Izzy is a hurricane; Alec is a tree, rooted to the ground and stuck, buffeted by the wind but unable to chase it to better places. Izzy would fight his corner, if he asked. She would, even if he didn’t, resigned to the soil and the dirt.

He feels the hard press of law digging into his stomach, bruising his skin all shades of purple. Rule is the overbearing pressure on his chest; tradition is a cast-iron weight hanging from his neck, even as he’s lying down.

Magnus is so…brilliant. He dabbles in ostentatious colour and toys with words that weigh so heavy on Alec’s sluggish tongue. He waltzes into rooms with a sway of his shoulders and makes everyone stop and stare, whether they will themselves to or not. He commands attention without the indentation of a single word marking the shimmering air. And he has Alec raptured.