Miracleborn Saga

Next Day,

The pale gold of early morning seeped in through the half-open windows of Henry's home. A cool breeze rustled the thin curtains, and somewhere beyond the trees, a bell tolled faintly—a sound carried from the church district, distant and holy.

Henry sat alone in the quiet of his study, shirt half-buttoned, dark circles under his eyes. His coat hung over the chair like a collapsed shadow, still stained from yesterday's horror.

He held a ceramic cup of lukewarm tea, untouched.

Across from him, resting lazily on the windowsill, was Mimi.

Her feline form bathed in the soft sunlight, tail flicking slowly like the ticking of some ancient clock.

She was grooming herself. Clean. Poised. Unbothered.

Too unbothered.

Henry stared. Unmoving.

A thought gnawed at his mind like moths on silk.

"What are you…?"

He hadn't said it aloud, but the weight of the question trembled in his eyes.

She had disappeared without a trace. Returned untouched. At the exact moment the world began to unravel.

The pressure he felt when she kicked that ball during their little match…

The thaumic distortion he sensed…

The feathers of violet light that now followed him like ghostly sentinels…

He blinked slowly.

And the memory returned.

It had been raining that day.

A year ago. Maybe more. He'd lost count.

The ward near the edge of Prada—a dumping ground where trash and dying things were sent to be forgotten.

He had gone there not for anything noble, but because he had nothing else to do. He was just a man wasting time. Just another shadow among the thrown-out dreams.

And that's where he found her.

A tiny, trembling kitten.

Bleeding. Her side torn. Her fur patchy.

Crows pecking, trying to open her belly.

Something about the image made his heart ache. Maybe because, in that moment, she didn't even cry. She just lay there. Accepting. Waiting for it to end.

Like he had been, back then.

Henry had chased the crows off.

"She was just like me," he murmured now, looking at her across the room.

Useless. Abandoned. Cracked open. Waiting to rot.

He remembered lifting her into his coat, not knowing what to do. He didn't even like animals. But there was a stillness in her—a quiet dignity even in pain.

He had taken her home. Cleaned her wounds. Fed her old scraps. Gave her a name—Mimi, a name he said in the same breath he used to call himself worthless.

She never left him after that.

Now, here she was again. Alive. Perfect. Returned from the dark.

Too perfect.

A glint of knowing light passed through her golden eyes as if she'd heard every thought he'd just had. She turned her head slowly, watching him with quiet understanding.

Henry narrowed his gaze.

"You were never ordinary, were you?"

The silence between them was dense. Tense. Like a question without a question mark.

Mimi yawned. Stretched. Hopped down from the sill, padding across the floor like a ghost in fur. She walked up to him, brushing against his leg, then leapt lightly onto his lap.

Settled there.

Her purring began. Deep. Rhythmic. Familiar.

And for all the questions burning in his soul, all the looming shadows, for just a moment.

Henry let it go.

He stroked her back.

"Whatever you are," he whispered, "you still came back to me."

And for now, that was enough.

The sun had risen, but Henry's room remained dim, the curtains drawn halfway, casting thin streaks of light over the wooden floor. A quiet wind drifted in through the half-open window, stirring the scent of old blood and iron.

Henry sat at the edge of his bed, his pant leg rolled up, revealing a long, jagged cut running across his shin. Dried blood crusted at the edges. The skin around it was swollen, raw from the fight.

He dipped a clean cloth in warm water and began wiping the wound in silence.

His hands moved slowly—not from pain, but from thought.

The invasion hadn't been a random act of chaos.

It had been calculated.

Too many pieces fell into place all at once. The diary had started glowing the same hour the undead marched. And now, six more lives had been erased. Six. Four of them elderly, isolated, forgotten people. Then…

Mandeline Cull.

Zach's sister.

Her eyes, blood in place of tears, haunted him more than any claw or roar from the zombies ever could.

He wrapped the bandage tightly around his leg.

Someone wanted the diary. Wanted what was sealed inside.

And whoever that someone was, they were willing to kill without hesitation, without mercy, to cover their tracks or bait the next move.

Henry stared at his leg, the fabric tightening over the wound.

His injuries would heal.

But what about the town?

What about the truth?

The murderer hadn't simply stolen a life.

They'd started something far greater—and Henry was beginning to feel the pull toward its center.

He finished bandaging and leaned back on the bed. The ceiling spun slightly. His muscles ached. His spirit more.

He wasn't sure what Mimi was.

Or who Father truly served.

Or what secrets the diary held.

....

The late morning sun loomed over Prada's southern district, where smoke from chimneys curled gently into a cloudless sky. Birds chirped along old gutters. The wind rustled the green awnings of nearby shops. The air still carried the echoes of fear from yesterday's undead invasion, but here, at a modest street corner, things seemed calm again.

A small tea stall stood by the brick wall of a closed blacksmith. Its wood faded, a few nails rusted, but the scent of boiled cardamom and dried ginger made it popular nonetheless.

Beneath the awning, two men sat on a faded ottoman bench, close to the dusty edge of the road.

Nelson Carter, still plump and broad despite the sweat beading on his temple, held a small clay cup in one hand, blowing gently on the steam. His other arm rested awkwardly over his thigh, keeping distance from the man beside him.

Andrew Fritz sat calmly, long coat unbuttoned, Vanguard insignia barely visible beneath the folds. He sipped slowly, one hand on his cane—not because he needed it, but out of old habit. His eyes were calm but unreadable.

Nelson chuckled nervously between sips, wiping sweat from his neck with a handkerchief.

"You know… I've told you my story twice now," he mumbled, glancing sideways.

"About the riots. About how I joined the Vanguards. Even how I lost half my hair to that cursed beast in the Hollowmire…"

Andrew gave the faintest smile, barely more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Nelson paused, waiting for a response. None came.

He tried again, voice softer this time.

"So… it's only fair, ain't it? You've known me for six years. We've bled together, eaten together—hell, you've patched me up more than once."

Andrew looked down into his tea.

Nelson leaned closer.

"Tell me, Andrew... who were you before the Vanguards?

Before that what made you the man everyone fears in silence?"

A moment passed.

The breeze shifted. Somewhere down the street, a paper kite drifted from a child's hand and vanished into the sky.

Andrew set his cup down on the small wooden tray.

He didn't look at Nelson.

He just said, voice low and even:

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Nelson hesitated. He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Only if you trust me enough."

Andrew stared ahead, past the road, the shops, the passerby. His eyes were focused on something far away, something not in Prada, not in this moment.

Then—

He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a brief second.

The tea had gone cold.

The quiet hum of life continued around them—carts squeaking on cobblestone, bells jingling from cloth vendors, and the occasional shout of a fruit seller. But beneath the green awning, on the edge of the dusty path, time stood still for two men.

Andrew Fritz leaned forward slightly, arms resting on his knees, his gaze fixed not on the street but on the blurred distance only memory could reach.

His voice was calm—neither bitter nor nostalgic.

Just… settled.

"I was born a failure," he said.

"Not in wounds or deformity, but in the eyes that held me."

Nelson looked at him, blinking.

A moment passed. Andrew continued.

"My father dreamed of a son who'd shake the heavens.

My mother wanted a boy too perfect to cry.

But all I ever did was breathe, and that alone disappointed them."

"They quarreled. Every day. Words like knives. Plates shattered.

And I was there—always in the room but never in the conversation.

Each shout chipped a piece of me.

And silence? That was sharper."

Nelson sipped his tea, slower now, face caught somewhere between confusion and sympathy.

"When you're stabbed by strangers, you bleed.

When it's family…

You rot."

"My grandparents told me talent was all that mattered.

That it weighed more than kindness, loyalty, or dreams.

'Talent,' they said, 'is just a steelyard to measure a human's value.'"

Andrew rubbed his hands together lightly, as if washing invisible dust from the past.

"So I chased it. Ran until my feet bled.

Studied until sleep was a stranger.

Sacrificed every smile, every friendship, every gentle thing I had left."

"And when I finally… succeeded,

When I finally carved my name onto the world—

There was no one left to tell it to.

They were all gone.

Graves don't applaud."

He leaned back.

No sadness showed on his face. Only a stillness.

Like a candle that had finished burning, leaving only scent behind.

Nelson opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Then finally managed:

"Damn."

He scratched the back of his head.

"You, uh…

That was real poetic. Didn't understand half of it, but gods, it hit something."

Andrew gave a faint chuckle, just a whisper of breath through his nose.

"I didn't say it to be understood."

They didn't speak for a while after that.

They just sat in the shadow of the tea stall, the city moving past them, and the ghosts of yesterday fading into the breeze.

The breeze picked up. An old man across the street was playing a flute softly, the tune drifting over the din of morning trade. Nelson had poured himself another cup of tea and was sipping with smaller gulps now, his mind caught somewhere between admiration and awkward awe.

Andrew's past had weighed the air like fog. The silence between them lingered, not uncomfortable—but fragile, like porcelain balancing on a ledge.

Nelson cleared his throat, trying to steer the air back toward ease.

"Well… I guess that's why you talk like a priest and move like a ghost. Makes sense now."

Andrew smirked, turning his wrist slightly as he rotated the teacup.

"And you," he said calmly, "for a man with a belly full of biscuits, you fight like an assassin."

Nelson froze.

His fingers clenched the clay cup, the light clink of porcelain tapping his ring echoing sharply under the awning.

He turned toward Andrew, eyes darting left and right, voice dropping into a panicked whisper.

"Hey—hey! Keep your bloody voice down, you maniac!"

Andrew didn't blink.

Nelson leaned in, shoulders tensed.

"That name's buried, damn it. The government doesn't know. I joined Vanguards under a clean record. Clean. You say that again in public and I'll choke you with your own codebook."

Andrew sipped his tea, completely unbothered.

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting?" Nelson hissed. "You want the Archives digging through my past? You know how many people I buried in alleyways before I wore this damn uniform?"

Andrew raised a brow.

"Roughly fifty-three. Maybe fifty-four if you count the old man near the river."

Nelson paled.

"You—! How do you—"

Andrew tilted his head slightly.

"Strategist Path. Dreamer Route. My mind goes further than most. I saw your edge the moment you joined. You hide it well, but I've danced with killers long enough to know the rhythm."

Nelson slumped back on the bench, muttering.

"Damn cult of dreamers… always poking where they shouldn't."

The silence returned. Longer now. Heavier.

Then Andrew added, softly:

"You're not that man anymore.

But your hands still remember the weight of blood."

Nelson looked down at his gloved palms.

They didn't shake.

"Yeah… I suppose they do."

A child ran past the stall with a paper fan. The wind carried the scent of sugar and smoke.

Andrew stood up, brushing invisible dust from his coat.

"Let it stay buried. I didn't say it to accuse you. Just… don't forget who you were. It's part of why you survive."

Nelson watched him walk off a few steps before muttering, mostly to himself:

"Surviving was never the hard part."

He finished the last of his tea, sighing as he looked at the bustling street beyond.

"It's the remembering that hurts."