Miracleborn Saga

Next day,

The morning sun hovered low, shrouded in the thin veil of mist that clung to the streets of Prada. The Vanguard Station's stone courtyard smelled of oil, paper, and the faint char of yesterday's gunpowder drills. Birds circled the high towers above, casting shadows like drifting shards across the uniformed silhouettes below.

Henry, in full black Vanguard cloak, hood down and top hat tucked under his arm, leaned against a rusted railing. His eyes were fixed on nothing—just the pale horizon beyond the buildings, where silence often said more than words.

Beside him, Jeff Hardy, coat collar up and scarf lazily knotted, sat on the edge of a bench, legs stretched and a spiced toast stick clamped between his teeth like a cigar. The reddish seasoning left a smudge at the corner of his lips.

Mary Janet stood nearby—straight posture, gloves immaculate, hair in its signature tight bun. Her arms were crossed, watching a cadet trip over a broom on the other side of the yard, then looking back with the sharp-eyed calculation of someone cataloging everything for later.

"You know," Jeff said through a half-chewed bite, "you really oughta try one of these, Ford. Clears your sinuses. Also your regrets."

"No thanks," Henry muttered, eyes still distant.

Mary's voice was crisp. "Keep shoving those down your throat, Hardy, and we'll be foretelling your heartburn."

Jeff smiled lazily. "I live dangerously."

Henry pushed off the railing. "We need to speak to Zach's mother."

Both looked at him now.

"She was listed as next-of-kin, but no one's questioned her since the initial report," Henry continued. "His father's death—two days before Zach's—was ruled a stroke, but no witness, no funeral rites. That's too clean."

Jeff flicked the last crumbs of his toast stick into a paper wrap and dusted his hands. "That death was filed so quietly, I nearly missed it. No trauma, no symptoms, no second opinion. Just a body, a seal, and a silence."

Mary stepped forward, her boots tapping sharply. "And that's where we start to unravel the thread."

Henry nodded. "Something's off with both of them. Zach was stable. Focused. He had plans. And if the father died before him..."

Jeff completed the thought, smirking faintly. "Then either grief killed the son, or something followed the father into the house."

They exchanged glances. The morning felt colder suddenly, despite the sun.

Mary tapped her coat pocket. "I already pulled the address. East Prada District. Widow lives alone now. Neighbors said they haven't seen her since the burial."

Jeff stretched and stood up, fixing his gloves. "Guess it's time we pay a visit. Toast sticks come later."

Henry adjusted the silver star on his hat. His fingers hesitated a moment—then tightened.

Whatever was hunting Zach's thread…

…wasn't finished yet.

....

The house stood at the quiet edge of East Prada—an aging stone building with ivy-wrapped ironwork and shutters that had been closed too long. It was the kind of place where silence wasn't just present—it had made a home.

Henry stood still for a moment on the porch before knocking. His eyes wandered to the second-story window. Curtains drawn. No movement. The air smelled like old tea leaves and damp soil.

Mary knocked softly.

After a minute, the door opened.

Madeline Culls, Zach's mother, was a woman worn by time—not by age. Her skin was pale, her eyes sunken but kind. She wore a shawl, sleeves rolled up, flour on her knuckles. The faint smell of bread clung to her.

Her gaze landed on Henry, and she smiled gently, as if something in her ribs finally exhaled.

"Henry," she whispered. "You've grown quiet."

Henry removed his hat. "I'm sorry we came unannounced."

She nodded. "You're always welcome here."

They entered quietly.

The drawing room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Books filled one side, photos another. A cracked family clock ticked without rhythm. She poured them tea—ceramic cups, mismatched. The house was lived in, but lonely.

Jeff and Mary sat across from her, polite but alert.

"Zach's father," Madeline said after a pause, "was an astronomer. Obsessed with the sky. Thought the stars spoke to us."

Henry frowned. "He taught Zach anything about… cosmology? Patterns?"

She nodded. "Too much, maybe. He'd pull Zach from bed when the moons aligned, show him books, or make him draw what he saw in dreams."

Jeff leaned in. "And his death…?"

Her eyes darkened.

"He came home one night, pale. Like he saw something through the telescope that frightened him. He wouldn't talk. Two days later, I found him slumped in the chair. Just… gone. Not a wrinkle on him. Not a drop of fear."

She stood, walked across the room, and opened a drawer in a rusted cabinet.

"This… was hidden. I only found it after Zach—"

Her voice faltered.

She returned with an old black-leather diary, bound by worn string.

Henry gently took it.

She looked at him. "He always trusted you. Both of them did."

Henry looked up, surprised.

Madeline smiled softly. "Zach looked up to you, Henry. Said you were calm when the world panicked. Said you could read people's pain better than books."

Mary sipped her tea in silence. Jeff studied the diary's spine.

Then, small footsteps ran down the hallway.

A girl—Zach's little sister, no more than seven—burst into the room, her hair messy, arms full of broken wooden toys. One of them had a missing arm; another, a shattered wheel.

"Mom!" she cried. "It's not working again! Zach said he'd fix them!"

The room froze.

She looked around, eyes wide. Then narrowed.

"Where's Zach?"

Silence.

Madeline's lips trembled, then steadied.

"Go back to your room, darling. I'll bring milk soon."

"But he promised—"

Her voice cracked, and her gaze turned to Henry.

The toys dropped from her arms with a dull thud.

"Uncle Henry, when is Zach coming back?"

Henry's throat closed.

He stared at her. At the stillness in her body. At the wide, glassy eyes that held no tears—only waiting. A hope that had frozen in time.

"I… I don't know yet," he said finally, kneeling.

"But I promise—next time I come, I'll play with you. We'll fix everything."

She blinked. Nodded. Picked up her toys and turned, her tiny shoulders oddly square, like she already knew what the world did to people who waited too long.

Madeline watched her go, lips trembling again.

"She won't cry," she whispered. "Not once. Just stares out the window some days, whispering to the toys. She doesn't say he's dead. She says… he's hiding."

Henry clutched the diary in his hand.

"I'll find out what he was hiding from," he said.

"And who's still looking for him."

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting soft orange shadows across the old wallpaper. The tea had gone lukewarm, but none of them reached to refill their cups. The air now held a quiet gravity—a stillness that came not from politeness, but from the slow, careful peeling of something personal.

Madeline sat with her hands folded tightly on her lap, eyes resting on the black-leather diary in Henry's hands.

Jeff leaned forward, breaking the silence gently.

"Mrs. Culls… we don't mean to press. But we'd like to ask more about your husband. Was he involved in anything… unusual? Outside his research?"

Madeline gave a tired smile. "Everything about Lionel was unusual. He never quite lived in the world the rest of us did."

Mary spoke next, voice calm, direct. "Did he have enemies, professionally or politically? Any academic rivals? Conflicts over funding?"

Madeline's brow furrowed, and she took a slow breath before answering.

"He never talked much about his colleagues. But I know his position at the observatory changed near the end. His funding was cut, even though his predictions were accurate. He had a falling out with the head astronomer—something about unauthorized access to the Seventh Mirror Telescope."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Why would that be an issue?"

Madeline looked at him. "Because it's off-limits to civilian projects. It's controlled by the Royal Thaumalogical Council. Lionel… he wasn't supposed to use it."

Mary and Jeff exchanged a quick glance.

"Did he?" Henry asked.

She nodded. "Twice, maybe more. He snuck in. Said he needed to 'watch a star that doesn't move.' I thought it was poetry. Now…"

She trailed off.

Jeff scribbled into a small notebook, muttering, "Seventh Mirror… non-rotating celestial bodies… unauthorized use."

Henry asked, "Was he in debt? Or under pressure?"

Madeline hesitated.

"There were whispers… He started keeping bags of coin in strange places. Behind the clock, under floorboards. I thought it was paranoia. But now I wonder—was he paying someone?"

Mary leaned forward slightly. "Any visits? Letters? Threats?"

"No letters," she said. "But one night, I woke up and he wasn't in bed. I looked out the window… and he was in the yard. Speaking to a man in a long coat. Couldn't see his face. Lionel was trembling when he came back in. Said it was just an old friend. But he couldn't sleep after that."

Henry tapped the diary slowly, his voice low.

"Was it the same week he died?"

She nodded.

"Yes. And the same week Zach started waking up at night. Screaming about a 'black horizon with no stars.'"

A long silence.

Mary finally spoke, voice colder now. "You should stay with someone else for a while, Mrs. Culls. Lock the windows. Don't open the door after dusk."

Jeff stood, brushing crumbs off his coat. "We'll look into the Observatory logs. See who Lionel spoke to. If someone came back… we'll find them."

Henry remained seated, eyes still on the diary.

He hadn't opened it yet.

But he could feel the weight inside. It wasn't ink.

Scene: "Vault of Forgotten Things"

The wind was picking up as the three left the quiet lane behind.

Henry, Mary, and Jeff walked the cobbled main road toward the Vanguard Station—cloaks rustling, boots echoing against stone. The sun was high, but the warmth had a strange distance to it, like it wasn't meant for them today.

Henry held the diary tucked under his arm. Its leather was cold despite the heat.

Locked shut.

And whatever was inside hadn't been opened in years.

Mary walked with steady posture, one hand in her coat pocket, the other resting lightly near her revolver. She studied the path ahead, jaw tense.

Jeff, more relaxed, strolled with hands behind his head, licking the corner of his lips where spice still lingered from earlier.

"I've seen cursed trinkets, corrupted bullets, and a mirror that showed people's last regrets," Jeff said with a grin. "But a dead astronomer's star diary? That's a first."

"It's locked," Henry muttered, fingers brushing the small keyhole embedded into the cover's metal clasp. "Nothing casual. Whatever's inside, Lionel didn't want anyone stumbling on it by accident."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "Or someone did stumble, and that's why he's gone."

Jeff whistled low. "Spooky thought."

Henry looked at him. "You've been with Vanguard longer. Artifact room ever dealt with things like this?"

Jeff chuckled. "A year in uniform. This'll be your first time stepping in that crypt. Not exactly open to just anyone, you know."

Mary blinked. " I think so. I've only been here since last month. Still waiting on access to half the archives."

"Guess today's our lucky day," Jeff said, waving a hand toward the gates as the Vanguard Station loomed into view—its iron fencing and stone tower marked by the silver star emblem glowing faintly in daylight.

—

Inside the station, the three descended past the second level, through an iron-grated door guarded by two silent, rifle-bearing officers. One scanned Henry's badge; the other unlocked the heavy door behind them.

It swung open with a groan like something waking.

The Artifact Room.

It was colder here. Below ground. The stone floor gleamed with ritual chalk lines and protective sigils. Lanterns lit themselves as they walked in, casting eerie glows against the high vault ceilings. Shelves lined the walls—each marked with numbers, glyphs, and hazard tags.

Crates, relics, cases sealed with runes. Swords that whispered. Bottles that rattled without movement. A broken mask suspended in glass with a plaque: "UNKNOWN ENTITY - DO NOT INTERACT."

"Damn…" Jeff muttered, his usual humor faded. "This place gives me shrine chills."

"Some of these objects date back before the city's founding," Mary said, her eyes scanning. "Half the clerks don't know what they do. The other half have gone blind trying."

A hooded archivist approached, quiet and faceless behind a thin silver veil.

Henry handed the diary forward, pointing to the lock.

"It hasn't been opened. May be thaum-sensitive. Possibly linked to a missing person and a coded star chart. Needs shielding and observation."

The archivist nodded once, holding the diary like it weighed far more than it should.

"Item will be sealed. Tag: Culls. Shelf Delta-17."

"Can we access it later?" Mary asked.

"With proper clearance," the archivist said softly. "And… protection."

They turned to leave. Jeff glanced back once at the shelves.

"First time in, and we already leave something behind," he muttered.

Henry didn't answer.

He was thinking about that diary. That lock.

And the fact that when he'd held it earlier…

....

The Document Archives were buried deeper beneath the Vanguard Station—three floors down, past reinforced vault doors and the endless hum of gas-lit lanterns that flickered with a tired, bureaucratic glow. It was a place where forgotten truths waited beneath layers of dust, ink, and sealed bureaucracy.

Henry and Mary descended the final staircase in silence, their boots tapping softly on worn stone steps.

A heavy brass plaque above the entry read:

> ARCHIVAL VAULT 9B: REGISTERED RECORDS / CLASS C-ALPHA THROUGH K-BETA

The door opened with a hiss of air. Inside, the vaults were colder. Rows upon rows of tall filing shelves stretched into the shadows, each crammed with folders, ledgers, birth logs, criminal records, property seals, and the kind of information no one ever wanted to need.

A thin, bespectacled man sat at the front desk in a dusty coat that hadn't been changed since the last war. He didn't even look up when Mary flashed her ID.

"Research," she said curtly.

"Row G-14. Family Histories. No drinks, no copies, no thaumic amplification," the man droned.

Henry stepped in first. The smell hit him instantly—old paper, oil, and mildew. A graveyard of the living, disguised in ink.

They walked through narrow aisles. Somewhere in the distance, a light buzzed. A drawer slammed.

Henry found the row. "Here."

Mary pulled a rusted stool over and began sifting through a tall set of records marked "Cull Family | East Prada Registry."

Birth certificates. Property tax stamps. Military service logs.

She frowned and handed Henry a folded page.

"Zachary Cull. Born 1321 AR. Enlisted Prada Military University. Top percentile. Applied for Thaumic Ethics course—rejected."

Henry studied the margins.

"Father listed as Lionel Cull. Occupation: Astrologer for Council of Peripheral Watch?" He looked up. "That's not the same as astronomer."

Mary narrowed her eyes. "Council of Peripheral Watch? They don't exist on public registry."

They flipped through more documents, this time under "Lionel Cull."

One stuck out. A transfer record from thirteen years ago:

> Council Transfer Form #XVII-3B

From: Astronomical Civic Department

To: Peripheral Oversight, Vault Project 'Ori's Eye'

Access Grade: Null-C-Black

Justification: Behavioral anomaly. Refuses debrief. Claims a celestial anomaly "watches back."

Note: Seal pending on Observatory Room-7 contamination. Family relocation approved.

Mary blinked. "He was forcibly moved. Transferred because of... mental degradation?"

Henry shook his head. "Not degradation. He saw something he wasn't meant to. And he wrote it down."

Mary paused, pulling one last folder from the lower shelf. Inside were death records.

"Lionel Cull. Cause of Death: Stroke. No second witness. Filed by internal physician. No autopsy."

Henry glanced over it, jaw tight. "Filed by the Council's own doctors. Covered, cleaned, and erased."

Mary looked back at the long row of dusty files.

"This wasn't suicide. This was containment."

They stood in silence.

Then Henry closed the last folder.

"Zach didn't just inherit trauma," he said. "He inherited a target."

And whatever his father saw in the stars—

—it never stopped watching.