Miracleborn Saga

Smoke drifted faintly in the horizon, a crooked veil cast over the waking town of Prada.

No bells rang that morning.

No birds whispered above.

Only the low, wet sound of flesh against stone.

A towering tendril—grey as soaked ash and pulsing with an inner sickness—dragged itself through the cobbled streets. It writhed with slow, deliberate malice, brushing against rooftops and grinding shutters off windows with its hardened suckers. It hissed when it met sunlight. But it never stopped.

Above the town, hanging in the broken center of the sky like a cracked egg suspended in eternity, the Diary floated—ripped open, its pages spiraling endlessly inwards like a galaxy consuming itself. From its core leaked shadow and fluid thought. And from that tear in space… the tentacles kept birthing.

One, two, a hundred, more.

The Diary hovered in silence, torn and trembling, until an astral orb formed around it—sudden, absolute. Swirling with stars and alien sigils, the orb shimmered like a tear in reality itself. Everything material recoiled; magic failed, weapons bent, even time halted near its surface. The Diary was no longer of this world—suspended, sealed in cosmic stillness. Tentacles writhed nearby but dared not touch. The orb pulsed once, quietly, as if something within had begun to awaken.

Tentacles slithered out like veins across heaven's ceiling—some as thick as carriages, others no wider than needles—but all of them pulsed with something old, hungry, and watching. They grew without haste, curling like vines along towers, burrowing through walls, cracking the very ground beneath the ancient bricks of Prada.

Gas lamps flickered even in daylight. The air trembled. The sky held its breath.

Vanguard sirens never rang. But their messengers were already scattered across the streets—black coats fluttering, silver pins shining like stars in the storm.

"Remain in your homes," one of them declared from atop a rusted tower, voice magnified through a Dream Rune embedded in his throat. "No one is to exit. All windows covered. Do not look at the sky. Do not make contact with the black vines."

Another Vanguard, blood already staining his white gloves, moved door to door, whispering the Protocol of Silent Hours: "Do not pray. Do not cry. Fear is food to what's coming. Hide your souls beneath your skin."

A child peeked through a crack in a boarded window.

She saw it.

The tentacle near her home didn't move like the others.

It breathed.

It had... eyes.

No—mouths.

Each suction seemed to stretch open slightly, revealing rows of glistening, jagged teeth. Some laughed—softly. Others mimicked voices: the girl's own mother, her own voice, her father's lullabies. She stepped back. Her body refused to scream. Her heart beat in reverse.

From the sky, the Diary flickered—once—like an old lantern. Then it grew darker.

More tentacles came. One scraped the town's old chapel bell and it sang a broken, out-of-tune note that resounded through every skull in Prada. It wasn't just sound—it was memory, a regret. A cry from something that shouldn't be alive anymore.

Some Vanguards were already dead. Not in body, but mind—frozen, twitching, their eyes hollowed out, forced to relive personal shames over and over as the tendrils wrapped around them and whispered stories into their ears.

Above it all, the Diary floated gently.

Unreadable now.

A book not meant for mortals anymore.

From its ruptured center leaked not just ink—but possibilities. Roads to other truths, shards of dead timelines still screaming, still clawing for existence. Somewhere inside the void, unborn creatures tried to swim into being. Some succeeded.

And still the tentacles came.

Not fast but inevitable.

A whisper drifted into the minds of those sensitive enough to listen:

"This is not invasion. This is correction. All timelines will rot until the correct one thrives."

"You tore the seal."

"You are now being rewritten."

And then silence returned.

....

Henry and Jeff sprinted through the twisting corridors of the ruin, their footsteps resounding against the cracked stone walls. The cold air bit at their skin, but neither seemed to care. Between heavy breaths, their usual banter bounced back and forth.

"You still dragging that rust bucket around? Thought you'd have upgraded by now," Jeff teased, dodging a falling shard of plaster.

Henry shot back, "Better old and reliable than flashy and dead. Remember who pulled your sorry ass out of that pit last month?"

Jeff grinned. "Tsk. But at least I'm not the guy who nearly got us lost in a graveyard."

Their laughter was brief, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence of the ruin. At a fork in the path, Jeff slowed, peering down the left corridor.

"This is where we split," he said, breath hitching. "You've got to get back. Don't forget what's waiting for you."

Henry's smile faltered. "Yeah... I've been so caught up with everything—roaming the ruins, dealing with those nightmares—I forgot Mimi and the others. My own pets."

Jeff stepped closer, his voice softer, almost brotherly. "They're your home. Don't let the world swallow you whole."

Henry's eyes shimmered. "Thanks, Jeff. For always being the voice of reason... or the annoying one."

Jeff chuckled. "Maybe a bit of both. Now go get home safe."

They shared a quiet moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. Then, with a last nod, they parted ways. Jeff disappearing into the shadows as Henry hurried toward home.

....

The streets blurred around him.

Henry ran like a man possessed, heart pounding against his ribs, breath tearing through his throat. Sweat clung to his face, dirt smudging the corners of his eyes, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Please be okay... please be okay...

His mind was stuck on one thing—

Mimi amd Her kittens.

He hadn't thought of them. Not once during the chaos. Not once when the alarms blared. Not when the ground split or when the town spiraled into madness. But now, as he darted past ruins and burning signs, their little meows came in his skull like ghost bells.

The neighborhood came into view.

His home stood crooked in the distance, smoke curling from its side but still upright.

Henry let out a breath of shattered relief, slowing—just a bit. "Hang on, guys… Daddy's here…"

And then—

BOOM.

A deafening blast split the air.

A flash of orange light.

The earth roared.

The house erupted in flames. Splinters and shingles shot into the sky like dying birds. A wave of heat slammed Henry in the chest, hurling him backward. He hit the ground, hard. Dirt filled his mouth.

He didn't feel the pain.

Just the sound. That one sound that followed the silence.

Crackling fire.

And nothing else.

His trembling hand reached forward. His lips moved. But no words came out.

The place that held his peace—

Was gone.

The world was ash and heat.

Henry pushed through the broken frame of his once-home, coughing as smoke clawed at his lungs. Every step crunched glass and splintered wood underfoot. Flames licked the walls, shadows danced wildly, but he moved forward like a man chasing a ghost.

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of burning memories.

He staggered through the warped hallway, the roof above creaking, groaning.

Then—

"Meow."

His breath hitched.

Again. Louder this time.

"Meow!"

Henry turned his head sharply, eyes scanning the ruin. He stepped over a charred plank, peeled back a fallen door, then froze.

A soft golden glow shimmered in the smoke ahead.

There, amidst crumbled rubble and flickering firelight, lay a woman.

She wasn't old. Her skin was pale like moonlight, and her long silver hair spilled around her like a halo. She wore a tattered white chiton, stained with soot and blood. Her wings—angelic, ethereal, real—were bruised and folded beneath her. She wasn't moving much, just breathing faintly.

Curled beside her, completely unharmed, were Marsh and Jeena.

The two kittens meowed, blinking up at Henry like nothing had happened, purring softly against the woman's arms.

Henry's legs weakened. His heartbeat crashed in his ears.

He didn't speak, he ouldn't.

He just stepped forward, one foot at a time, toward the impossible.

Toward the bruised angel cradling his kittens in a burning ruin.

Scene: The Ashes Where Wings Fell

The world had quieted.

The flames still danced, yes—but softer now, as if they too knew to lower their voices in the presence of something sacred. Henry sat down slowly, knees pressing into the cracked floorboards that once held the comfort of a home. The smoke parted like a curtain, and there she was—wounded, radiant, still breathing.

The Angel stirred.

Eyes, luminous like pale suns behind storm clouds, blinked slowly. Her lips parted with a trembling breath. The feathers of her wings were singed and bent, but still they shimmered faintly beneath the soot.

Henry pulled Marsh and Jeena close, his trembling fingers combing through their fur. His lips parted, dry and numb.

"…Mimi?"

The name slipped out like a prayer, like the sound of hope crawling out of a broken man.

The Angel looked at him. She didn't flinch. She didn't deny.

She smiled.

Soft. Apologetic. Wounded.

Her voice came like music lost to wind, delicate and pained, "I'm sorry, Henry… I wasn't supposed to stay this long."

Henry's heart slowed. Or maybe it stopped.

He whispered, "What… do you mean?"

"I don't want to be a wound you carry. I want to be a lesson you outgrew. If I ever mattered… then love yourself enough to forget me." He said as she spit out golden blood. Henry hurrily covered her mouth and tried to find water in the ruin.

She looked away, her gaze distant, like someone watching a horizon that only she could see.

"I couldn't let them be alone. You… I wanted to stay beside you all. Just a little longer. But the veil is thinning. My time… it's over."

Henry's fingers clutched the kittens tightly, as if afraid they too would vanish.

"You're Mimi," he said. "You're my Mimi…"

She reached out, one bruised hand brushing his cheek with the ghost of warmth. "Take care of them. And of yourself."

Henry shook his head, tears not yet falling—but his chest was full of them.

"No. No, you don't get to just say that and leave. You don't get to go."

She smiled again, weakly. "You'll be okay."

"No, I won't," he muttered. "I don't even remember how to smile anymore."

Her eyes softened.

And then, with quiet strength, she pulled herself up—slow, aching—and leaned into him. Arms around his back. Wings folding gently in. Her face pressed to the curve of his shoulder.

"I will always love you, Henry," she whispered. "Even in silence. Even if you forget me tomorrow. My love will still be in the breath of morning. In the warmth of their fur. In the way you hold them when the world is cruel."

Henry said nothing. He couldn't. The words were choking him from the inside.

She pulled back.

And then, without tears or struggle, she picked herself up into his arms. He held her like a stranger holding a memory—tenderly, reverently, fearfully.

She was weightless, like a dream made of dust.

Henry stared into her fading eyes. She had the face of someone who had wept too long and now only smiled for others. Her expression was calm, too calm. Like she'd already said goodbye long ago and just waited for him to catch up.

He looked at the gray sky through the crumbled roof. Smoke drifted upward.

He wanted to cry.

But he had long since forgotten how.

So he sat there with a blank face , arms full, soul breaking. And the sky watched him in silence, as if mourning something it once knew.

.....

Father Vain Ford stood quietly at a distance, his silhouette framed by the fading light. His eyes, deep and unreadable, traced the ruin below, absorbing the weight of what had transpired. The world around him seemed suspended in a fragile stillness, broken only by the whisper of wind through shattered walls.

He did not move or speak—only watched, bearing the silent burden of countless battles fought and sacrifices made. As the last light dipped beneath the horizon, his presence lingered like a solemn vow, marking the end of one chapter and the uncertain beginning of another.

....