Miracleborn Saga

The morning broke with no birdsong, only the long moan of a distant bell tower echoing through the stone alleys of Prada. The hour struck seven, and in his quiet home, Henry opened his eyes before the final toll faded. He didn't stir immediately—only lay still, watching the soft play of pale sunlight crawling across the wooden floor.

Today was a Prayer Day.

And Henry Ford had never liked Prayer Days.

He rose without hurry, washed his face in cold water, and stared at himself in the cracked mirror—unshaven jaw, tired eyes, shadows deeper than yesterday. With steady hands, he dressed:

A black formal Vanguard-issued coat, double-breasted and pressed. Beneath it, a pale vest and silver chainwatch. The gloves he slid on were tight around the knuckles. He finished with his top hat, worn low over his brow.

A gentleman, at least in appearance.

But inside, his mind was elsewhere.

He sat on the edge of the bed, rolling a coin across his gloved fingers.

Mimi.

Gone. No sign. Not even a scent.

He thought about Vain, the High Priest of the Church of Hazaya.

Should I ask him?

But the thought twisted something sour in his chest.

To beg for help over a missing cat—no, not a cat, his only real family—in front of a priest who blesses Kings and buries gods?

Would that be cowardice?

Henry stood, snatching the coin from the air, and slid it into his coat.

No decision made. Not yet.

....

He stepped out into the street, and the city was already buzzing with reverent motion.

Today, the Church of Hazaya would open its High Hall—something that happened only on rare celestial alignments. The pathway to the Church was already filling. People moved in droves. Silk-robed merchants, mud-booted pilgrims, nobles in perfumed capes, widows in black veils—all shuffling toward the white stone cathedral that rose above the city like a holy fang.

It was said the church was older than Prada itself.

Today, Henry would walk.

It was tradition—on Prayer Days, no man was to ride. All feet must touch the soil.

Red flags whipped from rooftops. Bells chimed rhythmically. Street vendors sold wax icons and cloth prayer seals. Guards in bronze kept watch at corners. Children chased each other, weaving through the crowd in laughter, unaware of the silence hovering in Henry's chest.

He passed a vendor shouting, "Candles for Fate! One Gaus to light the way!"

A monk offered ash for his forehead—Henry accepted it silently.

The stone path toward the Church shimmered faintly from recent blessings. The old marble was etched with names and prayers in dozens of languages.

He walked with hands behind his back, gloved fingers folding and unfolding.

From every kingdom, they came. More than could ever fit inside.

And still they came.

Henry's boots tapped against the sacred road, his shadow stretching longer as the sun climbed.

The twelve o'clock bell was still hours away.

But something in him stirred.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was duty. Maybe it was hope, foolish and flickering.

But maybe, just maybe…

He would speak to Vain today.

Maybe he would tell him:

"I lost something. And I'm afraid whatever took her… isn't done with me yet."

....

The plaza before the Church of Hazaya was crowded, yet heavy with silence. Hundreds had gathered, yet no one spoke louder than a whisper. It was the kind of hush born not from reverence alone—but from something older, deeper. A shared sense that the ground they stood on remembered things the people had forgotten.

The benches—long, cold, made of pale stone—stretched in neat rows, aligned to the church's white steps. Each one faced the grand structure as though staring into judgment itself.

Henry sat on a bench near the edge, alone, his coat drawn tightly around him. He deliberately avoided the center rows, where most of the noblewomen sat. Their silhouettes were solemn, wrapped in dark, elegant black gowns, faces hidden beneath fine veils of lace and ash-colored silk. Every motion was graceful, minimal—prayer beads clinked gently in gloved fingers.

Henry kept his hat low, gloves clasped together on his lap. He didn't want attention. Didn't want the perfume or the whispers.

He wasn't here to be seen.

He was here to listen.

And then... the air changed.

From behind the great cathedral doors, a soft gong echoed once.

The nuns stepped out first—six of them, silent as the dead, dressed in cream and coal robes, their eyes lowered. They formed a half-circle at the foot of the white platform. Not a stage. Not raised for drama.

Just a single step up. A platform of humility.

From the inner sanctum, a man emerged, walking slowly with a heavy, open book cradled in both hands.

He wore a white robe, cut simply but glowing faintly in the light. Around his neck, a chain of ashwood and bone, and on his fingers, rings that bore the Twelve Faces of Truth.

The Church Father.

He stopped on the platform and raised his eyes—not high, not boastful. His gaze never lifted above the heads of the front row.

But even Henry, from the edge of the plaza, felt it.

That cold stillness.

That ancient pull, like a secret being read aloud beneath your skin.

Father began to speak. Not with volume. But with weight.

"Truth," he said, voice measured, soft. "Is not gentle. It is not your friend. It does not kiss your wounds nor spare your children."

"Truth is cruel. It waits beneath your comfort. It feeds beneath your denial. It eats what you protect."

"And yet, we worship it. Why?"

"Because without it, we are animals pretending to be human. Puppets tugged by sweet lies. Because only when pain strips us bare, does something sacred remain."

His hands opened the book, but he did not read.

"To be honest is not to confess. It is to live without masks, even when no one sees your face."

"To suffer is not punishment. It is a mirror. You must look into it."

"To pray," he said, glancing out across the veil-covered women, "is not to be heard."

"It is to choose silence in a world that never listens."

The crowd was unmoving.

Not a cough. Not a fidget.

Even Henry found himself leaning forward slightly—gripping his gloves without realizing.

Vain's voice lowered further.

"You came here to beg. For forgiveness. For luck. For the return of what you've lost."

" But the divine does not give."

"It only... responds."

And then he closed the book.

No benediction.

No final blessing.

The silence afterward was louder than any storm.

Henry remained seated.

His thoughts burned with Mimi. With Zach. With the diary beneath stone and lock.

He didn't speak. He didn't pray.

But he understood something—

Father hadn't come to comfort them. He came to warn them.

A soft wind swirled through the empty corridor of the ruined chapel, dust dancing like motes of memory in the shafts of pale morning light. The candles were half-burnt, their wax pooled in copper bowls marked with ash. The scent of old myrrh and dried blood clung to the stones.

Father stood at the altar—alone.

He was without his mask today, face half in shadow, eyes closed. In his hands, the Book of Threads lay open, its parchment alive with ink that shimmered faintly, as if it remembered being written under starlight.

He drew a slow breath.

And then he began to speak.

The words came not in the language of Prada, nor in any tongue spoken by man or beast.

They came in Hejr.

A language that had no script until the gods wept.

A language that carried the sound of fire cracking through bone, and the sorrow of unborn time.

> "Velas o'hranin, eshta dii farah...

Emirel na'zhen kaat oulun-tha.

Dren varuh, dren tanin—dren, dren, dren.

Siimeth kalh."

("Let silence cover the eyes of the lost...

The stars fall not by death, but by forgetting.

Not mercy, not wrath—just... just... just.

This is judgment.")

The words rang through the stone, echoing off the bones of forgotten saints. The air rippled with thaumic resonance, a soft tremble beneath the skin of reality itself.

> "Fayin haru el-venzh,

Solmir eidath ulor nai.

Aamen resh'tul, arvesa khir,

Onath dy'rei ith suulaan."

("The hands that reach through sorrow,

Are not always seeking comfort.

Some seek to burn the thread,

To silence the name of what should never return.")

The verses flowed, smooth and terrible, like a knife moving through silk.

Father's voice never rose above a whisper, yet it filled the chapel like thunder, his cadence ancient, impossible to fake.

He closed his eyes as the final passage spilled from his tongue:

> "Saa devrah el-Nuvel thren,

Kurima zhal, kurima zhal...

Undah-faresh, shol-ni."

("I call upon the Name Before Breath,

Wake the dreamer, wake the dreamer...

Let the gate open, let the fire speak.

Their blood is not forgotten.")

When the words ended, silence returned.

But it was not peace.

It was the kind of silence that waited, teeth-bared and patient, for something to answer back.

Father closed the book.

He stepped down from the altar, his robe brushing the candlelight, leaving a cold wake behind him. His eyes were still distant, almost lost.

Whatever he had just called...

…was listening.

The bells tolled once—deep and solemn.

And then the ritual began.

Beneath the open sky before the grand white façade of the Church of Hazaya, hundreds had gathered. The veiled women remained seated on the stone benches—still as statues, their hands folded in laps or resting on black books of threadbare prayers. Their faces, hidden behind lace, turned slightly to the front, eyes dimly visible beneath shadow.

The men stood, forming rows along the outer ring of the plaza. Cloaks pulled tight, gloves removed. Each of them faced forward with their heads bowed. No voice was raised. Not even the wind dared speak now.

Only the echo of Father's footsteps broke the silence as he walked once around the circle—his robe sweeping ash into the air with each step.

At the altar's edge, he turned.

And spoke in Hejr, once more.

"Imiren to'rel sai,

Amba'shar nu shol—

( Let all burden be known to the flame.)

Then he lowered his gaze, and the prayer acts began.

The men each stepped forward, one by one, and placed their gloved right hand against their own chest, over the heart. A pause. Then they lowered the hand to the ground, touching stone—returning sin to the dust.

The women, still seated, only bowed their heads once, lips moving silently beneath their veils. The prayer of humility was not spoken aloud—it was offered within.

Father raised his arms again, voice resonant but never loud:

"Kahr dulen eshtar—

( Not all pain is punishment.

Some is the proof of passage. )

A murmur rippled through the air.

The men now turned eastward, facing the old mountain range where the first "Watcher" was once buried, according to the old myths. They raised both hands now, fingers stretched open toward the invisible horizon, holding them there until the numbness bit into the wrists.

It was tradition—to offer your reach, even when there was no answer.

Father's voice did not falter. He spoke the third and final verse—one reserved only for Days of Full Prayer.

"Ei'dalh arama " ( the fate you swallow

Will one day speak your name back in thunder.

Do not tremble when it does.

That, too, is holy. )

The last act was simple.

Father lowered his arms.

All the men bowed.

And the women, in unison, raised one hand—palm upward. Not in greeting. But in offering.

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was charged, sacred.

The kind that made blood slow in the veins and bones feel older than they were.

And then—slowly, quietly—people began to leave.

No applause. No music.

Just the sound of footsteps on stone, children clinging to mother's veils, old men walking slowly with canes.

Henry remained still for a moment longer, hands behind his back, hat low. He hadn't prayed aloud.

But he had listened.

And somehow… he felt as though something had listened back.

The high bronze doors of the Church of Hazaya stood open, creaking softly as the afternoon wind swirled through the marble corridors. The prayer ceremony outside had ended, but inside, the church remained alive with quiet motion—with people lingering, wandering, wishing.

Henry stepped past the stone threshold, his boots echoing softly against the polished black floor. The inside of the church felt like stepping underwater—the air thick with incense and old, ancient weight. Light filtered in through colored glass, staining the floor with reds, golds, and twilight blues.

He took off his top hat, holding it respectfully by his side.

The high dome above bore a single fresco—an eye within a broken wheel, painted in bone-white and ink black. It watched from every angle, unmoving, eternal.

This was not a place of comfort.

It was a place of truth.

And truth, as the old texts warned, didn't love anyone.

Around Henry, a dozen others remained in the vast hall. Some knelt on the marble tiles, hands clasped in silent prayer. Others lit long, thin candles in brass bowls, placing tokens beneath: bone rings, locks of hair, letters sealed in wax. A few stood before the ancient statue of Fate—the veiled figure with six locked mouths and open hands—making wishes they would never speak aloud.

Henry glanced to the sides.

There were people of many nations here today. The cloaks, the jewelry, the way they bowed or turned their faces in a slightly different direction—it marked them.

Ordinarily, they would not be allowed to invoke the God of this church.

But today was different.

Prayer Day.

The holy calendar marked this day for Tanhzil, the name of the one the God of Fate listened to most.

So on this day, and this day only, outsiders were permitted to make one request.

No kneeling, no chanting. Just a wish.

Some whispered theirs with tears in their throats.

Others, with trembling pride.

A man from a far-off kingdom placed a small dagger before the altar and closed his eyes.

A young girl pressed her face to the stone floor, whispering the name of a lost brother.

Henry walked slowly down the center aisle, passing pews where children clutched their mothers' robes, priests offered silent nods to those still waiting, and a blind monk sat cross-legged near a fountain of black water, fingers counting beads worn smooth by grief.

When Henry reached the fourth pillar, he stopped.

He didn't kneel.

He didn't close his eyes.

He just stood there, staring at the hands of the veiled statue, open as if in invitation, or judgment.

He could feel the weight of it.

The kind of power that didn't scream. The kind that remembered everything.

He thought of Mimi, of that sudden absence, of the air that had gone still the moment she disappeared.

He thought of Zach, the empty chair at the university, the scream that came from beyond what eyes could see.

He didn't speak aloud.

But deep in his chest, he wished.

Not for safety. Not even for salvation.

But for truth.

Whatever the cost.

And as he turned to leave, a single sound echoed behind him—

—a drop of water, falling into the offering bowl.

Yet no water had been placed there and Henry didn't look back.

....

The old hall behind the prayer chambers was hidden beneath a vaulted stone arch, its entry sealed behind a thick ironwood door. Most who came to the Church of Hazaya never saw it—never even knew it existed.

Henry stepped through, the echoes of his boots swallowed by the thick red carpet lining the marble floor. The moment he entered, he paused.

The air was warm, but not welcoming. The chandeliers above—hung with amber glass and chains of silver bones—cast a quiet glow over the vast wooden table in the center of the room. Its polished surface bore old burn marks and knife scratches, signs of conversations that had once burned hotter than words.

The room was almost empty—almost.

At the far end, seated beneath the dimmest edge of the chandelier's reach, were Father, Roze Fildart, and the boy called Allen.

Today, Roze and Allen were absent in the prayer. They belong from another religion. Today was not there Prayer Day.

They were already eating.

Thick, seared steaks rested on ceramic plates, blood and spices soaking into fresh bread. The aroma of roasted garlic, oil, and wild herbs hung in the air.

Allen, golden-haired and sullen-eyed, barely acknowledged Henry's presence. He cut his food with the detached precision of someone trained to kill without flinching.

Roze looked up with a casual grin, lips painted dark crimson, eyes like polished amber.

"Well, look who finally showed," she said, pushing a chair out with her foot. "The stray Vanguard."

Henry closed the gate behind him with a metallic click, locking it by habit.

Father, seated at the head of the table, turned to him slowly.

His robe was cleaner than the morning, but still bore dry stains beneath the sleeves. A single candle burned beside his plate—untouched.

"Henry," Father said calmly. "Welcome. Sit with us."

Henry approached, hanging his coat across the back of a chair, his gloves placed carefully beside the plate.

"What is this?" he asked, sitting down. "An after-prayer supper?"

"No," Father replied. "It's a gathering. A pact."

Allen didn't raise his head, but Roze leaned back and stretched her legs.

"From now on," she said, twirling her fork, "we meet every Monday. After the noon prayers. This hall will be our table."

"Our table," Father repeated. "For truth. For suspicion. For planning."

"And for food," Allen muttered dryly.

Henry glanced between them. "What's the point?"

Father's eyes narrowed—not in warning, but understanding.

"Because we are all touched, in one way or another, by what stirs beyond the veil. You know this, even if you haven't said it aloud yet."

Roze tilted her head. "Besides, you're one of us now. You heard the verse. You walked the steps. And... you lost something. Something important."

Henry's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked down to the steak. He wasn't hungry, not really. But he took the knife and cut a piece anyway.

"I'm not good with meetings."

"Neither are we," Roze said.

"But we come," Father added. "Because the storm will not wait."

As the candle flickered gently beside them, the four sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the clinking of silverware, and the low thrum of old stone holding breath.

Outside, the Church of Hazaya loomed over Prada.

Inside this hall, something was beginning.

The meal had settled into quiet murmurs, the blood of roasted meat staining napkins and tongues. Steam curled from half-drunk mugs. Roze sipped wine lazily, her head tilted toward the candlelight, while Allen, half-asleep in his seat, had begun counting knife marks on the table like stars in an unfamiliar sky.

Henry, still tense beneath his gentleman's poise, leaned forward and looked at Father, whose face was unreadable beneath the shadow of the flickering chandelier.

"Father," Henry said slowly, "what… is the God of Fate?"

The table stilled for a beat.

Roze arched an eyebrow, interested. Allen didn't move. Only Father shifted his gaze slightly to meet Henry's, those tired yet gleaming eyes like wells of burnt parchment and soot.

But he said nothing.

Not for a long moment.

Then, "Nothing much," Father whispered.

The answer was so empty it felt like it had weight.

Henry's mouth twitched—half irritation, half suspicion. He thought of that sack—that day, behind the building, the trail of blood, the Epic Creature thrown into Gascoigne's Well. He thought to press the question again.

But something in him refused to push it here. In front of the others.

No. He would ask alone.

Later.

Before the silence turned awkward, Roze leaned in, her arm casually brushing Henry's.

"You've been dragging that tail behind your coat all week, Henry," she said with a smirk that softened into warmth. "Don't burn it out this early. You remind me of my little brother. He used to breathe like the world was always about to stab him."

Henry glanced at her, startled by the maternal tone. She smiled again—not flirtatious, but genuinely protective. There was something strong behind her eyes. A quiet kindness rarely spoken aloud.

Just then, Father raised a small scroll wrapped in dark binding cloth and slid it across the table to her.

"A Ritual," he said simply. "For your progression."

Roze took it gently, hands respectful despite her usual bluntness. "Thank you," she said, more sincere than before. "Though I'll need help refining it. There's an echo I can't harmonize. I think I misaligned the second invocation verse."

"You did," Father said. "I'll correct it with you tonight. The archetypal bleed was interfering."

Henry squinted at the exchange. "Ritual?"

Father nodded. "Ah. You've only just begun to see the lattice of the Routes."

He leaned back, folding his arms as if preparing a lecture that had waited patiently in the back of his mind.

"Miracle Invokers don't level up like swordsmen or arcanists, Henry. Your strength comes in Tiers, shaped by how deeply you understand and merge with your own Route. "

He held up his hand, fingers opening one by one.

"There are five tiers."

1. Surface

"This is the novice state. You know the abilities of your route—the labels, the moves. But you're just using them as given. You understand little of the route's deeper nature."

2. Methodical

"You begin to comprehend the internal logic of your Path. Why it grants certain effects. How to manipulate combos, conditions, and power synergies. This is when most Invokers become dangerous."

3. Thematic

"Your power begins to shape around your mindset, beliefs, even trauma. The route bends toward you. Your style, your theme, becomes woven into the Miracle's expression. A Gambler might start using misdirection or tension as fuel. A Warrior might manifest memories as weapons."

4. Archetype

"The rare ones. You no longer just use powers—you fuse them. Mold them. Create Relics or autonomous powers unique to you. Your route becomes a personalized myth."

5. Lawyer

"The final boundary. You can bend or rewrite the fundamental law of your route. If your Path revolved around dreams, you may now command what can and cannot be dreamed. If your route governs prediction, you might deny fate altogether—or claim ownership of timelines."

Henry's mouth was dry. "And… the Ritual?"

Father continued:

"To advance from one tier to the next, you need Rituals. Each Route has a cosmic index—a list of five known rituals scattered across planes, hidden in books, tombs, temples, or worse."

"These aren't spells. They are anchors, each one tuning your soul deeper into the logic of your route."

"One Ritual, one Tier."

"But it must be the correct ritual—the one indexed for your Route. A misaligned ritual can burn out your abilities. Or worse—make your route collapse inwards. We call those cases… 'Nullfall.'"

Henry clenched his jaw. "So if I want to grow, I have to hunt these down?"

Roze nodded. "And they don't like being found."

Father lifted a hand.

"But be aware, for Routes –4 to –2, only the first three tiers are mandatory. The fourth and fifth are optional. Many fall at Thematic. Fewer reach Archetype. And Lawyers? We don't speak their names aloud."

Henry exhaled. The room felt denser. The word "Ritual" now had a weight, like a crown you hadn't earned yet but would bleed trying to.

He glanced at Roze, who rolled the scroll gently back into her coat, and at Father—whose eyes held something more ancient than knowledge.

He wondered quietly...

How many Rituals had Father completed?

And what price did each one take?

Henry leaned forward slightly, his voice low but firm.

"What about the Mystic Path—Route –4? The Peer. What are its rituals like?"

Father glanced at him with mild interest, then exhaled through his nose, folding his hands together on the table. A flicker of recognition passed in Roze's eyes—subtle, but real.

"I walk The Peer," Father admitted, as if stating the time.

"You?" Henry asked.

Father nodded. "And yes, I've collected the rituals. At least the ones you can reach without collapsing your mind."

He raised a finger and began to list them—succinct, without embellishment.

Ritual I — Midnight Companion

( Need to make anyone your midnight companion but be sure he must face the terrors that he will. )

Ritual II — The Inverted Bell

(A brass bell buried beneath the abandoned watchtower of Larrem. It rings without sound. You must hold it during midnight silence.)

Ritual III — Three Dried Tongues in a Red Box

(Carried by a mute beggar in Morhat. You must buy the box, but the tongues cannot be tasted. Only listened to.)

Ritual IV — Ashen Ledger of the First Betrayer

(Held in the banned archive of the Merchant's Guild. Not to be read. Only signed.)

Ritual V — A Conversation with Yourself in a Locked Room

(You'll know when it begins. It does not involve another person.)

Father looked at Henry, eyes half-lidded.

"Some of these will come to you naturally. Others... you'll have to notice before you remember you're even searching."

He said no more.

The candle flickered once and went out.

Father's eyes lingered on Henry's face, steady and unyielding.

"I can only guide Roze in refining the Rituals she has," he said quietly. "But finding them… that is yours alone."

Henry nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of the truth. No one could hand him these keys; they must be earned, hunted, claimed by will and fate.

His mind drifted back to the list Father had shared. The objects, the places, the strange demands. One phrase echoed louder than the rest:

"A Conversation with Yourself in a Locked Room."

He thought about the "midnight companion" ritual he'd heard whispered about in the camp—the one some said appeared only when the time was right, to aid the fledgling Invoker.

Was this ritual meant for him?

Or was it a test?

The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across the worn table, but Henry's eyes were distant, already walking a path he had no choice but to follow—alone.

.....

The great bronze gate of the Church closed behind him with a deep, final thud. Henry stepped onto the sun-drenched stone street, the heat pressing down like a slow hand. The shadows were short and sharp, carved by the blinding white light of the high afternoon sun.

He pulled his silver-chained pocket clock from inside his coat, flipping it open with a soft click.

2:17 PM.

The hands ticked lazily, etched against a mother-of-pearl face that shimmered faintly.

He exhaled.

Time had slipped like dust between the pages of the morning.

His coat clung to his back with sweat, the heat settling into his bones despite the church's cold air still lingering faintly inside him. Somewhere nearby, a distant bell tolled, and the city of Prada groaned beneath the weight of the day.

He adjusted his gloves and walked on—past narrow alleys, along stone-laced footpaths, and through plaza corners crowded with sleeping dogs and melting candles.

The thought of home stirred nothing in him. Just a place. A place where the kittens were. Where Mimi had been.

His stomach grumbled—low and rough like a dying engine.

He hadn't noticed until now. It had been hours since the prayer. Hours since the table. He'd eaten, yes—a steak, half-cold and barely chewed, swallowed between questions and confessions in the meeting hall.

But it felt far away now. Distant. Unreal.

Henry wiped his brow with a folded cloth, eyes narrowing under his hat brim as he turned onto his block. The door to his home stood ahead, still and shaded, untouched by any wind.

As he stepped closer, he muttered under his breath:

"Too damn hot to think."

But he knew his mind wouldn't rest. Not today.

Not with Rituals, Fate, and watchers clawing just behind the veil.