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Each day was said to be a new chance at life. In this, saying it suggests that each night you die with the onset of sleep, and by a miracle, (or perhaps magic), you were reborn the next morning. Emelia didn’t like this saying for one very specific, precise reason; the fact that it reflected a moment in her reality. A moment where part of her died at night, and by dawn, she had been reborn into a new life.
She’d been born as a majin, and had known the hunger, an inescapable force that lingered in the back of her mind, the tip of tongue, begging to be sated. Magic called to magic, and she was weak to the siren’s lure of it. For years she had resisted. In the school, she bit her lip, would shuffle away ever so slightly when the hunger became present, demanding to be sated. Over time it got easier to ignore. Over time, she got better at hold back, those nervous habits lessening and almost becoming a faded memory.
When the trail came and she was tested she almost failed, but she’d passed, succeeded, become a witch. That was good a memory for her, a happy one. Her ‘friends’ congratulating, cheering, hugging her and holding her telling her how well she’d done. Even now, a smile would form on her lips recalling the aroma in the air that night, the feeling of wind on her skin, the sight of lights dancing in her vision.

The hunger subsided for a long time, just those tickles. Those little pricks asking for needless attention like an irksome child crying for no reason. She was a witch, and soon she would say to herself, soon she would be able to live peacefully, alone, free do as she pleased, live as she pleased.
But fate called out, and made her heart sing. Another witch, her voice like bells, and her smile as innocent and pure as spring rain. Long ago Emelia has sworn to never become close, to become ‘attached’. Yet she had. Sunshine and sugar filled her days, the witch from the country selling her baked goods and always stopping to give her a little something extra, and light shy smile from under soft mint eyes.
It has been a warm night, the rain washing away the day’s toils and leaving only innocent pure water in it’s wake. It had started with a kiss. Soft and kind. One after another, and with each kiss the sweet taste of summer rain and confectioner’s sugar filled her senses. How could she have resisted the siren’s call so close? The pulse of her heart beating just as fast ad the water running down the roof and into the storm drain. The scream swallowed by a soft kiss and the crash of thunder, the lightning casting a glittering shadow as glazed frosting glittered in the lamplight.
The scent of baked goods left the town, the mint eyes and kind smiles vanished, and the sound of a voice didn’t ring out offering treats in celebration.
Emelia had opened her eyes to the morning’s light and smiled, her bed was soft and still warm, the birds on her windowsill still sang, while she smiled despite the small stain of sadness as two tiny wings fluttered on her back. Her first witch heart, and the siren’s call was now nothing more than a lost memory. The annoying thirst was quenched. Love was such a fleeting thing. What use was love, when she could devour all she magic she wanted with a simple act? What was the use of soft, shy, mint eyes, when you never really had a heart to start with?

☬ - (???) Emelia devoured her first Witch Heart and became a Witch Eater.