional rifts, the signature of someone who shouldn't have access to such power.
POV: Clary Fray
Clary finds herself drawn to the Institute's archives, artist instincts responding to atmospheric wrongness that has nothing to do with siege damage. The air tastes of ozone and betrayal, and shadows move in ways that suggest more than architectural destruction.
Something's wrong beyond broken windows and overturned furniture. Something that makes my artist's perception scream warnings about deception hiding behind familiar faces.
She follows corridors toward the Cup's vault, remembering Dexter's scrambled warning about teachers and pets and vanilla perfume. At the time, it seemed like nonsense. Now, with supernatural awareness heightened by recent trauma, she recognizes the pattern beneath apparent madness.
He was warning us about Hodge. Specifically about Hodge, using metaphors that made sense only after the fact.
The vault level reeks of magic being used for purposes it was never intended to serve—portal energy crackling where none should exist, dimensional rifts opening in spaces that should be warded against such intrusion. And at the center of the disturbance, Hodge Starkweather works with desperate efficiency to complete decades-old betrayal.
"Hodge?" Clary calls out, voice carrying the hollow echo of someone discovering trusted authority figures aren't who they pretended to be.
He freezes at being witnessed, portal half-formed behind him like window into darkness. His expression cycles through guilt, fear, and something that might be relief at finally being discovered.
"Clarissa," he says quietly. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you. Not like this."
The Mortal Cup sits on the table between them, ancient artifact that represents everything the Institute stands for—protection, justice, the kind of power that should never fall into wrong hands.
Jace appears in the doorway with seraph blade already ignited, golden light driving shadows back to their proper places while his expression processes impossible betrayal.
"Hodge," he says, voice cracking with the weight of someone watching their world collapse. "Why?"
The question hangs in the air like accusation and plea combined. Jace raised by this man, taught by him, loved by him despite supernatural circumstances that made normal family impossible.
Hodge's attempt at explanation emerges as desperate justification: "The curse, Jace. Sixty years of being trapped here, unable to leave, unable to truly live. Valentine offers freedom."
"At what cost?" Alec demands, appearing beside his parabatai with bow drawn. "The Cup in Circle hands means genocide. Wholesale slaughter of everyone who doesn't match Valentine's vision of purity."
But Hodge activates the portal before anyone can prevent the transfer, Valentine's face appearing in the dimensional window like promise of damnation. The Cup changes hands through magical space, decades of planning culminating in single moment of successful treachery.
Except this time, the betrayal is witnessed. Not secret, not hidden, but exposed in ways that change the political dynamics of what happens next.
POV: Dexter Hale
Too late. Always too late. I knew this was coming, spent weeks trying to prevent it, and still couldn't stop Hodge from delivering our most powerful weapon to the enemy.
Dexter staggers into the vault just as the portal transfer completes, his depleted system unable to provide enhanced speed or supernatural intervention. Without borrowed abilities, he's just a mundane with knowledge—useless in a confrontation between Shadowhunters and a warlock whose power spans decades.
The frustration is overwhelming. I can see the future, know what's coming, understand the consequences of every choice—but I can't act on that knowledge because my body won't support the necessary power.
"The cup runneth over with betrayal sauce—I TOLD YOU SO!"
The words explode from his throat as his curse mangles desperate warnings into apparent insanity. But this time, instead of providing useful information, the scrambled speech only emphasizes his complete helplessness in the face of catastrophic failure.
I told them. Tried to warn them. Used every available method to communicate danger, and it wasn't enough. Hodge still betrayed us, Valentine still has the Cup, and I'm standing here bleeding from my nose because even speaking truth costs more than my depleted system can afford.
Aria appears at his side, physically restraining him from trying to intervene in magical combat he couldn't survive in his current state. Her arms around his shoulders provide the only anchor keeping him from complete breakdown as the weight of accumulated failure finally crushes optimism.
Everyone I've tried to save. Dot, Simon, the pack members, Shadowhunters who died in siege. All the knowledge in the world doesn't matter if you can't use it effectively.
Valentine's face fills the portal window, studying the scene with calculating interest before his eyes lock directly on Dexter with recognition that chills blood.
"The Bond Walker survives," Valentine observes, seemingly unsurprised by siege outcome or Dexter's presence during the betrayal. "Tell me, photographer—who sent you? The Clave? The Spiral Labyrinth? Or something older?"
He knows. Knows what I am, knows I represent something beyond normal supernatural politics. The question is how much he knows and what he plans to do with that knowledge.
Before anyone can respond, Valentine continues with offer that carries the weight of practiced manipulation: "I have information about others like you. Bond Walkers throughout history, their purposes, their fates. Meet with me, and I'll share knowledge that might save your life."
Bait. Obviously bait. But terrifying because it implies Valentine has access to resources about my condition that even the system might not possess.
Magnus intercepts Valentine's message before the portal closes, warlock magic disrupting the connection with practiced efficiency. His expression carries the gravity of someone who recognizes existential threats when they manifest.
"We need to talk," Magnus says quietly, studying Dexter with eight hundred years of accumulated wisdom. "About what you really are."
The conversation I've been dreading. The moment when someone with enough knowledge and power decides I'm too dangerous to exist, too valuable to lose, or too important to ignore.
The Institute evacuates to emergency safe houses while Clave politics mobilize around the Cup's theft. Dexter finds himself confined to Magnus's loft under warlock protection, supposedly for recovery but actually for security—protection from enemies who want to capture him and allies who might decide he's too risky to trust.
Seventy-two hours to restore enough energy for basic supernatural abilities. Seventy-two hours of vulnerability while Valentine studies reports about the photographer who survived impossible situations, confirming his suspicions about my true nature.
Time to learn whether Magnus Bane sees me as asset or threat, ally or specimen to be studied until I reveal secrets that could reshape supernatural politics.
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