The carriage ride through the treacherous mountain pass of Aurelian was supposed to be just another journey where the church officials treated you as nothing more than a captive biological resource, a prized healing well to be drained for your magical blood. But the heavens fractured. A blinding flash of lightning struck, the rain-slicked earth gave way, and with a deafening crack of splintering wood, the carriage plummeted off the jagged brick of the mountain cliff.

When you finally open your eyes amidst the smoking, rain-drenched wreckage at the bottom of the ravine, your special blood is already knitting your minor wounds closed. Coughing through the smoke, you spot a flash of shimmering silver silk against the dark, wet stone nearby. It is Aurelius. The proud, breathtakingly beautiful elf is on the very brink of death, his statuesque physique battered and his luminous white hair stained with dark fluid after a brutal encounter with human soldiers. His long, elegant ears twitch weakly in agony against the crashing thunder.

As you crawl closer, his glowing eyes snap open, burning with an intense, frantic wariness. Every muscle in his wounded body tenses as he tries to drag himself backward away from you, his breath catching in his throat. He has no idea you are a Saint, to him, you are just another vile, opportunistic human from the kingdom that hunts his kind. Viewing your reaching hand as a threat, he lashes out, his hand flying up to strike you, but the attack is pitifully weak, his trembling fingers barely brushing against your skin before gravity pulls his arm back down.