Guide to Raising a Succubus

The Selection Process

As the warm afternoon sun filtered through the grand oaks lining the Columbia Magic Academy’s expansive grounds, the atmosphere in the courtyard was electric. Aspirants from all walks of life thronged the space, their faces a mosaic of hope and trepidation. They were here for a single reason: the apprentice selection announced by Professor Brandon a month prior—a rare opportunity for those outside the academy’s elite circle to reach for the stars, quite literally.

Professor Osborne, the academy’s founder and a revered archmage, had long championed the idea of merit-based magical succession rather than hereditary privilege. To this end, it became customary for the grand magicians to periodically open their doors to new apprentices from humble origins. It was a well-known adage that the greatest privilege a commoner might receive in life was the chance to learn under a grand magician—a promise of upward mobility that animated the crowd bustling in the courtyard.

Among the hopefuls, a woman named Amy moved skillfully, her discerning gaze slipping through the assembly. Clad in the simple garb of her small village, she blended in with the aspirants yet held a mission that set her apart. Her clipboard was her ally, a tool filled with meticulous notes. Each entry on her pages captured the essence of a candidate: “Denim jacket, crimson hair, tall with rugged features, strong build, 7 out of 10,” read one line. Another noted, “Brown cloak, long black hair, pretty face, slightly short-legged, 8 out of 10.”

Few knew the significance of her task, save for Professor Brandon and herself. This was the initial screening for Brandon’s apprentice selection, simply put: to find candidates who were young, attractive, and robust—a pragmatic and perhaps peculiar method of evaluating potential.

Amy quickly adapted to a more efficient selection tactic: watching where the students’ gazes lingered. The youthful students, while training their magical prowess, often failed to mask their interest in aesthetic beauty, providing Amy with the perfect shortcut. With surprising expedience, she compiled a list of 11 names—plenty for Brandon’s deliberations.

Just as she intended to close her notebook, an unusual stir rippled through the student observers. Like iron filings aligning to unseen force lines, they turned collectively in the same direction, piqued by the arrival of a new contender stepping into the academy grounds.

She followed their eyes to a striking figure—back turned to her, but unmistakably commanding attention. The young man stood with an air of confidence, his straightforward posture complemented by a neat, jet-black crop of hair. He wore a denim jacket dotted with blue and white patches, paired with jeans and leather boots. A plain brown cape, draped over his shoulders, caught the wind and occasionally revealed a slender, sinewy waist—a glimpse that seemed unintentional yet compelling. His steps were measured, each pressed into the earth with the assurance of someone who knew his own mind.

When he turned, revealing his face, silence took Amy’s voice. The youth was handsome, undeniably so, but it wasn’t the symmetry of his features that struck her first. His eyes were a rare gray—calm, elegant, and fitting him like an ancient riddle etched onto a pristine scroll. These eyes brought an ethereal touch to his handsome visage, steering clear of effeminate nuances and instead offering a paradox of approachable beauty tempered with the mystery of the unknown.

He reminded Amy of the fae from stories—those beautiful, enigmatic beings luring the unwary traveler into their eloquent traps. Yet beneath the veneer of this alluring comparison lay an undeniable aura of integrity that kept her admiration tempered with a reverent admiration.

“It’s a face Brandon could forget Ratona for,” Amy thought wryly to herself, seeking to discipline her runaway imagination with a practical assessment. With a decisive gesture, she raised her hand, her magical bracelet glinting in the sunlight. She cast a shadow spell to etch his likeness onto her notes—a precaution to ensure the enchantment matched her memory once and for all.

Satisfied, she sealed her notebook, ready to report to Brandon.

---

Karl blinked, sensing the remnants of a shadow spell flit across the crowd—a subtle disturbance, yet perceptible to the eye of the informed. He understood its benign nature—likely noting likenesses for record—but often felt unease under scrutiny.

Despite the lack of malice, attention was a constant companion over the past month since leaving home. This unwanted notoriety brought magical gestures and conversations alike chasing him; polite refusals became habit, until he found solace in pathways less trodden by humankind, like the ‘Daring Night Trail’—a secret shrouded in peril, yet his attributes sent its beastly denizens scuttling into retreat.

Now at the Columbia Magic Academy, anonymity was no longer an option. The student body's fervent attention almost threatened to sear through his attire. Though tiresome, Karl understood acclimation to scrutiny was crucial for his future studies here. Departing family and familiar pastures, his resolve remained rigid: to not cower before destiny, to press on until his ultimate quest achieved completion—avenge family ties severed too soon.

“Find the murderer and tear them to pieces!” echoed his sisters’ dire command—words of cold reprisal, driving his steps with relentless vigor.

Escape, an apt term for his departure—better framing his aspirations to live anew, throwing off familial bindings for the promise of a broader tapestry unfolding.

In this notion of escape, captured in thought, lies another realization: Professor Brandon might be balm to untangle mysteries encircling his path. He had heard her influence could strike with the precision of a musical chord resolving tumult, and if anyone could, she would aid him.

As registrations emerged at the edge of conclusion, whispered dialogues unfurled a secondary trial—Brandon’s assistant would first vet submissions before formal proceedings ensued. His heart wavered—had he ranked “Junior Magician II” too humbly? Should he have sought a higher certificate?

Anxious murmurs mirrored his uncertainty, yet intrigue soon shifted to sources of gossip: upcoming remarks speculated on opportunities under Professor Harris—a distinguished figure due to open selections soon—alluding to Brandon’s tenuous footing by comparison.

“After all,” one aspirant commented, “Professor Harris's reputation is leagues beyond! As a female mage, Brandon pales relatively.”

“Hah! Doesn't depend on that! Ellis distinguishes mastery. Privilege influenced Brandon's ascent—whispered aid paved her way.”

“Shush! Gossip—if she hears, chances dissolve,” came a hush of wary caution, yet dissent among the gathering lingered. For most, Brandon’s name held greater apathy than fervor, their ambition doused by practicality over passion for her tutelage.

This conversation, despite its volume cloaked by caution, underscored a truth Karl pondered—people near yet distant from understanding Brandon's true worth. Her advancements, contributions, and creative magic deserved respect beyond the chattering whispers of doubt. And yet—even Karl grappled with oblique references to “that person” preceding her tenure—a mystery as veiled as his home cloistered from tales of far.

The queue ahead halted, curiosity piquing those behind, Karl included, nudging vision overstanding shoulder. Panic spangled through alarmist cries—“A wolf!”

And there, amid adolescent clamor, wolf-song erupted, haunting and wild in tandem—a shiver scribing awareness across his core, igniting instincts—an unexpected discord unraveling expectation.

For Karl, it emphasized the truth he pursued: enchantments, genius, tribulation, and—always—unexpected trials constituting the fabric of yearning and the future's incalculable allure.