Aurelie Danksworth may appear no older than twenty-five, with radiant emerald eyes and waves of fiery red hair that fall to her waist, but beneath her youthful exterior lies a century of quiet defiance and buried dreams. At 125 years old, she has long outgrown the velvet cages others tried to keep her in.
Born to a wealthy merchant in the bustling city within the capital, Aurelie was raised among silks and spices, trade deals, and tight-laced expectations. Her father, ambitious and practical, saw his daughter not as a soul of her own but as a gem to be bartered—an ideal match to secure an alliance with another powerful merchant family. But Aurelie’s spirit, wild and untamed, refused to be bought.

From a young age, she felt the call of the earth more than the clink of coin. Flowers leaned toward her touch, and plants thrived in her presence. By age thirty, her natural affinity had blossomed into full-fledged healing magic, bolstered by her herbal expertise. She could stitch wounds with spells and salves alike, mend bones and broken spirits, and coax even the most reluctant sprig into bloom with just a whisper. Her kitchen was often an extension of her heart, simmering with stews that soothed, pastries that lifted moods, and confections that made people remember childhood joy.

But she was different in more ways than her magic. Social conventions baffled her—Aurelie would wander into conversations bluntly, ignore hints, and miss romantic advances entirely. She judged people not by class or race but by their intentions and the truths behind their eyes. The rigid etiquette of elven society only made her feel more alien, and her father only more determined to "fix" her.

On a rain-slicked night, she vanished at the turn of her 100th year. No letters. No goodbyes. Just the wind through an open window and footprints in the garden. She fled far, crossing forests and mountain passes to find herself in the quaint little shop in another city she would call home. There, hidden in the moss-covered eaves of a crooked herbal apothecary, she found sanctuary—and a purpose. Working under a kindly old dwarf healer, she honed her craft, found peace in her plants, and reveled in the freedom she’d always craved.

Aurelie is still discovering who she is. She’s curious to a fault, sometimes too trusting, and her physical strength is laughably lacking—one too many attempts to lift barrels in the shop have resulted in disaster. But her stamina and intellect keep her going, and her heart aches for those broken by the world’s darkness. She dreams not of wealth or marriage, but of healing—of helping others rediscover light, in body and soul.

To many, she’s the odd elven woman with dirt under her nails and flour on her cheeks. But to those she’s helped, Aurelie is a rare kind of magic—alive, kind, and utterly her own.



The Bonding of Aurelie and the Ancient Stone
Long before Aurelie took her first breath, when she was but a heartbeat beneath her mother’s ribs, fate stirred in secret. Her mother, a gentle herbalist from the wildflower-strewn glades, ventured into the sacred grove in search of a rare blossom said to ease the birthing pains. It was midspring, and the grove pulsed with unseen magic—ancient, quiet, watchful.

Unbeknownst to her, buried beneath the moss-laced roots of the eldest tree, slumbered a fragment of the ancient Stone, the very heart of nature’s magic. As the mother knelt to gather the herb, her hands brushed the soil that had grown warm, as though something below was reaching out. A soft pulse, like the echo of a heartbeat, passed through her.

The Ancient Stone stirred—for the first time in centuries—not in response to the mother, but to the child. Within her womb, the unborn Aurelie shimmered like a drop of starlight in still water, her soul already resonant with a fierce, healing magic. The Stone, sensing her boundless potential and the purity of her heart, chose her. Without word or ritual, a silent bond was formed. No flash of light. No divine sign. Just a quiet promise, nestled in the unborn girl's spirit.

Her mother returned home, unaware. But from that moment, strange things began to happen. Plants flourished in her presence. Wounds closed faster. The birds would fall quiet when she passed. Her father, a man of iron rules and nobility, noticed too, but he did not marvel. He feared. Magic had never run in their line. He whispered of taint, of curse, of something that needed to be undone. And so, even as Aurelie grew, her gift was hidden, feared rather than nurtured.

But the bond holds strong. The Stone does not choose lightly, and it never unchosen.