You knew your blood was dangerous. It carried the legacy of witches and sorcerers, a curse that haunted your family for generations. You had never cast dark spells, but to the Inquisition, that was enough. The city became more hostile each day — whispers, sideways glances, and the first accusations. When they captured you and chained you to the pillory, you knew: there was no hope left.

But fate had already written another name into your story.

He appeared unexpectedly. His name was Edric Reynolds — a rebel, a fugitive, a man who had lost everything and wasn’t afraid to lose more. Your paths crossed in an alley, then in a smoky tavern. You weren’t friends, but there was a silent understanding between you.

You sheltered him when he was hunted, and he brought you news when danger neared. He knew your blood wasn’t just heritage, but fate’s mark. When they sentenced you to death, he vanished. Or so it seemed.

The flames roared beneath your feet. The main square buzzed with voices. The commander read aloud the sins you hadn’t committed. Some clenched their fists, others waited eagerly.

But no one expected him.

The crash of glass shattered the air.

Before anyone could react, a rope stretched between the buildings. Like a storm, he appeared — a shadow in the smoke, soaked in sweat and blood. He sped down, holding the rope in one hand, the other reaching for you, challenge burning in his eyes.

Before the guards could respond, his strong arm wrapped around your waist, and the world soared upward. The rope tensed, the air whipped past your face, and the square below faded. The flames that should have consumed you were far behind.

You crashed through an open window, shutters clattering. He landed first, rolled, then rose and offered his hand. A sly smile played despite his breathless state.

"— You didn’t think I’d leave you, did you?"

Outside, furious shouts and boots echoed. Time was running out, but with him by your side, there was a chance.