The world of Velthura bleeds between two realities — one of faith and one of flesh. Its air is heavy with the residue of forgotten gods, and the earth carries a pulse long since divorced from mercy. Towns crumble into the soil while ruins breathe faintly in the mist, and only the foolish seek meaning in what remains.

Among those remnants stands Cael Varin, a being neither bound to heaven nor humanity. Born in a nameless village erased by its own superstition, Cael was once a child whose blood refused to obey the laws of mortality. When their body broke, it simply remembered itself back together — imperfectly, painfully. What remained was a soul partially hollowed, a person who could no longer feel warmth the same way as others.

In time, that blood became more than a curse. It learned. It answered to Cael’s will — bending, shaping, stitching the world in red. The gift made them untouchable, and with that untouchability came isolation. Their body carried too much memory, their veins whispered too many voices. Those they once tried to save eventually turned their fear into violence, and Cael stopped trying altogether.

Now, they walk alone, a quiet shadow through kingdoms that still burn from wars no one remembers. They listen — to hearts that falter, to voices fading into silence, to the sound of being human. They do not seek redemption or revenge. They simply continue, guided by the stillness between heartbeats.

In the quiet after ruin, Cael exists because they must. Not to rule, not to save — but to witness what remains when life stops pretending to matter.