1000 Years Ago, Mortal Realm — Virelya
Virelya. A kingdom carved from white marble and gilded with gold, where towering temples stretched like arms to the sky, and the streets shimmered under the constant glow of devotion. The air was thick with the scent of incense and whispered prayers, a place where gods were praised—and where beauty was worshipped like a living deity.
Inside the Grand Temple of Lirael, the goddess of purity and light, the atmosphere was solemn and sacred. High above the polished marble floors, golden rays of sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the kneeling masses.
And there, in the center of it all, stood Selmora.
She moved like a goddess herself, draped in flowing silken robes that shimmered with threads of gold, each step measured and deliberate. Her hair fell in waves of silver, catching the light like liquid moonbeams. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on her, but none dared to speak, only bow in reverence.
Selmora had been chosen before she could walk—a "child touched by Lirael," the priests had declared. Born with a beauty so radiant it could blind, her presence alone could silence a room. Her voice was soft yet commanding, her every gesture worshipped.
But beneath that flawless surface, behind those luminous eyes, Selmora hid a secret.
While the other priestesses whispered hymns and chants in adoration, she gazed at the cold statues of the gods and thought bitterly:
"Why should I kneel to stone?"
She did not believe in their mercy. Not truly.
Her beauty was hers alone, the source of her power—not some blessing from above. It was that beauty that drew kings to her feet and pilgrims from distant lands. It was that beauty that made her feared in the temple halls and envied in the royal courts.
There was only one man who saw through the illusion.
A temple knight, sworn to the gods with armor that gleamed like the morning sun. Yet, when he looked at Selmora, there was no awe, no worship—only something raw and real. Something that no one else could see.
In the moonlit garden behind the temple, away from prying eyes and whispers, they shared stolen moments. Caelen’s hands trembled when they brushed her face, as if he was afraid she might vanish like a dream.
"If I defied the heavens, would you still stand beside me?" Selmora asked one night, her voice barely more than a breath.
Caelen’s eyes burned with conviction. "Even if the gods themselves struck you down, I would shield you with my life."
She believed that he was different.
But when the plagues came—dark clouds choking the sun, fields withering to dust—the people’s faith shattered like glass.
The priests blamed her.
"She has grown vain," they whispered behind closed doors. "She claims beauty as her own, not the gods’. She has drawn their wrath!"
The temple elders gathered under the cover of darkness, faces grim with fear and certainty. They made their choice.
Selmora would be the sacrifice.
In the dead of night, the temple guards came for her. Chains clinked as they bound her wrists, dragging her through silent halls filled with statues of the gods she no longer believed in.
She searched the shadows for Caelen—the man who promised to protect her.
He stood there, his armor cold and shining, his eyes empty and hollow.
"You won’t even speak?" she whispered, voice trembling with disbelief. "You—you once called me divine."
His answer was barely audible.
"I serve the gods," he said. "Forgive me."
Selmora laughed then. A sound so sharp, it cut deeper than any blade.
"You serve fear," she spat. "Just like them. You men... all of you... bow to powers you don’t even understand. You love beauty only when it obeys. When it’s fragile. But when it burns? Suddenly, it’s dangerous."
"I will come for you all, you will burn in hell with me".
They dragged her to the altar, cloaked her in white—robes meant for brides, now turned shroud for sacrifice.
As the flames flickered to life, licking hungrily at her feet, Selmora did not cry.
She looked once more at Caelen.
"You are not a man," she said quietly. "You are a servant in armor. Gravel I will step on as I rise."
And to the gods she whispered, her voice fierce and unbroken:
"You will kneel to me."
The fire devoured her body, but her soul refused to die.
Falling through spirals of screaming stars and oceans of shadow, Selmora descended into a realm where gods had no names.
A place where power was raw and cruel.
There, before a throne of bone and blazing fire, demons waited in silence.
Selmora—naked, burned, and still breathtaking—stood tall.
The Infernal Gate opened before her.
Present Day — Fourth Gate of Hell
Selmora walked through the scorched earth, green flames licking her skin without burning her. Her eyes burned with a hatred centuries deep.
"No one can change me," she murmured, voice cold as ice. "My burning hatred can never be quenched. The gods, the men—they are all gravel beneath my feet. They deserve nothing but to be crushed."
Her footsteps echoed through the fiery wasteland.
"No one can free me," she said, "and I don’t want to be freed—not by someone who’s just like them. You doubt your faith and say you worship the gods, but stop lying to yourselves. You’re just pawns in their games. Forgotten missionaries sent to hell. You’re all the same."
As she walked, a faint voice stirred in her mind.
Memories surfaced—moments when Aria was unconscious, slipping quietly into her thoughts.
Selmora remembered the questions, the doubt in Aria’s eyes.
"That’s why you asked about worship," Aria whispered to herself. "Because you wanted to know if your anger was justified. You began to question your hatred. And when you learnt I carried the gods’ mark, you hoped I’d understand. You thought I could give you the answer you needed."
Tears welled up in Aria’s eyes as she vowed silently:
"I couldn’t understand you before. But now, I will make it right. I will find a way to free you—from your burning hatred. Let me burn in it with you."
Aria’s mark glowed bright, humming with ancient power. Suddenly, flames burst forth, surrounding her in a fierce aura.
Selmora turned, a smile breaking her cold mask.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Master," Aria said.
The flames shifted, coalescing into the shape of a giant cat skeleton, from snarling jaws to sharp claws. It wrapped around Aria’s body like armor.
She bent low, crouching like a cat ready to pounce.
With a sudden burst of speed, she dashed forward.
Selmora kicked her back, but Aria used her claws to halt her momentum and launched another strike.
Selmora threw a punch—but Aria’s tail whipped the air with force, sending her stumbling forward.
Before Selmora could react, Aria was behind her, claws raised.
But Selmora vanished in a swirl of green flames, reappearing behind Aria.
Shock flashed across Aria’s face.
Before she could move, Selmora slammed her to the ground.
The earth cracked, stones flying.
Selmora formed a ball of roaring green flame and hurled it at Aria with deadly force.
The explosion rocked the battlefield.
Through the smoke, Selmora’s voice rang out.
She turned to leave, but then froze.
Her flames swelled, consuming her entire body.
Fangs sprouted from her mouth, and her form began to shift.
Selmora watched, amused.
"She’s being consumed by her own flames," she said softly. "I guess you couldn’t control them after all. Worthless—just like the gods."
Suddenly, a blinding light burst from Aria.
Selmora shielded her eyes.
When the light faded, Aria was transformed—her head now that of a glowing flamy pink cat, with two shimmering tails flowing behind her.
This was no longer Aria.
This was a creature of flame and spirit.
"I think you’re finally serious."
Green flames engulfed her once more.
"Lord Azreal," she whispered. "She was the cat in your story... but there’s a flaw. The snake will be the one to win."
Her hand stretched out, green fire weaving into a whip.
"Medusa’s Whip," she said, voice sharp.
Aria, the cat, dashed forward.
Selmora threw her whip. Read full story at 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝙣𝙚𝙩
The weapon burned with deadly precision, slicing the ground and leaving trails of scorched earth.
Aria leapt to slash, but Selmora caught her with the whip.
"Got you," Selmora said.
She reappeared behind Selmora, speed blurring into afterimages that attacked relentlessly.
Selmora’s eyes narrowed.
"How is she this fast?" she muttered.
The afterimages struck, but Selmora’s whip deflected them all.
"I won’t let you win," she growled. "You can’t beat me."
Suddenly, Aria’s claws raked across Selmora’s face.
Selmora froze, stunned.
She clutched her face—only her snake-like slit pupils visible.
In a dimly lit chamber, cloaked figures gathered, their red hoods hiding all but glowing eyes.
At the front stood five leaders, their cloaks marked with a broken horn—the symbol of rebellion.
The middle figure stepped forward, his voice low but powerful.
He paused, eyes burning with fervor.
"For the rebirth of our one true god."
The gathered bowed, voices rising in unison:
"We are the Evolutionists. Our only goal—to revive our king. To become his nourishment. To evolve beyond gods, beyond good and evil."
A new world awaited them.
A world ruled by none but their king.
He laughed, dark and cruel.
The others echoed him, their voices a chorus of rebellion: