In one of the six villages of Velmoria, the village of the Genesis coven. There was a nineteen-year-old boy by the name of Rhyfel. His family—the James family—was the leader of the Genesis Coven. He had three younger siblings—Renae, James, and Lamar Jr.. As the eldest, he was said to be his family's pride and joy. He was meant to bring more honour to his family name, break ancient curses, and one day take over for his father as the head of the coven. Well, that's what they thought at first. Everything changed when his father discovered that he liked boys as much as he liked girls. A lifestyle that went against the coven's Christian-like beliefs.
Rhyfel was the strongest warrior of his age in all of Velmoria. When he fought, he fought with all his might; he fought for the people he loved and his village. He did not only fight with physical strength, speed, and agility. Like other warriors of the Genesis Coven, he fought with enhancements made possible by sorcery. His punches were like hammers, and his kicks were like the strike of a whip. As for when he fought with weapons—they were carved and marked by runes that made them glow with every hit.
Rhyfel was adored by all, mainly because he was such a strong warrior, 'a great son', and a loving individual. If only they knew he was fucking the prince of Velmoria.
The dimly lit room held two young lads beneath grey metallic sheets—one a prince, and the other was the warrior. The two were tangled in dreams of acceptance and peace. But the quiet was soon disrupted by the voice of the warrior's father storming down the halls of the house.
"Rhyfel", he yelled. "Get up off your lazy ass and get ready for the gathering of the coven."
The two lads jump up from under the sheets. Rhyfel was calm, but the prince was in panic. "What do I do? Where do I go?" he asked
"Just hide in the closet." Rhyfel said, tossing him his pants, prompting him to cover at least his lower half. The prince shot him a stare, hinting at the disrespect and irony.
"What? Did you forget what he did the last time he found us together?" Rhyfel paused.
"Plus, it's just a stupid box made of wood and steel; it means nothing. Hurry before he sees you."
The prince brushed off his bruised ego and quickly stuffed himself inside Rhyfel's closet, next to his unfolded laundry and worn-down armour made from emerald and gold.
The door to Rhyfel's room swung open; it was his father, Lamar Sr. "You are still in bed?" he asked. "Did you not hear me tell you to get up?"
"I was just about to do so, sir." Rhyfel replied quickly, climbing out of bed, making sure to keep his head down.
"Good, hurry and get dressed; your mother and I will not be waiting for too long."
Lamar Sr. turned to leave the room but was stopped by a piece of undergarment on a bookshelf behind the door. The waistband of said piece of clothing boasted the seal of Velmoria's royal crest. "Did I not warn you about consorting with him?" Lamar Sr. questioned.
"Sorry, sir... it's just an old piece from a past visit. He had left it behind." Rhyfel argued hesitantly.
"Very well then, get rid of it."
"As you wish, fath... sir."
Lamar Sr. lingered for a moment before turning away. The door shut behind him, sealing the tension in the air.
Rhyfel took the undergarment from the bookshelf, walked over to his closet, and slid it open to reveal the prince, who was waiting anxiously inside. Their eyes met briefly before Rhyfel held up the garment.
"It's yours," Rhyfel said. "But I'm keeping it." He tossed it into the hamper in the corner of the closet.
The prince smirked as he buttoned his shirt. "Sure, why not?" Fastening the last button, he sighed. "But I must leave now. We don't want any more surprises." With practised ease, the prince climbed out the window of Rhyfel's room (he was careful not to be spotted).
Rhyfel wasted no time. He donned his fitted metal armour, the trim accentuating his beach-toned body. With quick steps, he rushed down the stairs and out the front door, where towering metallic structures filled the village skyline.
He hopped into the hover carriage—a carriage not pulled by horses but powered by magic—inside, his siblings immediately laid into him for being so sluggish. He rolled his eyes as they sped off toward the coven's gathering.
The coven's gathering was a weekly event, a duty to be exact. They gathered once per week in worship and divine praise. It was in a temple without a roof reaching for the heavens. Every week, one thing stood out to Rhyfel: the voice of Isabelle de los Santos.
"Bendito sea el senor, mi roca que adiestra mis manos para la guerra y mis dedos para la batalla." Those were the last and most spoken words of her abuela. They remained etched in her memory like an unbroken prayer. She was only six years old when her abuela—her mother's mother—passed away. Soon after, they packed their bags and left Xochian, the dense rainforest for Velmoria. They left behind not only a home but also the final ties to a life that no longer seemed to matter.
The Santos were not the only ones who had left behind the dense rainforest. Many Xochiani had made the journey, carving out a place for themselves in Velmoria. They called it New Xochian—a village that mirrored the one they had lost. The houses stood the same, woven with the resources of the land. The people still carried their miracles like whispered secrets between generations. 'What is a miracle?' you may ask. A miracle is a human blessed with divine talents. These are extraordinary gifts from the Divine that elevate natural abilities to an overpowered level. Unlike magic or sorcery, their skills came purely from their God-given essence and talents, making them unstoppable in their craft.
Isabelle was a miracle; her voice was a balm to the wounded, a lullaby to the restless. So long as she kept singing, pain faded, hearts steadied, and even the most broken souls found peace. Her parents, the leaders of New Xochian, were never home long enough to hold her so she found comfort in the Genesis' coven. They treated her like their own; she attended gatherings, mingled with their youths and even met a boy she was tangled with for a while.
As her song came to an end, she made her way to greet Lamar Sr, the high Priest. and his family. She eventually wandered off with their eldest son outside the temple.
"You sounded lovely in there," Rhyfel said.
"Thank you," she replied.
The air between them became a bit tense before Rhyfel broke the silence. "It is nice to see you again; how has your day been?" Rhyfel said.
"It's been great," Isabelle shot back. Then, with a pointed look, she added, "And please, drop the act. Your parents aren't around."
Rhyfel let out a small chuckle, followed by a satisfied sigh. "What? Can't I be..." He gestured vaguely, searching for the right word, "...civil when I'm not around my parents?"
Isabelle rolled her eyes just as he furrowed his brows.
"And why is your abdomen showing?" Rhyfel asked, his gaze dropping to her outfit.
"You like it?" she asked. "I made it." She wore a two-piece set, woven from the traditional fabrics of her village, its patterns telling stories as old as Xochian itself.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, I made four, to be exact, one for me, one for Claire, one for Carla, and one for your sister, of course." she added
"I'd love to see that, but unfortunately, here is where my path ends," he said, as they both stopped before two large doors that stood just outside the coven's temple. Isabelle sighed "wish me luck."
"Luck" Rhyfel smiled.
"Adio."
"Adio," Rhyfel turned around and went back to the temple, while Isabelle stayed staring at the doors long before pulling them open.
Beyond the door stood all the young women from all six villages of Velmoria. Each one was poised in neat rows, and their dresses cascaded to the floor like soft ripples across a calm lake. The air was rich with the scent of incense; it mingled with the sweetness of marigolds—an aroma that carried both reverence and the weight of expectation.
Isabelle stepped into the arena with her posture straight and her eyes firm as she felt the quiet scrutiny of those around her. She could sense the weight of their gazes, each one a mix of envy, hope, and fear.
She walked over to three girls who were much like her—the only differences lay in their status and appearance.
The first was Renae, the warrior's sister. Her hair was parted into small neat boxes, where each braid was woven with three strands, leaving out just enough curls to frame her face like a god's. There was strength and regality radiating from her, an aura that made her seem untouchable. Beside her stood Carla, a daughter of the Frescin village and a Gemini witch. Her pin-straight blond hair shimmered like platinum silver and cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight. Her golden eyes glowed faintly; it was a quiet testament to the magic coursing through her veins. And then there was Claire—princess of Velmoria. Like Carla, she was a Gemini witch—though her bloodline traced not to Frescin but to the royal heights of Velgallian. There was something about her presence—something effortless and poised; she was born knowing the world would always bend at her feet.
"Madam De los Santos" Renae bowed jokingly.
"Madam James" Isabelle followed suit, and the four burst out in laughter that sounded more like a mockery to the other girls around them.
"Hush", all the scattered chatter died down when a woman decked in black began speaking. "Welcome to the invitation ceremony of the women in black. At the end of this ceremony, only fifty young women will receive an invitation to train with Madam Xolin. May the best of you reign on top and the worst return home in shame. With that said, let the trials begin."
The ritual of this ceremony was the same each year— all the young women, ages nineteen and above, were summoned to the invitation ceremony for an opportunity to prove their worth, to be chosen, and to take a step toward their future. For all the others, it was a chance for something more. For Isabelle, it was just another step in a performance she had mastered long ago. Under her breath, she repeated her abuela's famous quote, but this time not in Xochian's native language but in the native tongue of Velmoria. "Blessed be the one who prepares my hands for battle and my fingers for war."