Do you hate me? I kind of hate me right now. It's been like, forever and a half days, and I'm sorry about the one-shot thing, I had to take it down because it was too much and with school starting and I just moved into a new house, everything's been super busy. I started one of the requests, the one about the hockey thing, but I never got to finish it, but after everything settles down, I might finish it and post it. Anyways, I'm terribly sorry about this chapter, it literally doesn't move the story along at all, we're still stuck in the exact same spot, just told in a different point of view. Hopefully, after I post this, I'll have another chapter coming up soon, because if I have to be honest, this chapter, first of all, is extremely short, and sort of unnecessary, because it doesn't contribute much to the overall plot. And it's worse that there was such a great response to the prologue, you lovely unicorns were so nice in the reviews, because now I feel terrible because I've let you down. I've failed you wonderful people, and I so, so, sorry. But I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who followed and favorited and reviewed, and I swear, future chapters are going to be better. I give you express permission to strangle me now.

Also, thank you, Rwch3l, for helping me even though you didn't actually help, you just watched Netflix while I was writing, but hey, at least you were there for moral support. Don't worry, I still love you though. XD

I really need to get a beta, because there's probably going to be a shit ton of mistakes in here. If you're interested, please PM me, because I kind of desperately need one. I promise not to be annoying...well, I can't guarantee that, but...

Disclaimer: Seriously? Do you think Cassie Clare would give you this crap and call it a chapter? I didn't think so. Need I say any more?

It was a rather pleasant day, Magnus mused, with the sun shining and the birds chirping. He was in a wonderful mood, whistling to himself as he swung his bejeweled cane. Canes were quite the fashion statement in France these days, but alas, the little kingdom of Alicante didn't pick up on such things. The people were focused on other activities, like, for instance, farming and baking, and for the women, sewing and weaving. Rather dull, if Magnus were to be honest, but he supposed they had to do what they must to survive. It was quite unfortunate not everyone was born blessed with his gifts with magic, or, for that matter, his taste in clothing. The townspeople wore terribly drab garments, most of them thick and rough, often patched in various spots. And the colors! It was simply insulting, to say the least, when the only colors he saw were blacks and whites and all the shades of gray in between. Brown was very common too, and brown wasn't exactly a flattering color. Here and there, he would see a flash of pink, perhaps a bit of lilac, or, every once in a while, a tad of blue. Those would be the more fortunate people of Alicante. Of course, their gowns and jackets were made of materials slightly more pleasant to the touch. And on occasion, Magnus would spot a magnificent ensemble, complete with enough feathers and sequins to rival his own.

Of course, speaking of richer people, Magnus had arrived at the palace. It wasn't as grand as he'd imagined, but it had a charm to it, a warmth that castles generally lacked. Magnus slipped through the double doors of the entrance unseen, thanks to his glamour. He had come with the purpose of visiting the King—not that Magnus knew him personally, but that was the point. He liked making new acquaintances, and who knows, his relationship with King Lucian might just come in handy someday. Besides, the Queen was a good friend of his, it would only make sense to meet her husband, right? And on the off chance he didn't get to see King Lucian, it wouldn't hurt to pay Jocelyn—the Queen—a visit. He hadn't seen her since her coming-of-age, when she was sixteen. He'd thrown a party in her honor, going out of his way to organize a ball. Now, almost ten years later, he'd heard from someone she had a daughter about five or six years of age. Magnus was never quite fond of babies, but this was Jocelyn's daughter, and he could make an exception.

As Magnus strolled down the long corridors, he smiled to himself, thinking about how Jocelyn's child would look like. Would she be pretty? She must be, for Jocelyn was a beautiful woman herself. Unless Lucian was desperately lacking in looks department, the child surely must be at least decent-looking. Red hair, perhaps, like Jocelyn's. Jocelyn did have the most vibrant hair, a deep scarlet Magnus sometimes found himself jealous of.

As Magnus was rounding a corner, a little boy with a mop of golden curls ran straight into him, causing him to stumble backwards a few steps. Magnus opened his mouth to berate the child for wrinkling his jacket, but when he took a good look at the boy, Magnus's jaw hung open. The boy was covered in blood. And now that he ran into him, Magnus's jacket was stained with blood too.

"What in the name of—" Magnus swore under his breath, running his hands through his hair. He had come to the palace for leisure, to catch up with an old friend, not to deal with a kid who didn't understand why he shouldn't play with sharp things.

"You have to go there," the boy panted, pointing to the direction where he came from. "You have to help her," he tugged on Magnus's arm, pushing him towards the large iron door. Eyeing the boy warily, Magnus approached the door, which led to a set of stone stairs.

"Would care to explain why you are leading me to a place that I am most likely forbidden in?" Magnus arched an eyebrow. The boy just shook his head.

"Just—go down there and help her—" Looking around frantically, he gave Magnus one final push. "I-I have to go," and with that, the boy dashed away. If it weren't for the plush carpeting, the boy's loud footsteps would most likely have attracted dozens of guards by now, but seeing as he remained undetected, the boy ran out what seemed to be a servant's exit. An older man, perhaps in his thirties or late twenties was by the exit, waiting for the boy, but his back was turned, so Magnus couldn't make out the man's face. Magnus contemplated chasing after him. Then again, the boy did say something about someone in need down there. And Magnus was a very kind-hearted person. Well, that's what he liked to think. Should he find out who the boy was? Or should he investigate what was waiting for him at the bottom of these treacherous stairs?

Sighing dramatically, Magnus descended upon the stairs, his curiosity for what lies below finally winning out. The first thing Magnus noticed was the eery silence. His footsteps echoed on the stone, which should have drawn plenty of attention by now. As he reached the last of the steps, Magnus surveyed his surroundings, even more baffled. It was what seemed to be the dungeon, yet there were no guards stationed anywhere. Looking back, he hadn't encountered anyone on his way here, which was uncommon, especially in the dungeons. Even more strange, all the doors to the cells hung ajar, some of them creaking slowly, as if all the occupants had pushed them open in haste and escaped. Magnus crept forward cautiously, his body tense. His slit-pupiled eyes darted around quickly, scanning for any immediate signs of danger. What his eyes rested on made him halt abruptly, his heart skipping a beat. (No, it wasn't an insanely handsome stranger, although Magnus would've preferred that over what lay before him any day.) A girl, probably no older than seven, laid on the floor right outside a cell, in a puddle of her own blood.