Chapter Text
"Are you absolutely certain about this, Alexander?" Magnus asked. It was the hundredth time, and his voice was laced with a rare, shimmering coat of anxiety.
"Yes," Alec replied, his voice flat and unwavering. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Jocelyn’s face. He felt the phantom weight of the demon possession clawing at his insides. If this ritual was the only way to ensure that no trace of that darkness remained—that he was truly himself again—then there was no price too high.
"Alec, you don't have to put yourself through this," Clary started, her voice small.
Alec cut her off with a sharp look. "I do." He couldn't risk it happening again. He couldn't be a puppet for a Greater Demon ever again.
He lay at the center of a precise pentagon, etched into the floor of the Loft. He felt exposed, dressed only in traditional white linen trousers that felt stark against his skin. His wrists and ankles were secured with silk bonds to the five points of the star, stretching him out in a position of total vulnerability. A small, ornate golden bell rested heavily on his navel, catching the light.
Around him stood Magnus, Izzy, Jace, Simon, and Clary. Each held a golden feather. These weren't mere trinkets; they were enchanted quills designed to draw out demonic resonance by overstimulating the nervous system—a process that turned sensitivity into a weapon of purification.
"And remember," Alec added, his throat tight as he looked at each of them. "You must not stop. No matter how much I beg. No matter what I say."
The spell would heighten his senses to an excruciating degree. He had read the scrolls; he knew that under the influence of the ritual, even a whisper of a feather would feel like a lightning strike. It was psychological and physical torture masked as something harmless.
"Promise me," Alec demanded.
After a heavy silence, they all murmured their promises, though Jace looked like he wanted to punch a wall and Izzy was biting her lip so hard it went white.
The plan was set. They would rotate clockwise. Magnus stood at the apex, positioned over Alec’s head. Alec had chosen this intentionally; the neck was his most sensitive spot, the most intimate, and he wanted Magnus to be the one to break his initial defenses while he still had a shred of dignity left. Clary and Simon stood by his arms, ready for his armpits, while Jace and Izzy took their places at his feet.
"Let's just get this over with," Jace muttered, his knuckles white around the golden feather.
Magnus nodded solemnly. "Everyone, take your positions."
He looked down at Alec, his cat-eyes swirling with gold and concern. "Ready, darling?"
"Ready," Alec whispered.
Magnus began. He wove his hands through the air, chanting in a low, resonant Ancient language. Sparks of cerulean magic erupted from his fingertips, flowing toward the golden bell. As the magic surged, the bell began to glow with a rhythmic, pulsing light, casting long shadows across Alec's pale torso. In the magical aura, Alec looked ethereal—almost like a fallen angel being prepared for an altar.
The magic bled outward, igniting the feathers in everyone’s hands until they shimmered with a predatory gold light.
Then, the bell let out a sharp, crystalline chim.
The ritual had begun.