Taming the Demon King

I was born in a castle on the southern shore of a northern sea to a warlock father and a witch mother from powerful families on both sides. With no siblings, I am heir to all my parent’s power and influence, derived from old family lines with the power that backs them. My inheritance and family are not much but enough to make me interesting in the Maison Royale des Sorcières. While I do not go to court except for bigger events, I often feel the eyes on me and hear the thoughts in the backs of their minds. On my father’s side I am descended from the line of Merlin’s wizards. The more recent ancestors came over during the Victorian era accompanied by magic and wisdom from my druid relatives. My elder relatives on that side still sound Welsh and Irish sometimes, if the mood catches them. As some of the longest-lived magical lines, my eldest great-grandmother has lived for nearly four hundred years. My mother’s family line descends from the oldest families in North America, both from the native peoples and from the early witches persecuted in Salem. Also long-lived, my great-Aunt Rebecca celebrated her five hundredth birthday a few years ago and now spends most of her time in a hermit’s cottage away from the bustle of castle life. My mother has tea with her sometimes, as great-Aunt Rebecca says she is her favorite niece. Before my birth the Maison Royale and the Demonic Royal Court were at war with each other. I’m only seventeen, so it wasn’t that long ago. My parents are in their sixties and spent most of their lives dealing with the fringes of the war. It never made its way to the castle, but it didn’t need to. The impact always crept closer and closer with every better and ever sorcier and sorcière who fell in battle. For every witch and warlock and enchantress and wizard who died, whose knowledge was lost, the reality of the war infected everyday life. I am just glad I was born into an era of peace. As my eighteenth birthday draws nearer, I find myself standing and staring into my looking glass, sometimes scrying and sometimes just staring at my reflection. My scrawny redhead self stares back at me, freckles and everything. My right eyebrow bears a strange break in it, which could have been a scar but really is a birthmark. I love how I look, I feel confident in it. My pale skin makes me look more like a vampire than a witch. And there are not a lot of redheaded witches in the castle, so I stand out whether I like it or not. I found out when I was fifteen my nickname is the “flame of the north,” not just because of my hair but because of my attitude. I know my confidence scares some people, but I don’t care about that. And anyway I still know how to behave in a court setting. Rather than staring at myself in the mirror, I chose to stare at the gown for my presentation to court. In only a few days I turn eighteen. This part of my life leading up to this moment felt incredibly long, but I know I have centuries ahead of me. These days will feel short and quick compared to the centuries I have coming. I only dream of a partner that can match me and keep up with me. Otherwise the centuries ahead of me will feel boring and much longer than they would be otherwise. I run my fingers over the pale satin of my coming out dress. The soft aquamarine color keeps from washing me out and plays well with my blue eyes and light red hair. I normally dress fairly conservatively, but this dress is strapless with a sweetheart neckline. For a moment I feel the thrill of wearing it in a few days. A sense of anticipation fills me. I feel like the dress will bring me to my destiny. I can’t figure out why. But I feel it. Only a few days from now I’ll meet my destiny. And I have no idea what that will be.