Miracleborn Saga

The wind howled gently across the abandoned port of East Prada, where the sea slapped lazily against barnacle-rusted ships moored in silence. Salt clung to the air, thick with age and memory, and seagulls called out above in sharp, echoing notes.

The dock creaked beneath her boots.

Roze Fildart walked with purpose, her long coat fluttering behind her like a fading flag, the tail of her feather-attached hat brushing the wind as if it, too, was listening. Beneath her boot heels, old planks groaned—tired, worn wood that hadn't seen proper work in years.

To her left, a massive cargo ship—its hull speckled with rust and algae—floated motionless. To her right, a field of scattered shipping containers, some cracked open like forgotten coffins, others sealed shut by rust and time. Rope, oil drums, abandoned netting, all remnants of the dock's busier days, now rested like relics.

She passed beneath a bent steel arch, eyes sweeping the dockyard with silent familiarity. The wind tugged at her collar, whispering old names.

Reaching a tall iron gate at the end of the pier—flaked paint peeling from its surface—Roze paused. Her gloved hand pressed against it.

Click.

She unlocked the padlock, opened the gate with a creak that echoed across the stillness, and stepped inside. Then shut it. Locked it from within.

She stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around her.

Her hat's feather swayed once, then stilled.

No one followed.

No one should have.

She looked out at the sea, then at the narrow walkways winding between the shipping crates. Somewhere in this place—something waited. Or perhaps she had simply come to remember.

Her shadow stretched long under the dockside sun.

The creaking of metal moaned with the wind as Roze marched slowly through the tight aisle of leaning containers. Her boots struck the dock with deliberate rhythm. A soft rhyme slipped from her lips, half-hummed, half-sung—like a forgotten lullaby spoken to the dead.

"Feather in storm,

Flame without form,

Who names the wind…

Will burn with the dawn."

With each step, tiny sparks of light bloomed around her, like fireflies waking from slumber. The air shifted. A beam of violet light extended from her palm, growing into a smooth, gleaming lightsaber, humming low, cutting into the breathless stillness.

She halted before a stack of containers, eyes narrowing.

A ripple.

A shadow, flickering like torn smoke across rusted steel.

She moved without hesitation.

SHHK-KRNNN!

The saber swung in a blazing arc—

Three containers split apart like paper—sparks flew, shards of metal clattered to the ground.

From the shredded opening…

A man stepped out slowly, unharmed.

He wore a long gentle coat, pale grey with soft edges, and a sad white mask carved with two weeping eye-holes. His presence was still, like a faded memory trying to disappear again.

"You shouldn't be here," he said softly, voice gentle, as if mourning something unseen.

"Return, Roze. Before it's too late."

Roze's saber thrummed.

"You think this is about me?" she said coldly.

"Tell me where the base is. Tell me who's behind this chaos."

The man tilted his head. For a moment, he was silent. Then—

He ran.

Roze dashed after him, cloak billowing, saber lighting the shadows like a comet through ruins. Between stacks, through flickering corridors of abandoned steel, their chase carved fire through rust.

The man twisted, tossing something over his shoulder—

PAPER BOMB.

It exploded with a shuddering blast. Roze leapt—flames licking her coat—her shoulder scorched, the edge of her coat torn and smoking.

The impact knocked her hat free—

She tossed it high into the sky.

CAW.

From above, a massive eagle dove from the clouds, caught the hat with precision, gave a single wink, then vanished into the sun.

Roze's eyes locked ahead, saber raised, cloak in tatters.

The dockyard was no longer silent.

Roze chased the masked man through the crumbling bones of steel and rust, her boots echoing against the battered planks of the forgotten pier. Old ropes snapped underfoot, containers buckled in the chaos, sparks flew from clashing metal, and all around them—the ghosts of a forgotten sea moaned in the wind.

The man in the sad mask darted between crates with impossible agility, as if the rust itself bent for him. His coat fluttered like an artist's brush through a painting of fire and ash.

"You've gotten faster, Roze," the man chuckled, his voice eerily calm. "What are you feeding your rage these days? Moonlight?"

Roze said nothing.

Her saber hummed louder, the blade a burning violet ribbon trailing her every step. The wind pushed against her, but she kept moving—faster, harder.

The man threw a hand backward mid-run. A glimmering disk shot from his palm and exploded in a burst of hallucination fog. The world twisted. A dozen of false Rozes flickered around him.

"Cute," he said, "but I invented this trick when you were still worshiping your first prayer ring."

Roze answered by slashing her saber across one of the illusionary containers. It shattered into light, revealing the true path. She turned and fired a bolt of blinding light from her palm—the saber collapsing into a bow in an instant.

TWANG!

The arrow soared like divine judgment—pure, fast, righteous.

But just before it hit, the masked man twisted midair, pressing two fingers to the incoming shaft.

Pop.

The arrow shrunk instantly, collapsing into a speck of dust before it reached him.

"Thaum Conviction…" Roze whispered, her pace slowing for half a second. "Impossible."

He grinned beneath the broken edge of his mask, eyes twinkling behind the carved sorrow.

"Impossible? You never really paid attention to me, did you?''

Roze growled and reformed her saber. Her steps quickened again.

Suddenly—

POP.

The space behind her popped like a balloon, light bending inward as if the world sneezed.

He was there.

Blade drawn. Aiming for her back. A flicker of violet steel reflected in her pupil.

But Roze spun around, her instincts sharper than fate itself. She grabbed his wrist mid-thrust, twisted violently, and with a shout—

SLAMMED a glowing fist into his chest.

KRACKOOM!

He soared backward like a meteor, crashing through a hanging net, tearing through crates, and collapsing into the side of an old freight ship with the force of a cannonball. The hull groaned. Steel twisted.

Roze sprinted across the dock, the saber's glow now pulsing with anger.

The man stumbled out of the crushed steel, laughing softly through his mask.

"Still got that left hook. Should've taken that damn glove from you when I had the chance."

He threw something on the ground—chalk lines erupted in a circle, forming an arcane glyph beneath his feet.

A ritual.

The air pulsed.

The dock cracked.

Energy built like a tidal wave.

Roze's eyes narrowed.

She rushed forward, drawing her blade into a thin whip of light, cutting the ritual sigil mid-cast with a precise arc. Sparks hissed.

"No. You're not exploding this dock."

The ritual fizzled, unstable. But the man grinned—he had expected that.

"Didn't I teach you to never break a ritual in mid-flow?"

Suddenly—snap.

The interrupted glyph twisted inward like a crushed insect, folding back into a second hidden rune.

BOOM.

A controlled explosion ripped through the air—crates flew, iron bent, and both combatants were thrown across the field.

Roze slammed hard against a cargo reel, gritting her teeth. Her coat was torn, and her arm bled. She gasped, but her eyes were locked ahead.

The man's mask had cracked, half of it gone, revealing part of a face marred by burn scars and age-old cuts. Blood trailed down his chin, but he stood tall. Healing had begun. Slow, but present.

His breathing was ragged, but still composed.

He stumbled toward the alleyway at the edge of the dock, weaving through twisted shipping containers. His pace limped. Blood dropped with each step. He pressed his hand to his side—still smiling.

But just as he turned the final corner into the alley—

She was already there.

Roze.

Standing still in the alley like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.

Her saber reformed in silence, humming in the darkness.

The eagle overhead shrieked once, circling above the ruined yard.

The masked man halted mid-step.

His expression, what little was visible, sank with realization.

"Of course," he whispered. "You always knew how this would end. Glad, I've taught you well."

Roze's eyes glinted beneath her feather hat. The wind passed between them, carrying embers and memory.

"This hasn't ended yet," she said quietly.

The silence between them deepened. Not empty.

Heavy.

The dock groaned beneath the fading sun, ash and sparks dancing in the air between two relics of a war long buried.

.....

Earlier today, early morning — A Modest Apartment in East Prada

The pale blue light of dawn crept through the thin curtains of Mary Janet's bedroom window, washing the room in a soft, quiet glow. The air was still cool, the silence fragile. She sat at a small wooden table beside her neatly made bed, hair slightly messy, dressed in a simple grey sleeping gown with sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her pen moved in slow, thoughtful strokes across a folded piece of cream-colored parchment.

On the page, carefully formed words bled emotion.

"To my brave little stars—

I'm still far from home. But I think of you every morning. Your father smiled last time I called. Don't worry, I'll send more for medicine this week..."

A knock.

Three gentle taps at the door.

Then it creaked open, and Jeff Hardy peeked in, already grinning, holding two mugs of green tea. His hair was tousled, half-brushed, his shirt misaligned, and he wore worn-out house trousers.

"You writing another letter to your family?" Jeff teased, stepping in. "Hope you told him how ugly your partner looks in the morning."

Mary didn't look up.

"I did. And I told him you're the reason people drink tea out of necessity, not pleasure."

She accepted the tea with a quiet nod and a hint of a smirk. Jeff pulled a chair over, flopped down backward onto it, arms crossed on the backrest.

"Still hurts me you don't appreciate my gourmet blend."

"I'd appreciate it more if it wasn't 70% leaf water and 30% your personality."

Jeff gasped, mock offended. "You wound me."

Mary finished the letter, sealed it with string, and sighed as she stood.

"I'll send it with today's post runner. I promised the kids. Arlo's birthday's coming soon."

Jeff nodded, the humor softening on his face.

"He'll be proud. You're doing more for them than most ever could."

Mary turned her head just slightly, her expression unreadable.

"That's why I work."

After some time,

Mary stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a long towel, drying her hair with another. Jeff stood in the hall, waiting, already half-dressed in his Vanguard uniform pants, fiddling with a stubborn belt buckle.

"Your turn. Don't clog the drain again with your poodle hair."

Mary didn't hesitate—she slapped the back of his head with a rolled towel.

"What was that for?!" Jeff yelped, laughing.

"Poodle hair? Say that again and I'll dump your tea in your boots."

Jeff raised both hands in surrender, grinning. "Okay, okay. Truce. Just don't touch the boots."

The two stood near the coat hanger, both dressed in their crisp Vanguard uniforms—black armed cloaks, silver stars pinned to the chest, hoods hanging back, and polished boots tight on their ankles. Jeff tried to fix his collar in the mirror but failed spectacularly.

Mary walked up wordlessly and adjusted it for him, quick and efficient.

"You're hopeless," she muttered.

"That's what my ex said too. But unlike him, you haven't thrown a toaster at me."

"Not yet."

They both chuckled.

Grabbing their hats, the two stepped out of the apartment and locked the door behind them, marching into the morning light with shared rhythm—two sides of the same worn coin.

....

Mary and Jeff had lived together in this apartment for almost a month now, though not by choice—Mary's original home and family were far from Prada, in another town struggling under debt and medical bills. Her husband, once a blacksmith, had been bedridden from sudden paralysis after an accident. With children to feed and medicine to afford, Mary joined the Vanguard, putting herself on the front lines of danger to earn what she could.

When she first arrived in Prada, housing was a nightmare. The barracks were overfilled. She had no place.

Jeff, who already served as a Vanguard for nearly a year, had met her during assignment paperwork. Upon learning of her background, he offered her the spare room in his apartment, half out of pity, half out of stubborn decency. Though they bickered like old rivals, fought like cats in alleyways, and teased like schoolmates, the truth remained—

Neither of them was alone anymore.