Miracleborn Saga

The sun hung lazily overhead, casting a warm golden hue across the old stone walls of the Church of Hazaya. Noon bells had already chimed, echoing across Prada's rooftops, but the interior courtyard of the Church remained quiet—a sacred hush that felt older than the town itself.

Henry stepped through the arched gate, dressed in his usual brown leather coat and the dark fedora hat tilted slightly over his eyes. The heavy wooden doors creaked softly behind him as he entered the garden nestled behind the chapel. Tall hedges whispered with the light breeze, and the scent of pine, thyme, and old prayers lingered in the air.

Father was there already, kneeling before a small circular patch of black soil. In the center bloomed a single black dahlia—its petals like folded velvet, deep and dark as ink, pulsing faintly with a soft glimmer that marked its rarity. These flowers didn't grow from mere soil; they required something else—intention, silence, and old faith.

Father plucked it gently with gloved hands and held it like a dying star in his palms. The flower didn't wilt; it simply grew still, as if it understood the reason it was needed.

"You came," Father said without looking up, voice mellow and rusted like parchment left in the sun.

"I did," Henry answered, stepping closer. "Is it ready?"

Father nodded once. He walked over to a black urn set upon a stone altar beneath a crumbling arch. With practiced care, he lit a thin, silver incense stick, muttered a short verse in Hejr, and placed the flower inside the urn. As the flame kissed the petals, the dahlia gave off no smoke—but a soft, glowing ash began to pool like moonlight inside the vessel.

Henry watched in silence. There was something intimate about watching the dahlia burn—like the world had held its breath.

When the process was done, Father took a small glass vial and scooped in the ash with a flat bone spoon. He sealed it with wax, then handed it to Henry.

"This," he said, "is enough for a single dose. The dahlia never lies. You've taken a step into something deeper."

Henry accepted the vial, tucking it safely into the inside pocket of his coat. "Thank you, Father."

"Take care of her," Father replied quietly. "Not just as a healer—but as someone who sees."

Henry nodded, tipping his fedora. Without another word, he turned and walked out beneath the noon sun, ash of a holy flower resting against his heart.

....

Henry didn't waste a breath.

Snow still clung to the edges of the streets, icy air biting at the corners of his leather coat as he made his way through Prada. The glass vial holding the black dahlia ash tapped gently against his chest like a heartbeat.

Roze was waiting at the back of the pet care shop, sleeves rolled up and apron already stained with streaks of pale herbs and dry wax. She had cleared a wooden counter, old and scratched from years of use, where strange glassware stood in strange geometries—tiny cauldrons, long thin beakers, and a shallow silver basin lined with runes that shimmered faintly under the candlelight.

"About time," Roze said, half-scowling, half-smiling. "Thought I'd have to conjure you with a mop."

Henry placed the vial of dahlia ash onto the counter. "I had to walk through God's front yard for this."

Roze chuckled under her breath and reached into a velvet pouch hanging from her belt. From it, she drew a small, sealed needle—thin as a thought—and walked toward the bonded keeper curled silently in a cage behind her. It was a pale beast, feline-like, with ghost-colored fur and six glassy eyes closed in rest.

Henry didn't speak. He just watched as Roze whispered, "Forgive me, friend," and with practiced ease, pricked a single drop of blood from behind its ear.

The blood pulsed briefly with faint cyan light before Roze carefully dropped it into a thick glass bowl already half-filled with glowing grains—moon salt of silver grade, which she'd been searching for the entire night.

"You found it," Henry said, surprised.

"I nearly tore open the pantry floorboards," she muttered, setting the bowl down beside the vial. "Turns out I had labeled it 'rare rice.'"

He laughed softly. "You've got a serious talent for organized disaster."

Roze glanced at him, a soft glimmer in her usually sharp eyes. "Coming from the guy who once mistook embalming wax for cooking oil during corpse detail?"

Henry grinned. "We don't talk about that."

A silence lingered between them for a moment—comfortable, deep.

Roze stirred the blood and salt together with a long, silver spoon. As the mixture shimmered and pulsed softly, she said in a quieter voice, "You're doing more than just curing a cat, Henry. You're trying to fix something in yourself too."

Henry stared into the bowl, then nodded. "Maybe. But she deserves it. When I found her, she was already broken… just like I was."

Roze smiled faintly. "Then you found each other. That counts for something."

He met her gaze. "Thanks, Roze. Really."

She shrugged with mock casualness but her voice was warm. "Go save your cat, hero. And next time—bring coffee."

Henry took the bowl carefully, turned, and walked out of the shop.

....

Henry stepped into his dimly lit room, the door clicking shut behind him like a coffin seal. The scent of candle wax and parchment clung to the air. He placed the silver bowl on the wooden table near the window, where light filtered through the curtain like breath through cracked lips.

The ash from the Black Dahlia crumbled softly between his fingers—dry as regret, dark as memory. He sprinkled it into the glowing mixture of bonded keeper blood and moon salt, careful not to let his hand tremble.

The moment the final grain fell in, the bowl trembled.

A sudden reaction.

Tiny crackles sparked across the surface—blue and violet flares, like the breath of fallen stars. Little fireworks burst quietly, contained but radiant, hovering above the liquid like whispers. Each one fizzled midair with a tiny pop, releasing a strange scent—something metallic and old, like rusted prayers buried in a temple's floor.

The room dimmed, or maybe it was just Henry's eyes adjusting to the weight of what he'd made.

He didn't wait.

Sliding the revolver from the coat rack, he checked the cylinder: six rounds, each one etched with a different prayer—half-written by him, half borrowed from Father's old grimoires. One by one, he loaded them back in with care.

Click… click… click…

Henry holstered the weapon beneath his cloak, pulled on his scarf, and opened the door.

Cold wind met him like a warning.

He stepped out into the snow-laced street. Sunlight reflected on frost. The city breathed slowly in winter's hush—but something dark still crept beneath its skin.

Mimi lay inside, bowl still glowing beside her, sleeping—no, resting. The cure was in motion now, and so was Henry.

He tightened his fedora hat, eyes narrowing under the brim.

There were answers to find. Shadows to chase. And a debt written in blood and prophecy.

With the weight of the revolver steady on his side and fire flickering in his veins, Henry walked into the darkness disguised as light.

....

The cold breeze whispered through the crooked bones of the trees as Henry made his way deeper into St. Don Forest, his breath misting in the air like pale ghosts. A thick wool scarf curled tightly around his neck, and his coat flapped quietly with every step. The snow hadn't reached here yet—but the frost had. Each branch seemed painted with thin silver veins.

He crouched beneath one of the thorn-riddled trunks of a Clawthorn Pine, its bark black and ridged like scales, its twisted limbs reaching up like a monster mid-prayer.

Empty.

Again.

He muttered under his breath, standing and brushing off the frost from his gloves. "Third one. Empty again."

The claws of the trees stretched far apart—each one stubbornly rooted in solitude, spaced as if nature herself had tried to keep them isolated. He had to trudge over uneven soil and creeping roots, low fog licking at his boots, to even find the next one.

He thought of what Roze said.

"Three. You need at least three Clawthorn Resin nodes—clean, amber-thick. They can't be scraped. They have to bleed for you."

Easier said than done.

Henry paused near a tree and looked up.

The branches coiled like barbed wire. No birds. No insects. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel watched.

He rested a hand on the next trunk. It was still warm—slightly. His eyes narrowed. That wasn't normal.

He leaned closer and scraped his glove down the rough bark.

A thick line of golden resin oozed slowly down—sluggish, like sap from a wounded beast. It glowed faintly in the forest gloom.

"One…"

He took out a small jar and carefully gathered the resin. He needed three jars total. This was the first real one he had found after nearly an hour of walking.

As he stepped away, he began thinking.

Why are all the Clawthorns so far apart?

It wasn't like natural spacing. It was deliberate. Like graves set apart. Like warnings. Like ritual placement.

He checked his compass. He was now nearly three kilometers deep into the forest. The deeper he went, the quieter it got.

Two more to go.

And something felt very wrong.

The hill was steep, scattered with dead pine needles and patches of lichen that crunched underfoot. Henry's breath came heavier as he climbed toward the small wooden hut nestled at the slope's edge. Smoke billowed lazily from a crooked chimney. The place looked like it had been stitched together from scrap wood and prayer. The door creaked open before he could even knock.

A hunched old man with wisps of gray hair tucked under a wool cap squinted through the crack. His eyes were pale but lively, glinting like cold stars.

"Well now, you look more hollow than a forgotten grave," the old man said, sniffing the air. "Come in. You've got that 'haven't eaten in twelve sunrises' look."

Henry blinked, surprised. "I'm fine—"

"No, you're not. I can smell hunger better than dogs smell sin."

With a chuckle and a surrendering shrug, Henry stepped inside.

The warmth hit him first—the kind that seeped into your bones, brought to life by a crackling hearth in the corner. A pot of curry simmered above it, filling the air with a mix of spice, salt, and something deeply nostalgic.

The old man slapped a plate down, then ladled out generous helpings of fish curry, spiced lentils, and slid over a golden omelette with charred onions tucked in. He poured two clay cups of tea and sat across from Henry.

Henry stared down at the meal, then offered a rare, grateful smile.

"I should be paying you."

"You already did. You brought silence into my lonely morning."

They both laughed.

Henry, finally relaxing, took a bite—and his senses burst alive. The fish was tender, the curry rich. The lentils tasted like home, though he hadn't had one in a while. For a moment, the world outside—the thorns, the diary, the blood, the rituals—vanished.

"You always feed lost travelers?" Henry asked, mouth half-full.

The old man chewed on a stick of beetle leaf and grinned. "Only the ones carrying burdens they don't talk about."

Henry glanced out the window. Snow had started again, light and slow. The valley below was swallowed in mist.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Been called many things. Can call me anything you want."

The silence stretched, comfortable now.

Henry finished his plate, leaned back, and let the warmth soak through his gloves, through his scarf, through the aching weight in his heart.

A quiet wind brushed against the shutters.

Outside—death waited in strange forms, in feathered omens, in unread pages.

But here, inside this crooked little hut on the slope of nowhere, the world paused.

A cup of tea. A warm belly. A joke shared between strangers.