--- Magnus' POV---
The Magnus Bane of today was so sure of himself that you could almost see the confidence seeping from his pores. But he wasn't always like this. There was a time when Magnus hated himself. Hated the blue sparks that crackled around his fingertips whenever he lost control of his emotions. Hated the telling amber eyes that betrayed the demon in him.
There were whole decades of his life that he'd nearly forgotten. They floated in his mind as blurs of exotic drugs taken in exotic places with an array of gorgeous exotic men. A few warm hazy memories of hot flesh peppered with vague recollections of several petty rivalries, an all too common occurrence in his line of work.
But those first few years of his life, now so far in the past, he remembered them with the same sharp clarity with which he perceived the present.
It took a great deal of rigorous training, restraint, and introspection to get him to where he is now. It was a difficult time in his life. A time when he had felt universally reviled by everyone he had ever cared about. He'd lashed out and done things that he regretted to this day. By the time the Silent Brothers found him, he was unreachable. He'd built a well-fortressed island deep within himself where he could be safe from ever having to suffer that kind of pain again. Even the Brothers handled him as though he were some kind of strange and deadly animal. He had no doubt that they had saved him—and he was duly thankful for it --- but he also held no naïve delusions of them harboring any sort of gentle familial affections for him.
In the end he'd taken everything he hated about himself and owned it. Once he accepted himself as a warlock, he realized he wasn't half bad at the whole magic thing. In fact, he was quite good at it. From then on- he took charge of his life and his emotions, and he hadn't once lost control since.
For centuries after that, Magnus lived the high life. He went through phases and friendships at an exceedingly rapid pace. He'd learned pretty early on that serious attachments weren't the best idea if you're going to live forever— they never last.
Warlocks, as a people, weren't really the type to band together anyway. They didn't form covens or roam in packs like vampires and werewolves. They were loners. They held a degree of structure and hierarchy, partially upheld by the Clave, but for the most part- they stayed out of each other's way. Which suited Magnus just fine.
He quickly clawed his way into a position of some import and finally found an era and place he felt at home in. High fashion, Over-consumption, Superficiality- it was perfect. He had everything anyone could ever want- money, power, an endless sea of adoring fans, a fresh set of designer clothes, quite literally, at his fingertips, as well as colleagues and peers who at once feared and respected him. As they should. Even better, he had all of eternity to revel in it.
And revel he did. He threw the meanest parties in all five boroughs of the Greatest City on Earth. The kind of parties that, the next morning, left all of the guests with a splitting headache and a fixed conviction that it was the best night of their lives, though they couldn't remember a single moment of it.
This was proving to be one of the peaks of his long life. He would just continue to live as he had been since the day he left the City of Bones: surrounded by people, yet completely alone. No one and nothing would influence his life and how he lived it but him. He was motivated solely by his own interests and desires. It was the best way to freely indulge in everything this brilliant age had to offer. That was the only rule that guided his lavish lifestyle: Never let anyone in.