Miracleborn Saga

The Foretelling Camp, nestled in the quieter southern quarter of Prada, buzzed softly under the winter sun. The clouds were still, and the snow on the edges of the stone-paved paths melted into shimmering puddles, reflecting the colorful banners of the fortune stalls and soft clinks of hanging charms swaying gently in the cold breeze.

Henry walked in slowly, his coat buttoned tight, scarf wrapped neatly around his neck. His boots crunched faintly on the salted road, his gloved hand in his pocket, holding a few Gaus coins. Though it wasn't his schedule today, Vanguard duty had been light. And something—an invisible pull—had drawn him back here.

He passed by the rune readers, the tea-sippers, the sigil-inscribers and whispered-voice whisperers. Julius's larger tent loomed on the left, his velvet curtains fluttering slightly. Julius wasn't outside yet, probably still mixing oils for another flamboyant reading. Henry didn't stop there today.

Instead, he walked toward a quieter corner of the camp and approached a simple wooden deck beneath a faded awning. The woman renting out the decks—a short, wrinkled lady with six rings on each hand—recognized him and smiled.

"Back again?" she asked.

Henry nodded and handed her a single Gaus. "For the day."

She gestured lazily toward one of the corner decks. "That one's quiet. Good shade."

Henry moved to it and sat down. He opened his old, leather-bound deck box—scuffed at the corners, smelling faintly of cedar and incense—and began to shuffle the cards. The sound of them brushing against one another was soft and steady, rhythmic like a whisper in a library.

A few people wandered the camp, but none approached him yet. That was fine. He didn't come here to earn much today.

He set the cards down and leaned back, glancing at the white sky, wondering if anyone knew how peaceful this camp really was.

There were no zombies here. No cults. No cosmic diary.

Just paper, predictions… and people looking for something—anything—that gave them hope.

Henry closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing. The soft wind passed through the trees behind the stalls.

The soft clang of wind chimes marked her arrival. The winter breeze tugged gently at her long coat as she stepped into the Foretelling Camp, boots trailing flecks of frost from the walk across town. Roze Fildart—feather hat tilted stylishly, leather gloves tucked beneath one arm—moved with the confidence of someone used to carrying herself through chaos.

The usual noise of the camp calmed slightly as she passed. A few shopkeepers greeted her with nods, some with fond glances. It wasn't every day that someone from the Vanguard came here in such lightness. But Roze, unlike the rest, moved between violence and peace with odd grace.

She turned a corner near the incense tents and spotted him—Henry—at a deck in the quieter corner. His cards were spread neatly. His eyes were closed. His breath misted lightly in the air.

A grin touched her lips.

"You should stop looking like an abandoned ghost, Henry," she said warmly, stepping toward him. "People might think this is a graveyard."

Henry opened his eyes, one brow raised. "You only say that because I didn't shave."

She chuckled, setting her gloves on the edge of the deck. "No. I say that because you look like a cat who just lost a debate with a mirror."

He gave a tired smile. "And you look like you stole that feather hat from a passing noblewoman."

She adjusted her hat proudly. "I did not. I traded it for a curse."

He gestured to the chair across from him. "Come to have your fate toyed with?"

She sat with a gentle rustle of her coat. "Only if the toy knows what it's doing. I need a reading."

Henry began shuffling his cards. "Mother dearest comes all the way to my corner just to ask her troubled son for a foretelling?"

Roze smirked, playing along. "Don't roll your eyes, child. I brought you into this city, I can still throw you out with one hand."

Henry feigned a gasp. "You mean I wasn't adopted from a box of cursed infants?"

"Not that lucky," she said, her tone playful, eyes sharp but softened with warmth.

They shared a quiet pause as the cards were shuffled. The wind passed between them like an old secret.

Roze leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Let's see what the world has hidden for me today, shall we?"

Henry nodded, the cards in his hand steady, the space between them familiar. Sacred. No blood, no diary, no cosmic screams. Just this moment. Just a woman and a man sitting beneath faded cloth and faint sunlight, trying to make sense of what's next.

Henry's fingers worked deftly, the cards slipping through his hands like liquid light. The Foretelling deck—worn yet sacred—was his instrument, and the air around them seemed to quiet in reverence. After a few practiced shuffles, Henry arranged three cards on the deck, placing them opposite each other in a perfect triangular balance.

"Pick one," he said softly, eyes locked on Roze.

Roze leaned forward, curiosity sharpening her gaze. She extended a hand, hovering over the cards, and then confidently lifted the one at the bottom right.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she noticed something odd.

"Wait..." Roze muttered, eyes narrowing. "There's two cards here."

Henry glanced down and nodded, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "That's alright. It's called a Compound Card—two cards stacked together. It means the outcome isn't simple. There's layers."

He carefully peeled back the top card to reveal the second beneath it. The top card was a vibrant yellow, radiating warmth and light. The symbol whispered of destination, of journeys reaching their end or a pivotal turning point.

The card beneath was a deep, unsettling violet—a color Henry associated with death, not always literal, but transformation, endings, the shadow that marks the final curtain.

Henry's eyes darkened as he gazed at the two cards, contemplating. What did this mean for Roze? Would she reach her destination only to be consumed by the shadow of death? Would her goals come at a grave cost? Or was it a metaphor—the death of an old self to make way for something new?

His mind raced but he kept silent, the weight of the vision pressing against his chest.

For now, the answer remained unspoken, suspended between them like the quiet before a storm.

The cards lay still, the air heavy with unseen fate.

The silence between Henry and Roze was thick, the unspoken tension hanging in the air like a fragile thread. Roze's eyes flicked to Henry, waiting, searching for the meaning behind the cards. But before Henry could speak, a piercing scream shattered the stillness—sharp, frantic, a raw echo of terror.

From the distance, the murmur of a crowd quickly escalated into a chaotic rush of footsteps and shouting voices, all pouring toward the same direction.

Henry's head snapped up. "What was that?"

Roze's gaze hardened. "Trouble."

Without hesitation, they broke into a hurried pace, weaving through narrow alleys and empty streets, their footsteps pounding against the cobblestones. As they passed under the looming shadow of the town's ancient clock tower, Henry's breath caught in his throat.

There, spilling out of the square, was a writhing mass of creatures unlike any Henry had seen before.

The zombies—already a nightmare—were now more grotesque, their bodies pulsing with a sickly green glow that flickered beneath their decaying skin. Their movements were erratic, unnatural, like corrupted spirits bound to flesh. A noxious aura seemed to hang around them, distorting the air itself.

Roze instinctively pulled Henry back into the shadow of a crumbling stone wall.

"They're different... worse," she whispered, eyes wide with unease.

Henry nodded grimly, already reaching for his revolver. "Something's changed. We need to warn the others. This isn't just an invasion—it's evolving."

They crouched low, watching as the glowing horde surged forward, oblivious to the danger they themselves represented.

For a moment, the world held its breath—the quiet before a storm that would tear through the fragile peace of their town.

Henry exchanged a look with Roze—an unspoken promise passing between them.

They would face whatever darkness was coming, together.

As the green glow pulsed in the growing night, Henry's mind echoed with the weight of the foretelling cards—the mingling of destination and death, of journeys that end only to begin anew.

Henry's heart thundered in his chest as he tore through the narrow streets, the weight of urgency propelling him forward. The eerie glow of the mutated zombies lingered behind, casting twisted shadows against crumbling walls. Roze's voice barely caught him as he turned sharply at the crossroads.

"I'll hold them off for as long as I can. Get help—go!"

Without waiting for a reply, Henry slipped into the familiar folds of his Vanguard cloak, buttoning it tightly against the chilling wind. Each step felt heavier with the burden of responsibility; this was no longer a mere skirmish—it was a threat to the entire town.

His mind raced through protocols and plans as he sprinted toward the Vanguard Station, the distant sounds of chaos echoing behind him. Splitting from Roze was a bitter necessity, but it was the only way to maximize their chances.

The cold air bit at his skin, but Henry barely noticed. His focus was razor-sharp. He would warn the Vanguards, mobilize every available hand, and prepare for the storm that was already upon them.

As he disappeared into the shadows, the faintest whisper brushed past his ear—a promise made and a battle soon to be fought.

This was only the beginning.