Prologue
Red moonlight poured over the manor settled upon a hill which was surrounded by a thin, yet deep, moat. Within the large and noble building was an assembly hall of sorts. And besides the dim, orange candlelight that was unevenly arranged along the aisle amidst crowded pews, the light of the moon that seeped through the tall, arched, black-framed windows was the only source of light to see the tense, dead looks all around.
Atop the nave, a father and daughter stood holding each other by the wrist. Between them stood a gold font, emblazoned with their family crest amongst other patterns of flora and creatures, some mythical and others entirely muggle. It was called the sacred chalice, which contained the secret behind their eyes.
"I will," began the father, baring fangs within a grin as he looked down at his kin, into her eyes, aglow and crimson, much like the moon above them. "Your title as heiress stands still, and immortal glory will be presented to you at the completion of your task."
A wife and mother stood behind the sacred chalice, her wand moved in a motion of infinity, binding the vow. Her closed smile, behind lips painted black, dropped as her gazed turned away from her husband, and snapped to her daughter, whose nerves seemed to only reveal themselves to those closest to her.
"And will you, my dear, accept only death as the singular result of your failings to complete this task? Do you agree to the terms laid at your feet?" spoke the clan's current sovereign consort.
A loosely curled lock of black hair was moved out of the daughter's eyes and tucked behind her ever-so-slightly pointed ear, by her sometimes intimidating mother. In all of the young woman's years, she had never quite been prepared for the pressure she felt right now weighing heavily down on her entire being. In her honest opinion, her future leadership, if it was even achieved at all, would change a lot in this small society. This rite of passage ritual was ages old and she honestly found it entirely unnerving. Nothing about it was humanely right.
The only issue was, she seemed to be the only one with this belief. However, as it was an unspoken rule to never speak your opinion on the ancient methods, she still hoped that there were plenty more who would do anything to bring a little more gentle approach to such an important time in any young person's life.
Tearing her eyes away from her hand, she scanned the crowd, the assembly of witnesses to the momentous occasion, sifting through each row of beady, red eyes of all different shades, searching for any sign at all for mercy.
Nothing. She was forced to internalize her horror upon finding none. In the place of the mercy she greatly fantasized about, was only determination and trust. Far too much trust. It brought a powerful wave of nausea–a nervous gut wringing–to her stomach, and forced her to return her gaze to he who clutched her wrist.
With any sign of fear chased away with a single, audible swallow, before her trembling, purple-painted lips opened, allowing her agreement to slip past them. "I will. I understand the terms: should I fail, I will be cast away with the wind." Having definitely ensured that her words were clear to anyone in the assembly hall, the daughter held her breath, watching as the unbreakable vow was finalised as the white binding faded away, one piece at a time.
Her mother took up a goblet of the family recipe of wine made by the house elves in the manors basement brewery. It was made from the juices of Argentinian white grapes, Spanish peach juice, Polish raspberry juice and rose petals from the roses in the front courtyard of the manor. She raised it in her right hand, while raising her wand in her left, before proudly announcing:
"And so, the vow has been completed. Our dear heiress has a destiny to fulfill."
As all within the pews all rose and cheered, the husband disconnected his hand from his daughters wrist to raise his own wand, wordlessly casting lumos maxima. Before either his wife or their community could follow this movement, the heiress released a heavy breath under the noise of all of those to trusted this decision.
She rose her own wand, casting a weak fireworks charm over the pews and fought with herself, but smiled anyway.
That night, after all of the festivities were over, she shut herself in her room and collapsed onto the stool of her ebony vanity, cushioned with a royal purple velvet. She distracted herself with the curiosity of why she didn't like to use glamour charms on special occasions, just like her mother, she preferred to use muggle makeup. Whether it was something to keep her mind clear of concern or because she found it fun occasionally, she would never know.
But what she did know is that it surely would not take her three years to get it done. And she would change everything as soon as she could.