Miracleborn Saga

It was the beginning of frost season in Prada. The wind that rushed through the alleyways had sharpened, biting gently at the exposed skin of early risers. The cobbled streets were dusted with a thin sheen of frost, and chimney smoke curled lazily into the sky like whispers of warmth long gone.

Henry walked with a steady pace, his new deep red scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. The color stood out against the dark navy of his Vanguard cloak, which fluttered dramatically in the cold breeze. Beneath it, he wore only his regular duty attire, not the heavy winter layers the others had long switched to.

He had just returned from the northern side of Prada, where a troubled blacksmith had reported unusual metal bending during forging — possibly thaumic disturbance, nothing too alarming. He hadn't stayed long.

The main gates of the Vanguard Station loomed ahead, iron black and creaking in the wind. As he entered, a gust swept through, drawing a shiver even from the iron hinges.

Inside, the warmth was thick — firelight flickering from wall sconces, stone heaters humming lowly across the great hall. Almost everyone was bundled in coats and cloaks, scarves and gloves. Some even wore enchanted thermal boots. All Vanguards were wearing heavy clothes or sweaters while Henry walked with some light regular clothings.

Officer Andrew stood at the base of the stairs, arms crossed. His coat was layered and padded, lined with faded silver. He was sipping hot tea with a very subtle but visible tremor of cold in his gloved hand. His calm eyes landed on Henry, who stood defiantly in his regular boots, without gloves, and only that single scarf.

Andrew raised a brow.

"You'll get cold in that."

Henry smirked, pulled the scarf tighter like it was a battle sash, and replied without pause,

"Henry doesn't get cold. Cold gets Henry."

There was a pause — then a dry, restrained blink from Andrew.

"…That's not how biology works."

"Biology fears me," Henry added confidently. "Besides, my blood has adapted. I am one-third furnace now."

A nearby Vanguard officer coughed out a laugh, and someone else muttered,

"He said that last week when he had a fever."

Andrew sighed. "Last time you said that, you fainted in the archive room and claimed the books attacked you."

Henry clicked his tongue. "They did. Especially Taxation and Thaumaturgy, Volume III. That book has personal issues."

Nelson passed by, bundled like a walking rug in five layers, clutching a mug of soup. "Henry, you're insane," he mumbled through chattering teeth. "It's so cold my bones are crying."

Henry nodded solemnly. "That's because your bones are cowards."

Andrew looked down at his tea. "We should start testing Henry's blood for antifreeze."

As the others chuckled and rolled their eyes, Henry strode confidently deeper into the Station halls, the ends of his red scarf flowing behind him like a war banner. Somewhere, someone yelled,

"Put on a damn coat, idiot!"

But Henry only raised a finger in reply — not in rudeness, but in conviction.

"Let it snow," he whispered to himself, grinning. "Let it try."

And then he sneezed. Loudly.

Everyone turned.

Andrew, "Biology says hello."

Nelson, "Told you!"

Henry, "That was… a victory sneeze."

The laughter echoed in the Station halls. Winter had come. But so had Henry.

Inside the warm-lit Archives of the Vanguard Station, the scent of parchment and faint chalk dust lingered in the air. Rows upon rows of aged files and sorted cases lined the wooden shelves. In a corner, Henry stood flipping through a folder on thaumic poison traces, eyes scanning the faded ink with focus.

Mary sat at a desk nearby, shoulders wrapped in a thick charcoal-grey sweater beneath her Vanguard cloak. Jeff, too, had bundled up—his sweater a vibrant teal peeking out from the open chest of his uniform. Both had steaming cups beside them.

Henry glanced up. "Still no match between the zombie venom and known necrotic roots?"

"None," Mary replied flatly. "It's either an artificial strain or foreign to our records. Could be both."

Jeff leaned back in his chair, resting his boots on a stool. "Y'know, speaking of foreign strains… reminds me of how Henry fights. All unpredictable flailing and frowning."

Henry raised a brow but didn't look away from the page. "Strange, I don't recall you being conscious long enough during our last spar to have opinions."

"Oof." Jeff feigned a stab to the chest. "Low blow, Mister Stoic. Last time we fought, you were gasping like an old chimney by the end."

"I wasn't gasping. I was thinking." Henry replied calmly. "Something you rarely attempt."

Mary sipped her tea without looking up. "Should I write your insults down and post them on the training board?"

Jeff pointed at her. "Only if you list me as the winner."

Henry closed the file softly, then turned toward them, hands behind his back. "Let's be realistic. You're a good fighter, Jeff, but you rush. You play the crowd. You don't think three steps ahead. You think one move, and then improvise."

Jeff scoffed, leaning forward. "And you? What, you're the chessmaster now?"

"No," Henry replied, tone flat. "I'm the one who waits for your ego to make a mistake."

Jeff paused. "Okay, that was kinda cool."

Mary finally looked up. "Are you two done measuring your daggers?"

Jeff smirked. "No, but we can duel later. Loser owes dinner."

Henry raised an eyebrow, nodding once. "Fine. But don't cry when your toast stick gets confiscated."

Jeff muttered, "Monster."

Mary rolled her eyes. "Idiots."

....

It was a late, pale afternoon in Prada—the kind that rested heavily on the shoulders but soothed the soul. The clouds hung low and heavy like woolen blankets stitched across the sky. The air was brisk, still holding that post-winter bite, but the warmth from a nearby iron tea kettle was enough to invite anyone to pause.

Henry sat down on a creaky old wooden bench beside the street, pulling his red scarf a little tighter as the wind passed. Across the bench, Officer Andrew Fritz was already there—his legs crossed neatly, holding a steaming clay cup between gloved hands. His expression, as usual, was unreadable—calm and distant like a pond left untouched for decades.

"Didn't expect you to be here," Henry said, brushing snowflakes off the bench before sitting.

Andrew tilted his cup in greeting. "I come here when I need my thoughts to quiet down. The tea helps."

Henry nodded. "I could use one."

Without a word, Andrew gestured toward the small tea stall nearby. The old vendor, recognizing Andrew's subtle hand wave, poured another cup and passed it along the bench without speaking. Henry took it with a grateful nod.

"You're treating me today?" he asked.

Andrew's lips tugged ever so slightly. "Consider it an investment in your continued survival."

A brief chuckle escaped Henry's throat. They sat quietly for a minute, sipping tea while the sounds of distant carriages and footsteps passed behind them.

Then Andrew spoke, voice low and smooth. "The diary… it's been transported."

Henry turned his head slightly. "Out of Prada?"

Andrew nodded. "Far enough to keep it away from eyes that shouldn't see it. Guarded heavily. The Vanguard can't afford to lose it."

There was a pause. Then Andrew continued, gaze distant.

"It's not just a diary, Henry. That thing… it's a fragment. A piece of a Prime Divine Act. Not a record of one—a fragment. Not meant for mortals. Not meant for anyone, perhaps."

Henry exhaled softly, gripping the clay cup tighter. "Then how did Zach's father even get his hands on it?"

"That's the question that eats at me," Andrew replied. "He worked as an astronomer. That field doesn't just gaze at stars—it listens. Watches patterns. Maybe… he saw something he shouldn't have. Or someone gave it to him. Or perhaps, it found him."

"You think he was trying to hide it?" Henry asked.

Andrew nodded slowly. "Desperately. He buried it behind codes, rituals, obscurity. Maybe even sacrificed things to protect it."

Henry thought of the blood, the empty expressions of Zach's family, and the little sister's broken voice in her final moments. It didn't feel like protection. It felt like punishment.

Andrew's voice broke the silence again. "I read a line once from a forbidden text… 'Knowledge older than God rots the spine that holds it.' I believe Zach's father understood that. He tried to keep it hidden. He failed."

Henry looked down into the tea. The steam curled upward like ghostly fingers. "And now we're all tangled in it."

"We always were," Andrew murmured. "That's the nature of divine fragments. They don't just exist. They ripple. They choose. They haunt."

Henry fell silent.

The street seemed quieter now.

The last sips of tea had grown lukewarm in the clay cups, the steam thinning to nothing as the late afternoon in Prada rolled toward dusk. Henry leaned back on the bench, one leg over the other, gloved fingers tapping the side of the empty cup.

Andrew glanced up at the sky, then down at the street. The vendor had returned to his seat, nodding off gently against the weight of routine. People passed, unaware of what truths shared tea might stir.

"There's a cyclone brewing south of Calvary coast," Andrew said casually, eyes scanning the distant clouds that were beginning to gather in odd formation. "It was in this morning's paper. Low pressure building. Could move our way in a week or less."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "A cyclone?"

Andrew nodded. "A strong one, by the looks of it. You should read the papers more often."

Henry gave a soft chuckle. "I used to. Back when I was in university. Before things like murder cases and invisible feathers took over my mornings."

Andrew let out a sound that may have been the ghost of a laugh. "Ah, university. The illusion of understanding the world."

Henry grinned. "You sound like a professor."

"Maybe I am," Andrew replied, "in a way. Except my lectures are delivered with bullet points… usually literal."

Henry smirked at that, then looked out toward the street where people bustled by, unaware of impending storms—both literal and cosmic. "When I was studying, I used to sit by the corner window. Third floor of the East Block. Read the daily—front to back. Even the classifieds. Guess I liked pretending the world was organized."

"It's never been," Andrew said. "The paper just folds the chaos into columns."

Silence again, but it was comfortable now. The sort that follows between two men who both knew what it meant to survive.

After a moment, Henry muttered, "Cyclone, huh? As if we don't have enough spinning already."

Andrew handed him a folded newspaper from under his coat. "Read. The storm in the sky is still easier than the ones you're walking through."

Henry took it. Looked down at the black print. He didn't say thank you, and Andrew didn't expect it.

The sky rumbled faintly in the distance.

And the bench remained still.