Author's Note: For the readers who faithfully followed this story, I offer you a sincere apology. In the two and a half years since I first started this story, a lot has happened and when I wanted to get back to this story, I could not figure out how to do so due to the difference between the girl who started the story and the woman today. So I rewrote chapters and picked stuff apart and finally, finally am back to finish this story. I thank you all for your support and I love you all.

I would highly suggest re-reading all of the story before this update. Quite a lot about it has changed, and I do not want to cause confusion with what bits of the story were written before the rewrite.

The Uprising

The night was clear and bright, and the wind slamming against Fairchild Manor whispered promises of snow. Up in the nursery, a window was open, and Jocelyn (Fairchild) Morgenstern let the wind rushing through it make her as icy as itself as she watched a small toddler blink up at her with dark, dark eyes.

Valentine Morgenstern did not spare the rattling windows of his study a look. Instead, he sat at his desk feverishly writing and fire messaging with occasional glances towards an innocuous-looking bright cup.

A werewolf pack ran in the shadows of the woods surrounding Alicante, the pounding of their feet almost silent on the mossy ground. They entered a wide clearing almost directly on the border of the city and many pairs of eyes snapped up to meet them. Fluently changing to his human state, the leader of the pack stepped forward. Quietly but firmly he went around each group to relay their plans, counting the grins of needle sharp teeth, the number of pairs of bright yellow eyes, the sparks of magic, and those with overwhelming perfection so inhuman even by Downworlder standards.

The air crackled and hummed, becoming laced with magic and power, and hinting that the next morning's storm would truly be something to remember.

The morning began bright and blustery with the snow blurring the opulent light from the Towers, and shivering Shadowhunters of the Clave stepped out of carriages and made their way one by one along the pathways through Alicante to the Great Hall of the Angel. Most hurried straight inside, but a few briefly nodded to the cold Downworlder representatives waiting for their turn to enter the hall.

After all, today especially was a day of truce, and the niceties must be observed.

Once everyone was finally seated and the Downworlders were brought in, the Consul stood and began to make the usual lengthy pompous speech about how the Accords stood for peace and prosperity.

He had only got as far as the word prosperity when most of the Shadowhunters assembled stood, their red cloaks falling away to reveal the gleam of sharp weapons beneath. Gasps and confused murmurs rang out as Valentine Morgenstern, his face gaunt and terrifyingly proud, raised a hand towards the dais in the centre of the room where the representatives stood.

There was a pause, a pause filled with wildly staccato heartbeats and fear and triumph, before the room erupted into chaos.

Jocelyn fumbled with the heavy doors, her heart pounding painfully to the mantra of her whispered pleas. Finally, finally she managed to fling them open, and she nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of the sea of fighters snarling in anticipation.

Her fingers lightly grazed against the cup hidden in her gear as she withdrew her sword. With a smile as triumphant as her husband's, Jocelyn stepped aside to let them through.

Luke ran forward as a member of his pack fell directly in front of him, her grisly scream echoing in his ears as he drew his sword. The struggle was mercifully brief, the Shadowhunter no match in the face of his fury. His brief glance towards his comrade confirmed that nothing could be done to help her. He raised his burning eyes to the surrounding battles, searching for the gleam of platinum blonde hair.

He found it swirling along with its owner beneath the statue of the Angel, his exhilarated laugh echoing over the screams as he neatly beheaded a lilac haired warlock. Luke leapt forward, swinging his sword around him as he pushed through the fighting.

He had no idea the guttural roar he was uttering was Valentine's name.

"Valentine!"

He whirled around, neatly slicing across a faerie knight's jugular as he did so. "Luke," he breathed, stunned, taking in the wrongness of those yellow eyes in that familiar face. Hatred bloomed, quick and strong, as he recognised the dagger clasped in lengthening claws. He spat. "A werewolf who fights with a sword and dagger is as unnatural as a dog who eats with a knife and a fork."

Luke stepped towards him, the dwindling amount of space between them crackling with tension. "You know the sword, you know the dagger," he growled. "And you know who I am. If you must address me, use my name."

Valentine shook his head in disbelief. How he had been so foolish, so sentimental, as to let this abomination live? "I do not know the names of half men. Once I had a friend, a brother, a man of honour who would have died before he let his blood be polluted so. Now, a nameless monster with his face stands before me." He raised his sword. "I should have never let you get to this point. I should have just killed you when I had the chance!"

He lunged forward.

"Bitch! Filthy traitor! Downworlder loving scum-"

Jocelyn twisted her blade and the Circle member fell at her feet. She looked up and surveyed the scene around her. She saw the Lightwoods drop their weapons and flee, lowering the number of remaining Circle members even further. The Downworlder survivors were mostly huddled around different bodies on the floor, and the few that were still fighting fought with only slightly less weariness than their Shadowhunter opponent. Her heart swelled with equal parts relief and sorrow. They had won.

And then Jocelyn turned her gaze towards the dais and felt her heart stop.

"Stop!"

The cry surprised both men. Luke was the first one to recover and he struck out, forcing Valentine back and opening a cut on his chest.

Valentine did not notice.

His eyes were fixed firmly on Jocelyn. A Jocelyn with wild curls escaping her bun to frame her face and adrenaline dark eyes. A Jocelyn with a cut curving along her cheekbone, the red ruby of her blood the same colour as her gear. A Jocelyn with a terrified concern etched onto her features, and her gaze running anxiously over the werewolf.

Valentine had always loved his wife the most after she had returned from battle. With a flush brightening her cheeks and the battle lust darkening her eyes, she was desire personified. And after the fights they had both been involved in, well. Those times would forever be burned into his memory.

Valentine recognised the look Jocelyn was giving Luke. It was the look that would heal his heart as well as his body when she lightly traced the iratze over his wounds. The look that would eventually melt into a softened expression of love when he gathered her into his arms and held her close.

To have his look bestowed upon another? The pain of her betrayal was sharp and stinging, causing his heartbeat to speed with rage.

He snarled, a low, possessive cry that caused Jocelyn to turn and look at him. The concern in her expression melted away to show a cool, disdainful mask of indifference.

And Valentine's vision tinted red as everything fell into place.

Jocelyn did not cry out as Valentine seized her. Her lips trembled, but her mask did not slip. Luke felt a fierce pride as she wrestled him, defiant within his grip.

And then he felt a fierce terror as a dagger curled around her throat.

He dropped his weapons, lifting his hands in surrender. The fear in Jocelyn's eyes scared him, but what horrified him the most was the resignation he saw swirling alongside it.

He would not risk Valentine harming her. He would not allow her to accept death because of his actions.

Valentine hissed at the sight. "You have always wanted her." His voice was hoarse, trembling with hatred and pain. "The two of you plotted my betrayal together." He sliced the dagger in a vicious upward movement, swiftly cutting through the cord of Jocelyn's necklace and gathering the pooling silver in a trembling fist. He threw it forward. "And you will regret what you have done, all the rest of your lives."

Luke stood shakily, the hated metal falling onto his sleeve as he did so. He looked down at it, watching the delicate wings of the Fairchild family symbol drip his blood onto the worn fabric.

Jocelyn had been given the necklace for a birthday not long before they had started at the Academy. He had never seen her take it off since that day. She would be upset if it was gone.

He let the necklace fall into a pocket on his jacket. Determinedly, his vision hazy with pain, he picked up his weapons and followed after Valentine.

Valentine was keening, his sobbing breaths echoing in Jocelyn's ear. She struggled against him as he pulled her along the banks of the great river, screams and shouts ringing around them. When they had reached a quiet area, he pushed her away from him.

She staggered back, instinctively wrapping her arms around herself as she fought to recover herself. Valentine's dark eyes watched her every move.

"Why?"

Her head snapped up. His expression was inscrutable, a stark contrast to the emotion he had poured out with his voice. She swallowed, ignoring the sting of the cut on her throat. "Because you had to be stopped."

He laughed, a horrible, broken sound that scraped along Jocelyn's nerve endings. She flinched as he strode towards her, but held her ground. He leaned in close to her and she struggled to remain still. "What makes you think that you have even come close to stopping me?" he whispered into her ear. "I told you that you would regret what you have done, all the rest of your life. And as you know, my love, I always deliver on my promises."

With that, he turned and ran into the night.

"Jocelyn!"

His relief at seeing her alive was immense, and short lived. Her terror was palpable as she ran towards him, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed his hand as she passed him without breaking her stride.

"We have to find a horse, Luke!" The desperation in her voice caused Luke to tug her to a stop, turning her around to face him. She screamed in frustration and flung his hand back at him, her voice shrill and panicked.

"He's gone back to the manor, Luke. We have to go now."

Wordlessly, Luke took off in a dead sprint.

The scent of smoke reached her nostrils halfway along the winding pathway leading to her home.

Jocelyn slid from the horse, running forward on shaky legs.

The sight of the blackened skeleton of her home forced her to her knees.

Crawling forward, Jocelyn prayed, her blood staining the ashes crumpled beneath her.

She pulled herself up the blackened front doorsteps.

She reached the top, and through the ruins of the once ornate doors, two piles of bones greeted her. Red and gold threads clung to the bones of her mother, and her father's pile had a dagger melted to a hand. The bones were mingled together, as though they had died in each other's arms.

To the right of them, another pile gleamed with red scraps and the shine of an amulet carved with the insignia of the Circle.

And in front of them all, scattered apart, were the bones of a child.

Thoughts?