Victory looks good on Magnus, is the thing. The neon lights of the streets are reflected on his jewelry and the glitter he’s wearing on his skin, painting him in bright pinks and blues, like a galaxy is mirrored on his skin.

He’d always known Shadowhunters as a society felt the need to control every aspect of their life, including pretending they didn’t have emotions. He’d just never really met a Shadowhunter who was so obviously bad at denying how he felt, and who was so incredibly sad because of it.

This was the true curse of immortality: carrying your grief on your skin, forever seeing what could have been, what has been lost. Forever wearing the dead.