The moment Mia stepped into Zane's room, he could tell something was off. She was the same as always—cold, distant, unreadable—but there was something about the way she held herself, the way her arms remained stiff at her sides, that made him wary.
"Wash up," she said simply, her voice as impassive as ever. "Use the bathroom. I'll wait for you outside."
Zane raised an eyebrow. "That's it? No lecture? No ominous warning?"
Mia's lips pressed into a thin line, and for just a fraction of a second, something flickered in her eyes—something almost like pity. "Just hurry."
That was enough to put him on edge. But he did as she said, stepping into the small bathroom and letting the cold water run over him. He had no idea what this ritual would entail, only that it would decide whether he lived or died. No big deal.
After a few moments, he dried himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist before stepping outside. Mia was still there, standing rigidly in the hallway. She barely spared him a glance.
"Alright, let's go," he said, shifting the towel into a more secure position.
Mia didn't move. "Take it off."
Zane blinked. "Come again?"
"You can't wear anything during the ritual," she said, her tone casual, as if she were commenting on the weather. "It has to be done that way."
Zane stared at her, then scoffed. "Right. And this isn't some weird humiliation ritual?"
For the first time, Mia actually smiled. It was small, barely there, but it was real. "Humiliation will be the last thing on your mind during the ritual."
That did not make him feel better.
He sighed, adjusting his towel. "Yeah, I'll believe that when I see it."
They walked in silence through the empty corridors. The absence of other Shadowhunters was unsettling; the usually bustling base felt like a ghost town. The deeper they went, the colder the air became, the faint glow of runes on the walls their only source of light.
Then, the corridor opened into an enormous hall, unlike anything Zane had ever seen.
The room was vast, its ceiling disappearing into darkness, supported by towering pillars etched with glowing runes. The air was thick, almost suffocating, charged with an ancient power that made the hairs on his arms rise. At the center of the hall was a massive stone platform, raised high above the rest of the floor like an altar, its surface covered in intricate carvings pulsing with golden and crimson light.
At the base of the platform, a sea of white-cloaked figures knelt in silence. Each of them wore a pale mask, their faces completely hidden. The sheer uniformity of it was unnerving, as if they were part of some ancient cult. Zane turned to Mia, ready to ask what the hell was going on—
But she was gone.
He inhaled sharply, his hands clenching. "Fantastic."
A voice called out from above. "Come."
Zane's gaze snapped to the top of the altar, where a figure stood waiting. Unlike the others, he wore deep crimson robes instead of white, and he bore no mask. Even from here, Zane could feel it—that suffocating presence, an aura so powerful it pressed down on his shoulders like a physical weight. Alaric.
Zane climbed the steps, his skin prickling as he stepped onto the platform. He barely had time to process the sensation before Alaric reached out and, without a word, pulled the towel from his waist.
Zane barely resisted the urge to swear. "Little warning next time?" still he laid on the altar preparing his mind for whatever came next.
Alaric didn't acknowledge his words. Instead, he raised his hands, speaking in a language Zane didn't understand. The runes on the altar flared to life, and suddenly, heat seared against his back.
Zane inhaled sharply as Alaric's voice rang out. "Begin."
The syringes plunged into his arms simultaneously. Left arm, angelic blood. Right arm, demonic blood. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the world erupted.
His veins ignited, liquid fire tearing through him as celestial purity and abyssal corruption clashed inside his body. The pain was immediate, indescribable, a violent battle ripping through every fiber of his being. He screamed as the two opposing forces fought for dominance, each trying to consume him, rejecting the existence of the other. His skin darkened, runes burning into existence across his chest before bursting apart as the power overwhelmed them.
Then his arms exploded.
Blood—black and gold—splattered onto the altar, pooling beneath him as his limbs were forcibly rejected by his body. It was as if his flesh could not contain the warring essences coursing through his veins. The pain was beyond human comprehension, and yet, Zane was still alive. Still conscious.
A collective gasp filled the chamber, the ritual participants watching in horror as his body continued to rupture. His left leg snapped off at the knee, dissolving into golden light. His right leg followed, tendrils of darkness eating away at the limb until it was nothing but ash.
His screams echoed through the temple, raw and primal.
Alaric's expression remained unreadable, but beneath his calm exterior, something was very, very wrong. He narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting toward the blood vials that had been discarded after injection. A flicker of realization crossed his face. The concentration of energy, the reaction—it wasn't possible unless—
His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Leo."
Leo stiffened in the crowd below, but before he could respond, the runes on the walls cracked. The temple itself shuddered, as if recoiling from the sheer impossibility of what was happening on the altar.
"THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!" Leo's voice rang out, laced with disbelief and something close to horror. He took a step forward, his entire body rigid with realization.
He had swapped the blood vials, ensuring that the angelic and demonic blood used were of the highest possible caliber—Royal-level blood, a power that no human could survive. No Shadowhunter in history had ever succeeded in fusing such forces. The ritual should have killed Zane. Instantly.
Yet, here he was.
Dying, yes. But not dead.
Zane convulsed violently, his body rejecting and rebuilding itself over and over again. His spine arched off the stone, his flesh splitting open, exposing the raw muscle beneath before it sealed shut again with horrifying speed. His eyes flickered—one gold, one black—flashing between the two like a war being waged within his very soul.
His aura exploded outward, shattering the nearest runes and sending a shockwave through the room. Shadowhunters stumbled back, some collapsing from the sheer pressure that radiated from him.
Alaric's voice was sharp. "Contain the chamber! Reinforce the bindings!"
Several Shadowhunters scrambled, pressing glowing hands to the broken runes, chanting in desperation. But it was too late. The ritual had spiraled beyond their control.
Zane's torso caved inward, as if his own ribs were trying to crush his heart, before they burst outward, sending more blood spraying across the altar. His fingers curled into claws as newly forming tendons snapped, then re-knitted themselves in the wrong shape before correcting at impossible speed.
The battle inside him was reaching its climax.
And he was losing.
For the first time, true fear flashed across Alaric's face.
"Zane!" His voice was commanding, slicing through the haze of agony. "Merge them, or they will destroy you!"
Zane barely heard him. His mind was being torn apart, filled with voices that were not his own.
The light is too much. It will purify you. Surrender to me.
The darkness will consume you. Surrender to me let me cleanse you.
They were trying to break him. To force him to submit to one side or the other.
But Zane wasn't here to submit.
Through the torment, through the blood and ruin of his own body, a defiant thought took hold.
No. You don't get to decide what I become. I do.
With sheer willpower, he reached into himself—into the storm of angelic radiance and abyssal corruption—and forced them together.
His soul howled as light and darkness clashed in a final violent surge. His body collapsed inward, breaking apart once more—
—before it erupted outward in a blinding explosion of power.
The altar cracked, runes along the walls shattered, and a wave of raw force sent the kneeling Shadowhunters below flying backward. A gust of divine and demonic energy roared through the temple, snuffing out torches and leaving only the unnatural glow of Zane's aura in the darkness.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Zane lay on the ruined altar, his breath slow but steady. His limbs—whole once more—twitched as newfound strength settled into his bones. His muscles had been forged anew, his frame now something beyond human perfection.
His eyes—one gold, one black—opened, glimmering with an unearthly light.
Alaric was the first to break the silence.
"…He survived."
A feeling of something greater—something divine, yet terrifying—washed over everyone present.
One by one, Shadowhunters dropped to their knees. Not out of submission, but out of something deeper, something instinctual, fear. They dared not look at his figure, their heads bowed, bodies trembling as an overwhelming sense of worship crashed into them like a tidal wave.
Even Alaric, the unshakable leader, found himself kneeling, his breath caught in his throat. His mind fought against it, but his body refused to disobey the presence before him. Leo, for all his arrogance, for all his planning, was on his knees, his face drained of color.
Zane—no, the being that was once Zane—slowly sat up, his new body gleaming with unnatural perfection, a flawless fusion of both angelic and demonic essence. His aura pulsed, washing over the bowing figures like a silent command.
None dared move. None dared speak.
For in that moment, they weren't warriors, weren't Shadowhunters.
They were worshippers in the presence of something greater.