Miracleborn Saga

The shutters were drawn, and a dull amber light filtered through the curtain's edge as Henry stepped onto the wooden floor of his home. The oppressive heat of the afternoon clung to the walls, but inside, the air was still. Too still.

Jeena trotted by casually, her tail flicking in lazy arcs. She glanced up at Henry once—face blank, unbothered, like nothing had ever been wrong.

Henry didn't respond. He merely loosened the buttons of his coat, removed his gloves with practiced efficiency, and walked to the center of the room.

He knelt slowly.

And from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a small vial of bone dust, a piece of chalked quartz, and a thin silver thread wound into a circle.

Without a word, he began drawing.

A Palm Sigil—an archaic symbol from the buried schools of Sigilcraft, older even than the cults of southern Ghastwood. Long banned by most modern kingdoms. Yet still used in secret, for one purpose or another.

A flat circle.

Five forks.

A broken ring around the center.

He placed three black candles in precise triangular form inside the forks. One red. One black. One white.

They lit themselves before he even whispered the spell.

"Elthara mem saruun... Den'val issah... Den'val issah..."

The air in the room dropped. The floor hummed under him.

He stood, arms slightly outstretched, his shadow bent unnaturally behind him.

The sigil pulsed. Once. Twice.

Then—something cracked.

A sound like brittle stone splitting.

Henry's body seized. His mouth opened—but no sound came out.

And then—

He collapsed.

Dead weight onto the wooden floor.

The candles flickered violently.

Across the room, Jeena and Marsh blinked.

Jeena immediately bolted over. Marsh followed.

They didn't meow.

They didn't panic.

Instead, they started punching him.

Little soft paws battering his cheeks, nose, chest.

Marsh jumped on his chest and started to punch aggressively. Jeena headbutted his arm and clawed the floor beside him like a stubborn child waking a sleeping parent. Marsh leapt on his back and stomped—tail flicking.

Henry didn't wake.

Not even a twitch.

But beneath the sigil, the floor began to darken, a faint shimmer like ink spreading in water.

The Palm Sigil had found something.

....

There was no sound when Henry opened his eyes.

Only the absence of it.

He floated—not in air, not in water, but in some black medium, thicker than reality, weightless and full of pressure, like being swallowed by a thought too ancient to comprehend. He tried to move, but his body was not his own. It drifted forward, pulled toward some invisible current, like a puppet through an endless dark ocean.

Then, from the abyss ahead—visions began to form.

Not sights. Not dreams.

Hallucinations sharpened with purpose.

A child with no mouth screaming in perfect silence, her eyes replaced by writhing red ropes.

A table made of fused human hands clapping endlessly at nothing.

A man carving letters into his lungs with every breath.

A tree hung with skin, leaves twitching with whispers that sounded like Henry's own name.

Henry gasped, but no breath came. His voice was sealed, like someone else's throat was inside him.

Then—something beyond hallucination.

Geometries. Objects.

Shapes that broke the brain. Things he witnessed were not 3rd dimensional. Unimaginable structures entered in his body and went out to the future breaking each part of his soul.

Forms not meant to be seen.

Angles that bled.

Structures that existed beyond height, length, width, depth, and causality.

Henry saw time curve sideways.

He saw a cube devour itself from the inside and birth a cathedral made of nails and wings.

Then he saw the Path.

A road made of glass and broken teeth, stretching forward forever. At its end, a key. A symbol. A truth.

He reached toward it.

And the universe—

—shattered.

Cracks screamed across space like the splintering of a great celestial mirror. All color was swallowed into a spiral, and Henry was torn through it.

He landed with a sickening thud. Hard. Bone met stone. Skin peeled at the shoulder.

Everything burned.

He looked up.

Above him floated a massive blue star, pulsing like a wound stitched into the void.

And then—

It detonated.

SILENT.

But unstoppable.

A wave of fireless light tore through the cosmos, turning the void to ash, and the ash to flame, until even reality peeled away in sheets.

From the rift behind the light—

Shadows emerged.

Outer beings.

Deities without names.

Towering outlines made of nothing, just distortions in what was once space. They had no eyes, no mouths—but he knew they were watching him.

Judging him.

Measuring his soul like a pinned insect.

Henry tried to scream, but his own skin held his mouth shut.

And then—

He fell. Again.

When he struck ground, the pain was real.

So real.

Like broken ribs stitched with iron threads. He coughed violently, hands trembling.

He opened his eyes.

White marble.

A great hall. No windows. No sky.

Statues of angels. Everywhere.

But they were wrong.

Angels with wings torn out.

Faces melted into blank stone.

Some with eyes gouged open and bleeding black.

One kneeling, head bowed—decapitated, the spine still twitching in marble.

Another clutching its own screaming heart as it leaked glowing ink.

Henry vomited—

A spray of glowing blue ink, thick and luminous, oozing onto the floor and crawling away like it had a mind.

He staggered to his feet—

But he had no feet.

He looked down.

His legs were gone.

Yet he moved.

He ran, somehow, his upper body dragging across the floor, trailing bones behind like snakes. He passed mirrors where he saw himself peeling, teeth falling out like soft wax.

He blinked.

He was drowning now—

In a sea of worms.

Disgusting, translucent, finger-length creatures, coiling into his ears, mouth, eye sockets.

They sang.

They sang in Hejr, but the melody bled like knives across his mind.

He watched a version of himself giving birth through his spine.

He watched another version suspended from meat hooks, still smiling.

Another burned alive, yet whispering something beautiful, as if knowing a truth deeper than fire.

Every form of himself suffered.

Every one of them looked at him with pity.

Then—

A hand touched his shoulder.

Everything went still.

A faint voice—calm, genderless—echoed behind his skull.

"You opened your eye too early, Henry."

And then—

Black.

Pure. Total. Quiet.

Henry's body lay sprawled on his wooden floor in Prada.

Unconscious, twitching, lips smeared with ink.

The Palm Sigil still burned faintly on the floor.

The candles were almost out.

The kittens sat nearby in silence now, staring at him.

No longer punching.

They were waiting.

The silence was deafening.

Henry sat on the cold wooden floor, his back against the wall. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat that had dried and returned again. His mouth was parted slightly, but no sound came. He tried to speak—just a whisper, even a cough.

Nothing.

His voice was trapped inside him, like the scream he wanted to let out was sealed in a jar under his ribs.

He stared at the faintly glowing sigil, still pulsing on the floor. A dull rhythm, like the echo of a dying heart. The candles had burned to waxy puddles. The air stank of burnt salt, ink, and something wet and wrong.

He hadn't wanted to see any of that.

He just wanted to find Mimi. Just a clue. A trace.

Instead—

The visions returned unbidden. Blue star. Exploding light. Worms. Himself without legs. The museum of broken angels. The outer shadows watching without eyes.

"You opened your eye too early, Henry."

What the hell did that mean?

He clenched his fists.

It had been too much. Not a Ritual. Not even a clean vision. Just madness, poured into his brain like boiling ink.

Henry stood slowly, legs trembling.

He walked into his room like a ghost, reached for the fedora hat on the stand, and slowly lowered it onto his head. The shade of the brim brought some comfort—thin, but enough to hold the cracking pieces together.

No coat this time.

Just the shirt, gloves, and the hat.

He stepped out into the alley behind his building, where the breeze was lazy and warm with dust. A few birds chirped above the wires. Somewhere, a child laughed. Horses clopped on stone from blocks away.

Henry walked down the sidewalk slowly, hands in pockets, head lowered.

He needed to breathe.

He didn't know what that vision meant. Or what force had dragged him there. Maybe it was connected to Mimi. Maybe it was just punishment for trying to use a sigil meant for those who already knew the path.

But something had changed.

He could feel it in his spine, in the ringing silence of his throat, in the pressure behind his eyes.

He didn't just glimpse something forbidden.

He'd been seen back.

And the game had begun.

The sun was beginning to bleed across the rooftops of Prada, turning the stone market streets into molten bronze. Henry walked in silence, his footsteps trailing behind the noise of bartering, hawking, and the shuffle of carts.

Above him, the sky was slowly changing—no longer that bright and lifeless stretch it was during noon, but now tinged with streaks of deep amber and soft blue. Clouds like feathers stretched thin across the light. People moved around him with baskets, laughter, and shouts. But inside Henry's mind, the world remained a little too quiet.

He stared at the sky as he walked, lost in its gradual burning.

What did I see? Was that the fate of the world? Or just my own ending, waiting?

A faint bell chimed the fifth hour.

"Oi!"

A voice cracked into his thoughts. Henry turned instinctively—and blinked in surprise.

There stood Jeff Hardy, dressed in loose tan trousers and a faded olive tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His shirt was open at the collar, and he had a basket full of vegetables in one arm—tomatoes, a few onions, a stubborn carrot dangling out the side.

Henry opened his mouth, uncertain—

"Hey, look who it is! Mr. Fedora-and-gloom himself!" Jeff grinned, lifting the basket as if to toast him. "Didn't know you wandered the market like the rest of us poor mortals."

Henry tried to respond—

And this time, his voice worked.

He breathed in deeply and exhaled: "Jeff."

One word.

But it was real.

His voice was back.

"Good, you're not cursed," Jeff added, stepping closer. "You looked like shit the last time I saw you."

Henry chuckled, shaking his head. "I felt like it too."

He turned as if to walk past, giving a polite nod.

But Jeff hooked an arm around his shoulder, pulling him back in with exaggerated force.

"You're not going anywhere, oh no," he said. "You owe me a chat. I've been carrying this basket like some obedient husband while you're out brooding and looking like you saw God naked."

Henry smirked. "It wasn't God."

"Oh?"

"Something uglier."

"Then it probably was God," Jeff quipped, raising an eyebrow.

Henry laughed—and then shoved Jeff's arm off.

Jeff shoved him back.

And suddenly, like two unhinged brothers in the middle of a quiet market, they started to wrestle.

Henry tried to push Jeff aside, but Jeff pretended to fall, nearly dropping his basket.

"Oi! My vegetables, you psycho!"

"You pulled me like a street thug!"

"You look like a street thug!"

"I'm better dressed than you!"

"You're dressed like a funeral with shoes!"

That was it.

Jeff lunged, and Henry twisted, grabbing Jeff by the collar.

Jeff tried to trip him with a foot sweep.

Henry grabbed a beet from the basket and raised it like a weapon.

"Don't you dare," Jeff said, narrowing his eyes.

Henry threw it into the basket instead, smirking.

Jeff stared at him.

And then they both burst out laughing.

People passing by stared, confused—two grown men with uniforms and rank behaving like children in an alley behind the tomato stall.

The fight died.

The laughter remained.

They leaned against a cart now, catching breath, watching the sunset bleeding into evening. The bell tower tolled again in the distance.

Jeff passed Henry a green apple from his bag. Henry took it.

And they both chewed in peace.

The evening bled gold as Henry and Jeff walked along the quiet stretch of the Prada riverside, their steps slow, unhurried, the day's weight slowly melting from their shoulders.

The river Lonelith ran deep and gentle, its wide current shimmering like polished glass beneath the dying sun. Distant birds floated across its mirrored surface, their wings slicing through clouds reflected upside down. Willow trees leaned lazily over the banks, their long arms swaying in the breeze like dancers who'd forgotten the music but still remembered the steps.

Street lamps, carved in wrought iron and shaped like coiled vines, had begun to flicker awake, dotting the riverside in a soft amber glow. Somewhere nearby, the faint notes of a flute—someone practicing—drifted like dust on water.

Henry, hands tucked into his coat pockets, chewed idly on the green apple Jeff had given him. He wasn't smiling now, but the stiffness in his brow was gone.

Jeff carried his basket with one arm and occasionally tossed a pebble into the river with the other, watching it skip once or twice before vanishing.

"Funny," Jeff said, voice low and casual, "I used to think this river was the edge of the world."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You grew up near here?"

Jeff nodded. "Just east, past that broken mill tower. My old man used to bring me here when he wasn't too drunk. We'd fish. Or try to. Usually ended up throwing worms at each other."

Henry glanced at the water. "I didn't grow near a river. Just… dust. Wind. Hills. Military barracks."

He paused. "Used to lie on the training field and stare at the sky. Pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere."

Jeff chuckled. "You always this romantic?"

"No," Henry said dryly, "I just had no friends."

They both laughed softly.

The wind picked up, cool and clean. It rustled their coats and made the willow branches sigh. A boat passed under the nearby stone bridge, the oar sounds soft and rhythmic.

Henry stopped near the bank, looking at a stretch where the light made the water glow like molten gold. It shimmered across their faces.

"You ever think," he muttered, "that maybe all this… duty, ranks, sigils, gods… maybe we're just trying to fix something broken in ourselves?"

Jeff was quiet.

Then he tossed another stone.

"Yeah," he said. "Or trying to find the part of us that was never built in the first place."

Henry looked at him—surprised by the weight in those words.

Jeff didn't elaborate. Just smiled.

They stood like that a while longer.

The city behind them.

The current before them.

Two men, two pasts.

And a river that remembered all.

The laughter came slowly—flickering like the last light of day.

Henry leaned against the stone railing of the riverside path, watching the golden waves shimmer like dream threads across the Lonelith. Beside him, Jeff popped the last of a radish from his basket into his mouth and chewed with exaggerated drama.

"You know," Jeff said, stretching, "for someone who dresses like a haunted undertaker, you turned out alright."

Henry scoffed, eyes still on the river. "Says the man who buys vegetables like he's prepping for war. I swear I saw you threaten a beetroot."

"That beet had eyes. I stand by my actions."

Henry glanced at him, dryly amused. "How did you survive childhood with a mouth like that?"

Jeff grinned. "Charm. And an older sister who threw bricks at anyone who bullied me."

Henry chuckled. "Explains the brain damage."

Jeff nudged him. "Says the man who joined the Vanguard just to avoid paying rent."

"Wrong," Henry said. "I joined the Vanguard because I thought I could change something. Then I met people like you and lost hope."

"Ouch." Jeff clutched his chest. "You wound me."

"And here I thought your shirt was doing that."

They both laughed—full, genuine. A sound that echoed off the water and faded into the gentle hush of wind in the trees.

Jeff sat on the railing, kicking his feet lightly.

"I used to think people like you were made of stone," he said quietly. "The way you walk. The way you look at things, like they're always disappointing you."

Henry didn't respond immediately.

Then, soft and dry: "They usually are."

Silence. But not heavy.

Jeff reached into the basket, pulled out a slightly bruised apple, and handed it over.

"Then find something that doesn't disappoint you."

Henry stared at the apple.

He didn't take it at first.

But eventually, he did.

The apple was warm from the day.

They watched the sky melt into lavender, stars beginning to peek through the curtain of dusk. The river rolled on, slow and eternal, like the story of men who hurt, healed, laughed, and tried again.

As they turned to walk home, side by side, Jeff said with a grin,

"Promise me one thing, Henry."

"What?"

"When I die, make sure they bury me with my basket. It's seen more battle than I have."

Henry smiled faintly.

"I'll bury you in the basket."