Miracleborn Saga

The next morning came with the soft gray of overcast skies, blanketing Prada in a subdued hush. No rain—just that weight in the air, like the city was holding its breath.

In the side courtyard behind the Vanguard Station, near a bench shaded by a tall iron lamp and a leaning willow, Henry, Mary, and Jeff stood in partial circle. Their coats caught bits of breeze; the clang of morning drills could be heard distantly from the west wing.

Henry leaned against the bench railing, arms crossed.

Jeff, as always, had something edible in hand—this time, the end of a Toast Stick half-burnt from the bottom. He wasn't really eating it. Just chewing at the edge while listening.

Mary stood straight, arms behind her back, the standard-issue Vanguard folder tucked under one elbow. Her mouth was neutral, eyes sharp.

"…So we know Zach's father died two days before him. We know he was an astronomer," Henry said, calmly. "But nothing solid links that to his son's death."

"Yet," Mary added.

Jeff shrugged, crumbs falling unnoticed. "Still odd though, isn't it? Guy stares at stars his whole life, dies mysteriously, then the son ends up dead without leaving a mark? Doesn't smell like coincidence."

Henry nodded. "I agree. And that diary—the one we locked up in Artifact—must've meant something if the father was hiding it."

Mary's fingers tapped once on the folder she held. "I did some reading last night. The late father, Isaac Thornell—he'd received three censored communications from the Celestial Academy. All redacted by church-affiliated archivists. No public access."

Jeff squinted. "Let me guess—related to constellations not mapped in public star charts?"

Mary nodded.

"Probably the Outer Cones," Henry said under his breath.

Mary looked at him, but didn't speak. She didn't need to.

Jeff exhaled. "We're walking blind in a storm."

"We're always blind," Henry replied. "Some of us just learn to listen better."

A moment passed in silence. The wind picked up slightly, brushing Mary's hair across her cheek.

Jeff broke the quiet. "Still weird to think Zach offed himself."

"He didn't," Henry said without hesitation.

Jeff looked over.

"Too calculated," Henry added. "Too clean. No fear. No panic. Just silence."

Mary spoke then, slow and low. "He knew something. And someone made sure he took it with him."

The three stood for a moment, letting that thought hang.

No more jokes. No more crumbs.

Just quiet understanding between three uniforms beneath the silent gray sky.

They had a trail now.

Faint—but real.

"Think about it," Jeff said, lowering his voice and glancing sideways. "That diary—Zach's father didn't just scribble down the names of stars. He buried it, didn't he? Wrapped it in a cloak like a corpse. Locked it. We're not dealing with poetry. Something's inside it. Something someone else might want."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "You think someone will come after it?"

Mary, arms still behind her back, gave a small nod. "Or already has."

A moment passed. The breeze tickled the back of Henry's neck—strangely warm for a cloudy morning.

Then… they heard it.

Screams.

From the east side of the plaza.

Then another.

Then many.

A ripple of panic cracked through the once-calm hum of the morning.

People running. Dozens of them. All in the same direction.

Mothers clutching children. Vendors abandoning their carts.

A man shoved past Henry, wild-eyed, yelling something incoherent.

Jeff frowned, stepping forward, "What the hell—?"

Then they saw it.

Lurching forms at the far end of the road.

Figures with broken gaits. Skin sloughing from faces.

Clothes half-ripped, eyes glowing with pale hunger.

Zombies.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Henry's heartbeat kicked like a drum.

Mary snapped into motion immediately. "Weapons. Now."

Henry pulled his revolver without thought. Jeff dropped the toast stick and grabbed the dagger at his waist.

But there wasn't time to fight them all. They had to move.

A scream pierced above the rest.

An old woman—caught in the open street, limping near a broken fruit stand. The wave of corpses was coming straight toward her.

"Henry!" Jeff barked.

Without hesitation, the three darted forward into the chaos.

Henry fired twice, two headshots—one walker dropped like stone, another stumbled back. Mary swept her arm in a clean arc, cutting a zombie's throat open with her shortblade as she reached the old woman.

Jeff grabbed her.

"Hold on to me, ma'am!" he shouted, scooping her into a strong grip against his back.

"Don't look behind you!" Henry yelled as he ducked and shot again, the sound cracking through the air like thunder. "We have to go—now!"

They ran.

The world had become a blur—shouts, moans, the slap of feet against wet stone. People pushed past them in terror. The zombies were closing in fast behind.

Mary cut a fallen stand in their path, blocking a side alley. It wouldn't hold for long—but every second mattered.

Jeff gritted his teeth. "The station's too far!"

Henry's voice came tight and sharp. "South ridge—there's a barricade checkpoint. It's closer!"

The woman clung to Jeff's back, murmuring a prayer, tears running down her wrinkled face.

And behind them—the dead kept coming.

Groaning. Hissing.

Hunger on legs.

Henry looked over his shoulder as they ran.

Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

Their numbers were growing.

The cold hand of memory clawed at his mind—Zach's face. The diary. The stars.

Were they connected?

And louder than any moan, louder than the thundering blood in his head—

was one thought:

Something opened the door to this. And it's only just begun.

They didn't stop running.

Not even to breathe.

The world had turned into a blur of panic and decay, but Jeff's steps didn't slow.

The old woman on his back clung to him like she was holding onto life itself, whispering incomprehensible thanks, her arms trembling. Her sobs muffled into the back of his jacket as he turned a corner sharply, dodging shattered crates and overturned fruit baskets.

He found it—a Safe House, its markings faint and half-buried in grime, but still there—a double-circle sigil etched into the cornerstone, known only to Vanguards and city defense lines.

The door had been barricaded.

No time.

Jeff gritted his teeth, readjusted the old woman, and leapt, gripping the narrow sill of the second-story window. With strength fueled by urgency and raw instinct, he pulled himself up and swung a leg over.

The window shattered as he kicked it open, shards spraying inwards.

They were in. Safe. For now.

The woman collapsed into a chair inside, sobbing louder now, relief cutting through her terror. Jeff knelt to her level, placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Stay here. No one else gets in. Not even me unless I say your name, alright?"

She nodded through tears.

Jeff turned and launched himself back out the window, landing with a roll, then darted off toward Vanguard Station, cloak snapping behind him.

Elsewhere—

Henry and Mary ducked into a narrow alleyway, the bricks slick with damp moss, the smell of rot and gunpowder heavy in the air.

A faint groan echoed from nearby streets.

Mary pressed her back to the wall, blade in hand, gaze locked on the alley's mouth. "They're swarming the north sector. We can't stay long."

Henry nodded once but said nothing.

His eyes, however, flicked upward.

The rooftops were silent.

And just for a second, he closed his eyes—

and let it wake.

No spells. No glyphs. No words.

Just a quiet pulse, like a second heartbeat.

And then—

The feathers returned.

Dozens of them.

Violet aura. Silent. Ethereal.

They surrounded his body in a slow orbit, invisible to normal sight—to Mary's sight.

They shielded him from rain, dust, debris. They lifted him just slightly—half an inch above the ground, maybe more. Not enough to be noticed.

Enough to matter.

He stepped forward, gliding just above a loose shard of glass without sound.

Mary didn't even flinch.

He looked around a corner without peeking physically, letting the feathers relay the subtle shift in wind pressure and presence. It was like the air itself whispered what lay beyond.

Feather… Feather. You're not just flight. You're sight. You're grace itself.

He glanced back at Mary.

She stood firm—calm but alert, her silhouette sharp even in this chaos. She had no idea what was dancing around Henry now.

And Henry didn't want her to know.

"Let's go," he whispered, floating across the alley like a shadow. "We'll sweep west. Look for anyone still alive."

Mary gave a tight nod. "We regroup at the Safe House in fifteen."

They moved.

Two Vanguards against a city on the brink.

One of them—walking on air.

The other—carrying steel in her spine.

And somewhere behind the chaos…

The Diary waited.

The stars turned.

And death walked again.

They moved through the alley in silence—only the soft drip of rainwater from rusted gutters and the distant thud of collapsing stalls interrupted the stillness.

Then came the moan.

Low. Wet. Choking on air that lungs should no longer hold.

Henry and Mary froze near the mouth of the alley.

One of them was crawling across the broken stones, its body bent wrong, like something had tried to fold a man into a suitcase and failed halfway. Its arms dragged behind, dislocated, fingernails scraped down to bloody roots. The head lolled sideways—too far sideways—dangling on what remained of tendons.

But it smiled.

Its mouth—

Not a normal smile.

Lips peeled up to the cheeks, gums torn back like curtains revealing yellowed teeth chattering with hunger.

A trail of black, thick drool followed behind it, steaming where it hit the stone.

Henry's breath caught.

These were humans once...

He looked at the thing again and saw—

A tattoo still visible on its shredded forearm. A name beneath it.

"Lia."

Now just a puppet for rot and something darker.

From the shadows behind, more emerged.

One's face was completely missing, like it had been pressed against molten glass. But it kept walking—shoulders jerking with every step, bones cracking with unnatural rhythm. Another dragged an entire grave marker attached to its spine by rusted nails and rope, the stone bouncing as it twitched forward.

The most horrifying one yet had too many joints, as if someone had stitched new elbows and knees mid-limb. It crawled on all fours, but upside down, its spine arched like a spider's.

Its eyes blinked out of sync.

Its tongue kept licking the air for something it would never taste again.

Henry's voice was low. Bitter. "They were people. Just like us."

Mary's eyes didn't blink. Her hand didn't loosen from the grip of her blade.

"These aren't corpses," she muttered. "They're warnings."

Henry turned to her.

Mary's voice was cold, thinking aloud. "Someone called them. Or something pulled them here. They don't just rise in this number by accident."

"Necromancy?" he asked quietly.

"No. This isn't spellcraft. This… this feels cosmic." She pointed to one twitching corpse where stars were carved into its chest in spiral patterns—fresh. "This is a phenomenon. A breach. Like something opened."

Henry felt a chill in his ribs. The kind that didn't come from rain or wind.

Mary added, "This isn't about death. It's about what's beyond it."

One of the zombies turned its head, bone cracking loud enough to echo.

It stared at Henry—dead, blind, twitching.

Then it smiled, again.

And that smile didn't belong to a human being.

It belonged to something that remembered what a human looked like—

but no longer knew why.

....

Beneath the Vanguard Station, in the cold, dimly lit depths of the Artifact Room, rows of shelves loomed—each lined with relics, strange devices, and items whispered about in half-forgotten legends. The air was thick with dust and the faint hum of ancient power.

In the far corner sat the case holding Zach's father's diary—locked, secured, untouched since the investigation began.

Suddenly, the silence shattered.

A deep, resonant hum started low and grew—a vibration felt through the bones. The glass of the case shimmered, a strange violet light pulsing from within, like a heart beating beneath crystal skin.

The glow intensified quickly, pushing the air around it outward.

Everyone nearby staggered backward, caught in an invisible force that pressed against their chests like a tidal wave.

No one dared approach.

Whispers broke out—questions, fears—but no answers.

From the shadows of the room, Andrew Fritz stepped forward, expression hard but calm.

"What the hell is going on here?" his voice echoed, steady amid the chaos.

The other Vanguards stepped aside instinctively as he moved toward the glowing case.

Even with the light burning like a star trapped beneath glass, Andrew's pace did not falter.

His eyes narrowed.

His fingers twitched slightly—as if fighting a battle within himself.

There was a tremor in his jaw, a flicker of strain. Yet, he pushed on.

Reaching the case, he hesitated for a breath, then placed his palm flat against the glowing surface.

The violet light flared one last time—a silent scream in color—and then died out abruptly.

The oppressive force vanished.

The hum ceased.

Silence returned.

Andrew pulled his hand back slowly, the faintest hint of sweat gleaming on his brow.

He looked up, voice low but firm:

"Nothing more to see here."

Without waiting for questions, Andrew turned and ascended the steps back toward the station.

Behind him, the diary lay still and dark—its secrets locked away once again, for now.

Outside the main gate of the Vanguard Station, the air was thick with tension and the acrid smell of gunpowder. The barricades—sturdy sacks filled with earth and debris—formed a grim wall between the defenders and the restless threat beyond. The distant moans of the undead echoed, punctuated by sharp bursts of gunfire.

Andrew Fritz stood just outside the gate, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon with cold precision. His dark coat fluttered lightly in the breeze, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.

From behind, a large figure approached—Nelson Carter, the station's portly Vanguard major. Normally boisterous and confident, today Nelson's usual swagger was gone. His steps were hesitant, his face tight with unease.

Nelson stopped just a few feet from Andrew, lowering his gaze for a brief moment before meeting his cold stare.

"Sir," Nelson began, voice tinged with an uncharacteristic tremor, "the Vanguard is split."

Andrew's eyes didn't flicker. "Explain."

Nelson swallowed, shifting nervously. "Half of us are holding this line—right here. Defending the station. But the other half… they're spread throughout the town, trying to protect civilians trapped in pockets of danger."

Andrew's jaw clenched. "And the civilians?"

"Most have been moved to safe zones, but a few remain… some caught in the chaos. We're doing what we can, but with these numbers—" Nelson gestured helplessly toward the darkened streets, "—it's a fight for every breath."

A brief silence settled between them, broken only by the distant crack of rifle fire.

Nelson glanced downward, then back at Andrew, voice barely above a whisper:

"Everyone here… we fear you. They say you carry more than just a badge. You carry judgment. We all want to be ready—ready to follow your orders."

Andrew's expression softened for a fleeting moment—a rare crack in his stoic armor.

"Good," he said quietly. "Because if we don't hold this line, no one survives."

Nelson nodded, steeling himself.

As the moans grew louder, Andrew raised his revolver, the weight of the moment settling like stone on them both.

The battle for Prada had only just begun.