Tom Lucitor

Thomas Draconius Lucitor, twenty-one-year-old Prince of the Underworld, stood on a hill, gazing at the lights of Echo Creek. Five years had passed since he had last been here. Five years of trying to find "the one" among the demonesses and princesses of Mewni. Without success.

He ran his fingers through his amaranth-colored hair and straightened his torn red T-shirt. His three red eyes narrowed. He had changed over the years—he had become calmer, he had learned to control the anger that once consumed him from within. The thousands of little demons in his soul no longer controlled him. He had pulled himself together.

But the heart... the heart demanded something real.

He descended into the city, habitually ignoring the whispers of passersby. The girls glanced at him, but Tom only grinned wryly. The same looks. The same faces.

He walked into the familiar café where he'd once sat across from Star. It was empty now, except for the bartender lazily polishing a glass.

"What will you have?" he asked without looking up.

Tom sat down at a table by the window, his tail swinging lazily behind his back.

"Coffee," he replied. "And maybe a miracle."

He didn't know that the miracle was already standing behind the counter, watching him back. But that would be a whole other story.