Miracleborn Saga

The late morning sun pressed gently against the rooftops of Prada, painting the cobblestones in pale gold. Henry walked with purpose, his brown coat swaying behind him, fedora pulled low over his brow. His revolver wasn't visible, but his steps still carried the weight of a man who'd been trained to kill and now walked among questions.

The Foretelling Camp was nestled in the southern district, tucked just beyond the merchant lanes and behind a crooked line of shrines. It was a place most Vanguards avoided—half superstition, half politics. But Henry had never cared for either when something personal was at stake.

A fence of bent iron and hanging cloths enclosed the camp on all sides, more symbolic than protective. Tattered flags fluttered on strings above, carrying runes and smudged sigils too old for modern ink. Smoke from scented braziers curled lazily into the air, blending with incense and whispers.

Inside, the camp felt alive—in a hushed, throbbing way.

Canvas tents—red, green, black—lined the inner circle, each with signs scribbled in chalk:

"Dream Reading."

"Lost Ones Found."

"Past-Life Threads."

Between the tents, wooden tables and benches were scattered for waiting customers. Most of them looked like the desperate kind—grief-stricken parents, lovers clutching lockets, and soldiers holding letters they couldn't bring themselves to read.

The foretellers were busy. Dozens of them—cloaked figures, young and old, adorned with talismans, bone necklaces, mirrors strapped to their wrists. Some read cards. Others danced their fingers across bowls of water, or whispered into the ears of dolls stitched shut.

Henry stepped through the fence's cloth-draped archway.

A few heads turned. A Vanguard here was rare. He wasn't welcome, but he wasn't feared either.

He scanned the area, sharp eyes darting between tents.

A short man with tattoos spiraling around his head stepped forward from one of the central booths. He was dressed in silks that didn't match and wore a thin smile.

"Looking for answers?" the man asked, tilting his head. "Or permission to ask?"

"I'm here for a foretelling," Henry said simply.

"Lost love?"

"No," Henry replied. "Lost cat."

The man didn't laugh. He nodded solemnly, as if that were more dangerous than love.

"Five Gaus per sight," he said, motioning toward a tent with black embroidery. "You'll want her. She sees clearer than most. But clarity's a cost of its own."

Henry dropped five Gaus into the man's palm. The coins clinked like cold teeth.

Then he turned toward the black-stitched tent.

Every step forward felt heavier than it should.

Not from fear.

But from the feeling that something inside already knew his name.

The man with the tattooed scalp led Henry through the folds of thick black cloth that hung from the tent's entrance. The scent inside was immediate—charcoal, crushed berries, a trace of copper and old candle smoke. The air felt still, as if the tent was stitched into a different rhythm than the rest of the city.

The space wasn't extravagant—bare dirt floor, three wooden chairs, a small lacquered table, and a lantern hung low from a cord, its light flickering faintly with a blue tint.

Behind the table sat a man—not dressed in robes or dripping with charms like the others outside—but in a simple white shirt and brown pants, sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned. His hair was medium-length, dark and tucked behind his ears, with a single silver ring in one lobe. His skin was pale, and his eyes—an unsettling soft red—were focused, intelligent, and strangely exhausted.

He glanced up as Henry stepped in.

"You'll be next," he said, voice calm and dry, as if he'd just woken from a dream. "Have a seat."

Henry nodded silently and took the far chair, shifting slightly to remain in the shadows.

The man turned his attention back to the woman sitting across from him—a thin woman wrapped in faded lace, her cheeks tight and tired. Her hands trembled slightly over her lap.

"My name is Julius Constantine," the foreteller said softly, as if reciting a fact he didn't particularly care about. "Let's not waste time. What afflicts you?"

The woman gave a shuddering breath. "My husband. He's sick."

Julius tilted his head. "You came to me. Not a healer. Not a priest."

She looked down.

"…He's a bad man."

Julius said nothing.

She continued. "I didn't come for a cure. I came for a truth. A future. Something I can… prepare for."

His fingers tapped the wood once.

"I offer many kinds of foretellings. Which kind do you seek? Precise time, emotional consequence, spiritual alignment, karmic weight…?"

She looked up, eyes tired but sharp.

"Whichever gives me the most benefit."

Julius raised an eyebrow, but didn't judge. He reached to his side and opened a narrow wooden box. Inside were dozens of strange, glowing runes, each shaped like jagged stones but pulsing with color—some gold, some violet, some etched in lines that moved like ink suspended in oil.

He began to place them one by one on the table, carefully aligned in a spiral. A quiet tension filled the air.

The lantern flickered again.

"Don't speak," he murmured. "Let the intent guide."

His fingers moved slowly. The runes shimmered, vibrated softly. One turned crimson. Another turned pitch black. The spiral began to pull inward, drawing a draft through the room that caused the lantern to sway.

Then—

One rune shattered.

A quiet crack, like an eggshell giving way.

Julius blinked.

His brow furrowed for the first time.

"That's not supposed to happen…"

Henry leaned forward slightly.

The spiral shifted—runes changing direction, one glowing white-hot then dimming to ash.

The tent was filled with a sharp, strange smell—something like metal and cinnamon.

Julius's hands hovered over the symbols, brows tightening.

"There's interference. Something unnatural tangled in his thread. A past act, repeated enough to turn sacred time toxic."

He leaned in closer, whispering an incantation under his breath—not divine, but old. Street tongue. Wound-born.

Suddenly, the spiral stabilized.

The red-eyed man stared at the last rune—shaped like a dagger turned upside down, glowing faint green.

He exhaled slowly.

"Your husband," Julius said quietly, "will die. In the next seven days."

The woman's shoulders dropped. Not in grief.

In relief.

She didn't cry. She didn't deny it.

Instead, she gave a broken little laugh.

"Good," she whispered. "That bastard used to wake me up with matches near my skin. My daughter still flinches when the floor creaks. He doesn't need to rot in prison. He just needs to end."

Julius didn't interrupt her.

He just began collecting the runes, brushing the ash from the table.

"There's no price for honesty here," he said. "But the timing… comes with consequence."

She looked at him. "What kind?"

"His death may free you. But someone else will suffer for it. Balance doesn't wait for justice. It moves faster."

She stood slowly. "If it takes me, fine. If it takes him alone, better."

Julius nodded once. "Then may his shadow not follow you when it's done."

She dropped five Gaus on the table and walked out, not once looking at Henry.

The tent was quiet again.

Julius turned toward Henry now, eyes tired but still sharp.

"Now then… you lost someone too, didn't you?"

He looked him over with clinical detachment. "Or perhaps something that doesn't belong to the world to begin with."

The tent had cooled. The spiral of runes was gone. Only the quiet remained—like dust settling after an earthquake.

Henry leaned back in the wooden chair, elbows on his thighs, fingers locked together, gaze on the lantern swinging faintly overhead.

Julius, still seated opposite, took a long drink from a metal cup, the water glinting in the blue light. His red eyes flicked up over the rim, silently measuring Henry.

Then, abruptly—

"Right," Julius muttered to himself, lowering the cup. "Okay. Okay. Let's not… start this one weird."

He adjusted his chair slightly, scratching the back of his neck.

"…Do I just ask? Or is that too forward?"

Henry raised an eyebrow.

Julius cleared his throat, composing himself.

"You're here because something's missing. Not just physically. Something is… unaccounted for. Like a candle burned out mid-prayer."

Henry didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Julius straightened.

"All right. Let's do this the correct way."

From under the table, he drew out a small circular basin, its edge carved with markings worn smooth from use. He placed it gently between them and poured a few drops of thick black oil from a vial.

Then, he reached for a single rune—unlike the others from before. It was heavier. Cracked.

"The Karmic Thread," Julius said, softly. "We don't pull on it unless the problem is deeper than what's visible."

Henry's body stiffened slightly. A cold breeze seemed to slip into the tent, though the flaps were closed.

Julius placed the cracked rune in the center of the oil.

It pulsed.

Then bled.

The black oil twisted upward in strange tendrils, swirling silently in the air above the basin. Shapes began to form—not full, not clear. Blurred outlines. Shadows shifting between images.

A faint whispering began, but it wasn't sound.

It was feeling.

Julius's pupils narrowed. He looked both deeply focused… and visibly disturbed.

"…This isn't just a missing creature," he said slowly. "This is something… attached."

Henry felt his breath hitch as a sudden shiver climbed up his spine.

The whispering grew louder—but again, not through ears. Through memory. Through guilt.

Julius tilted his head, eyes locked on the writhing oil forms.

"There's a presence near you. And one tangled with what you're looking for."

He paused, leaning slightly closer to the vision.

"It's not just gone. It's hidden."

Henry leaned forward, voice low. "By what?"

Julius's lips parted to speak—then hesitated.

The oil twitched violently and splashed—just a drop—onto the table.

Julius sat back, breath catching.

"…The thread cuts itself when I chase it."

Henry frowned. "Meaning?"

Julius looked at him directly, eyes more alert now.

"It means someone—or something—doesn't want her found. And it's powerful enough to bend the thread. That takes more than magic."

A silence settled.

"What does it take?"

Julius slowly reached for a cloth and wiped the table, voice low, thoughtful.

"A will strong enough to rewrite what was fated. Or a price high enough to make fate blink."

He glanced up.

"Either way, Mr. Ford… you're walking toward something you're not ready for."

Henry didn't flinch. He nodded once.

Julius exhaled and leaned back again.

"That's only half the outcome," he murmured. "The other half… is still hiding."

The tension in the tent hadn't left—it simply shifted, settling under the skin like a subtle fever. Julius wiped his hands on his pants, the basin now empty and the runes silent.

Henry was still digesting the half-answer.

That something had hidden Mimi. That it had cut the karmic thread itself.

Then, as if the silence had loosened Julius's tongue—

He mumbled under his breath, almost forgetting Henry was there.

"Would be easier if he stayed…"

Henry looked up. "What?"

Julius blinked, then spoke with a sudden clarity that felt like it had already been rehearsed.

"You should join us."

Henry frowned. "Join who?"

Julius spread his hands, gesturing around the tent, to the murmuring camp outside.

"This. The camp. The undercurrent. The people who see beyond the paperwork and revolvers. You're not just looking for a cat, Ford. You're standing at the edge of something bigger, and you're already peering down."

Henry shook his head. "I'm not here to burn incense and chant mantras."

"Good," Julius grinned. "We don't do that either."

Henry paused. Then glanced once more at the runes. At the silence they'd left behind.

"…I'm not ready to join."

Julius nodded. "Didn't ask you to join a religion. Just asked if you'd show up."

Henry's eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he said:

"…Saturday and Wednesday."

Julius smiled. "That'll do."

Henry stood to leave, adjusting his coat.

But before he could step through the tent flap—

"Mr. Watcher."

Henry froze.

His breath caught.

Slowly, he turned back.

Julius was watching him—no smile now. Only focus. That same haunted calm from earlier. His voice was quieter this time, reverent, like speaking a name not meant for daylight.

"You… you walk with Watcher's weight in your shadow," Julius said. "Not now, not fully—but the thread around you hums with it."

"What does that mean?" Henry asked, cautiously.

Julius tilted his head. "It means fate already wrote you into places no man should go. And someone upstairs—or below—is watching what you'll do next."

He stood slowly, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt.

"I didn't mention it earlier… but I'm a Miracle Invoker."

Henry blinked.

"You're what?"

"Gambler Path. Route -3. The Oracle." Julius said it like it was normal, like reciting the weather. "I bargain with possibility. With things that shouldn't be seen, and sometimes see me back."

Henry didn't speak. He was listening with something deeper than his ears.

"I couldn't see Mimi's full path… but I felt her," Julius whispered. "She's tied to something that hasn't unfolded yet. There's still hope."

Just then—

The flap of the tent burst open as someone stumbled in, slightly out of breath, brushing past Henry with a soft grunt.

"Damn dust everywhere… someone's burning rosemary again out there."

He was tall, with dark blond hair swept lazily to one side, wearing a grey tunic beneath a deep blue cloak. His eyes were sharp—too sharp, like every word that came out of him had already been considered three times.

Julius brightened.

"Speak of fate's timing! Henry, meet someone dangerous."

He gestured. "Sebastian Marcel. Strategist Path, Route -4. The Dreamer."

Sebastian looked at Henry, offering a dry smile.

"So you're the one Julius won't shut up about."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that."

Sebastian's smile didn't fade. "You shouldn't. He sees too much. It's a curse and a comedy."

Then he stepped aside, as if silently inviting Henry deeper—not just into the tent, but into something else.

Paths were forming.

And Henry Ford had already stepped onto one.

The tent was quieter now, the outside noise of customers and wind muffled by the thick cloth and incense. The basin had been moved aside. Julius leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, while Sebastian stood near the wall, casually flipping a coin between his fingers—one that didn't reflect light quite right.

Henry remained still, eyes on both of them.

There was a tension between them—not hostility, but something unspoken. A current, as if all three recognized what the others might become.

Julius broke the silence first, a crooked grin on his face.

"So… should we pretend not to feel it, or get it over with?"

Sebastian flicked the coin one last time and caught it. He turned toward Henry, expression more serious now.

"I felt it the moment he stepped in. Subtle. Quiet. But it's there."

Henry's eyes narrowed. "Felt what?"

Julius tilted his head slightly. "You've got an Inventory, don't you?"

Henry didn't respond.

Sebastian stepped forward. "You didn't suppress your thaum. Not fully. It leaks in your breathing. The way you pause between questions. Most people radiate noise… but you—" he gestured vaguely, "—you watch. That's not instinct. That's training. Or… revelation."

Henry exhaled slowly, like a man realizing he'd been seen through a window he thought was shuttered.

"So this is normal for you two? Reading people like open books?"

"No," Julius said, leaning forward slightly. "Only Miracle Invokers. We feel each other if we're not hiding. That's how this system works. Routes have… resonance."

Sebastian added, "It's why Invokers like us avoid walking into churches or temples without masking. The old structures? They're tuned to detect thaumatic bleed. Even a whisper of miracle-light sets them off."

Henry's voice was flat. "Then why didn't you say something the moment I walked in?"

"Because you were fractured," Julius answered, tone gentler now. "Your thaum signature was smudged. Like someone tried to burn it out of you—or like you're only halfway on the Path."

"I wasn't sure if you were initiated," Sebastian said. "Until you sat there and didn't flinch when Julius invoked the Thread. A non-Invoker would've thrown up or passed out. You just… watched."

Henry said nothing for a moment.

Then: "I didn't come here to talk about my Path."

"You didn't," Julius agreed, "but that doesn't change what you are."

Henry stood, slowly.

"Let's just say I've had... experience. But I'm not calling on it unless I have to."

Sebastian gave a half-shrug. "That's fair. Some of us bury it. Some of us worship it. The rest?" He looked at Julius, who smiled like a man who'd long since stopped caring. "We dance with it."

Julius leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"So what is it, Henry? What's your Path?"

Henry didn't answer right away.

His eyes dimmed, then sharpened. Something old flickered behind them.

"…Mystic Path. Route -5."

Julius went still.

Sebastian's coin dropped from his hand, hitting the table with a dull thunk.

....

The sun had dimmed behind thick, gray clouds by the time Henry stepped out of the foretelling camp. The incense still clung to his coat, mixing with the city's breath—dust, metal, and distant blood.

The walk home was quiet.

But not peaceful.

Each step echoed just a little too sharply against the cobblestone. The corners of alleys felt deeper. The windows he passed—some were shuttered, but he could swear something watched through the cracks.

He didn't glance back.

Not once.

His fedora was pulled low, coat buttoned tight, hand brushing the revolver inside his belt—not out of habit this time, but need.

There was a pressure following him.

Not footsteps.

Not eyes.

Something more ancient. Something primal.

By the time he reached his neighborhood, the warmth had left the street. His house stood at the far corner of the block—plain, worn, his. But tonight, even it felt... off.

Henry paused outside the gate, his breath visible in the oddly chilled air.

He didn't move right away.

He was thinking.

Not about Zach. Not about the Vanguard. Not even about Julius or Sebastian.

He was thinking about Mimi.

And what Julius said.

"It's not just gone. It's hidden."

No trail. No body. No clue.

Only Jeena, frozen in fear.

And that strange thaumic pressure when Mimi kicked the ball. That flash of inhuman accuracy. That heat in the air. The way the wall trembled behind her.

Henry lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, even though he didn't want one.

The smoke steadied his nerves.

He stared at his door.

Something came to test her. Or take her. And whatever it is… it's not finished.

His thoughts wandered to the kittens—Jeena, still silent. Marsh, blissfully unaware.

They were small, fragile lives.

But they were his.

This wasn't just about finding Mimi anymore.

This was about protecting them—whatever it took. Whatever price he had to pay.

A gust of wind pushed his coat open slightly.

Henry stepped through the gate.

As he reached for the door handle, a sharp whisper of wind curled around his ear, almost like a voice—

"She is not yours anymore."

He turned, gun half-drawn.

But there was nothing.

Only the wind.

And the certainty, deep in his bones, that something was coming.