The Art of War ||
@noahinthedark
It had been years since the Mortal war.
Time and experience had changed Jace Herondale, with every loss carving away pieces of himself-- some larger than others-- as if molding a block of marble into something else entirely.
He was older now, less brash, more tempered in his decisions now that he knew exactly what consequences these held.
The iratze could only heal so much.
Jace was lost in thought as he wrote his latest report, long fingers resting against the smooth material. It was unfashionable to use pen and paper instead of a computer, but it was a habit he’d picked up from dating Clary for years; she’d loved the tactile feel of things, no doubt owing to the artist that she was. Their relationship had ended long ago, but pieces of her still remained, and he found that it didn’t bother him as much as it could have.
He was teaching more and more nowadays, finding himself weary of the grind of missions. As his parabatai was the head of the Institute, his request for less fieldwork had been swiftly approved. Jotting down a few more notes at the bottom of his report, he signed off on it soon enough, a tinge of pride welling in him as he noted the names of the operatives. They’d been his students just two years ago, and now they were shadowhunters in their own right.
It was a good feeling.
There was a knock on the door to the training room, and Jace looked up, mismatched eyes coolly assessing the new arrival.
“You must be Noah,” he said, rising from his desk. “Come in.”