Updated Mar 10, 2026 • ~7 min read
Catherine is four years old.
Precocious. Curious. Fearless.
Everything Damien feared and hoped for.
She has his eyes. Sera’s determination. And a personality entirely her own.
Stubborn. Clever. Kind.
“I want to help in the garden,” she announces one morning.
“The garden is muddy,” Sera says.
“I like mud.”
“You’ll get dirty.”
“I like dirty.”
There’s no arguing with her.
Catherine gets her way. Always.
She’s not spoiled—Sera and Damien are careful about that.
But she’s determined. And resourceful.
And usually right.
They’ve settled into comfortable domesticity.
Damien manages the estate. Sera handles social obligations and charity work.
Catherine attends lessons with a tutor three days a week.
Normal family. Normal life.
Except for the transformations.
Damien still changes during full moons. Catherine has grown up seeing it.
She’s never been afraid.
“Beast Dada” is just another aspect of her father.
Like “Happy Dada” or “Grumpy Morning Dada.”
It’s normal for her.
Which sometimes worries Sera.
“Should we be concerned that she thinks transforming into a beast is ordinary?”
“She’s adapting to her reality. Children do that.”
“But what about when she’s older? When she realizes other fathers don’t do this?”
“We’ll explain it then. For now, let her be innocent.”
No word from Morgana in three years.
It’s both reassuring and terrifying.
Either she gave up.
Or she’s planning something massive.
Damien leans toward the latter.
But he doesn’t obsess anymore.
He’s learned to live with uncertainty.
To find joy despite the threat.
“If she comes, we’ll fight,” he tells Sera one night. “But I’m not wasting our lives preparing for a maybe.”
“Very evolved.”
“I have a good teacher.”
Catherine starts showing… unusual abilities.
Small things at first.
Lights flicker when she’s upset. Objects move when she’s excited.
“Is she magical?” Sera asks Lilith during a visit.
“Possibly. She has two parents with exposure to heavy magic. And her blood was used in the family bond ritual. That could have awakened latent abilities.”
“Is that dangerous?”
“Not inherently. Many children have small magical talents. Most grow out of them. But Catherine’s might be stronger.”
“What do we do?”
“Watch. Guide. Don’t suppress it or fear it. Just help her understand and control it.”
Easier said than done.
One afternoon, Catherine throws a tantrum.
She wants a cookie. Sera said no.
Typical four-year-old conflict.
But then the windows shatter.
All of them. Simultaneously.
From Catherine’s scream.
The little girl stops crying immediately.
Stares at the broken glass.
“I did that?”
“Yes,” Sera says carefully. “You have magic. Like Dada has his transformations.”
“Magic is good?”
“Magic is a tool. It can be good or bad depending on how you use it.”
“I use it good.”
“I know you will. But you need to learn control. So you don’t break things by accident.”
Catherine nods seriously.
“I control magic.”
“We’ll learn together.”
Damien is less calm about the discovery.
“She has magic. Real magic. Like the witches who cursed me.”
“She’s not like them. She’s four. She broke windows during a tantrum. That’s all.”
“That’s all? Sera, she shattered twelve windows with a scream. What happens when she’s angry as a teenager?”
“We’ll teach her control. Just like you learned to control the beast.”
“That took years. And I’m an adult.”
“Then we start now. Patiently. Lovingly. We don’t make her afraid of her own power.”
Damien knows she’s right.
But he’s terrified.
His daughter has the same power as the people who destroyed his life.
What if she can’t control it? What if it consumes her?
They consult with Gideon and Lilith.
Both agree: Catherine needs training.
“I can help,” Lilith offers. “I’m not powerful, but I understand magical basics. I can teach her foundations.”
“What about Morgana?” Damien asks. “If she finds out Catherine has power, she’ll target her specifically.”
“Morgana doesn’t need to know. We keep it quiet. Catherine learns control privately. No public displays.”
It’s the best plan they have.
Catherine takes to magical training enthusiastically.
She loves learning. Loves understanding her power.
Lilith teaches her meditation first. Emotional control.
“Magic responds to feeling,” she explains. “If you’re angry, magic is destructive. If you’re calm, magic is gentle.”
“Like Beast Dada!”
“Exactly. Your father learned to control his transformations by controlling his emotions. You’ll do the same with magic.”
Catherine practices diligently.
For a four-year-old, she has remarkable focus.
Within weeks, the accidental magic stops.
No more flickering lights. No more moving objects.
She’s learning control.
But with control comes curiosity.
“Can I make flowers grow?” she asks one day.
“That’s advanced magic. Let’s start smaller.”
“But I want to try!”
Before Lilith can stop her, Catherine focuses on a dead plant.
Pours all her energy into it.
The plant trembles.
Turns green.
Sprouts new leaves.
Blooms.
Lilith stares.
“That’s… that’s not supposed to be possible. Not for a child.”
“I did it!” Catherine is delighted. Proud.
“You did. But Catherine, that was very advanced. You need to be careful. Too much magic too fast can hurt you.”
“I feel good.”
“Now. But magic has costs. Promise me you’ll ask before trying something new.”
“I promise.”
But Lilith looks worried.
Catherine is more powerful than she expected.
Maybe more powerful than anyone expected.
That night, Lilith pulls Sera and Damien aside.
“Catherine is exceptionally gifted. Beyond normal magical talent.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s rare. And potentially dangerous. Power without training can be destructive.”
“We’re training her.”
“You’re teaching her control. But she needs more. Real magical education. From someone with significant power.”
“Where do we find that? We killed both powerful witches we knew.”
Lilith hesitates.
“There’s a magical academy. In Scotland. They train children with strong abilities. Teach them control, ethics, responsibility.”
“She’s four.”
“They don’t take students that young. But when she’s older—seven, maybe eight—it might be worth considering.”
Damien’s jaw clenches.
“We’re not sending our daughter away to some magical school where she could be targeted or manipulated.”
“Then you need to find another solution. Because Catherine’s power is growing faster than I can teach. She’ll outpace my knowledge within a year.”
They argue about it for days.
Damien refuses to send Catherine away.
Sera sees the necessity but hates the idea.
Finally, they compromise.
“We’ll teach her ourselves,” Sera decides. “Research magical theory. Practice with her. Between your transformation experience and my stubbornness, we can figure it out.”
“That’s optimistic.”
“It’s necessary. And we’ve done impossible things before.”
“Fair point.”
They begin studying.
Books on magical theory. Meditation techniques. Energy work.
It’s overwhelming. Complicated.
But they’re committed.
Their daughter needs them. They’ll rise to the challenge.
Catherine continues growing. Learning.
By five, she can move objects consciously. Make small lights. Sense emotions.
All controlled. All careful.
She’s remarkable.
And terrifying.
“What if Morgana finds out?” Damien worries constantly.
“She won’t. We’re careful. And even if she does, Catherine has us. We’ll protect her.”
“What if she comes when we’re unprepared? When Catherine is vulnerable?”
“Then we fight. Like always. And we win. Like always.”
Damien wants her certainty.
But fear is louder.
Five years after Morgana’s first attack.
No word. No sightings. Nothing.
Either she’s truly gone.
Or she’s waiting for the perfect moment.
Sera chooses to believe the former.
Damien prepares for the latter.
And Catherine grows up in the middle.
Loved. Protected. Powerful.
A child of two impossible parents.
Normal in every way that matters.
Extraordinary in ways that don’t.
And as she plays in the garden—making flowers bloom with a touch, laughing with pure joy—Sera thinks:
This is what they fought for.
Not just survival.
But this.
A daughter who can create beauty.
Who knows love.
Who has the power to change the world.
For good or ill.
But they’ll teach her good.
They’ll show her love.
And hope that’s enough.
Because sometimes, hope is all you have.
And sometimes, impossibly, it’s enough.
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