Miracleborn Saga

The sun hung low in the western sky, spilling amber light across the white-bricked homes of central Prada. Shadows stretched long and soft across the narrow alleyways, and the town had begun its slow descent into the hush of evening.

Henry sat on the balcony of his second-floor flat, legs propped over the stone rail, a modest ceramic bowl of salted nuts in his lap. The breeze drifted lazily through the open archways, stirring the light linen curtains behind him. The air smelled of river mist, jasmine, and distant firewood—but none of it came from his house.

Because unlike most homes along the outer quarters, Henry's home wasn't made of wood.

It was solid, whitewashed stone, thick-walled and built in the older imperial style. The coolness of the material helped on hot days, and the silence it provided helped him think—or avoid thinking, depending on the hour.

On the balcony ledge beside him lay Mimi, tail flicking slowly, watching the rooftops like a noble overseeing her realm.

Henry held up a nut to her. "No, not for you. Salted."

Mimi blinked slowly, unimpressed, and resumed watching birds.

He chuckled softly and leaned back in his chair, chewing.

A long silence passed between them—the kind only possible when one of the two was a cat.

Eventually, Henry spoke again. "Y'know, I think I've officially gone mad."

Mimi didn't disagree.

He picked up another nut, then let it fall into the bowl. "I saw something today… something big. Eyeball. Tentacles. Dripping something off its fur—how does that even make sense?" He sighed. "And I drank it all down like tea."

Another long pause.

Then, quieter—he added, "Zach would've made a joke about it. Said I was cursed by a soup god or something."

His smile faded.

The image of Zach's body in the street flashed in his mind again, sharp and wrong.

"…I don't think that was random," Henry whispered. "I think it's all connected. The dream. The phrase. The eye. Him."

Mimi turned her gaze toward him.

Henry didn't meet her eyes.

He just stared out over the rooftops of Prada, where the last rays of the sun bled into the quiet town.

And somewhere deep inside him, a new question began to form.

Not what is happening to me…

But—

Why me?

The shadows had begun to stretch—no longer soft and golden, but tinged with the grey stillness of late noon, that liminal hour where the day holds its breath before dusk arrives. The warmth of the sun was fading, but hadn't quite surrendered. A hush lingered in the cityscape—Prada, ancient and tired, sitting beneath a sky of deepening blue.

Henry leaned against the cold stone railing of his balcony, arms folded, jaw set. The ceramic bowl of nuts had been forgotten beside him. Mimi rested in the corner now, one eye half-closed, ears twitching at the distant sound of a lute from a far street.

But Henry's mind was not here.

It had drifted back to the Father's words, not the cryptic half-truths or jokes, but the part that lingered in the marrow:

"As a Watcher, you have two Luck Points. Each one is a coin in a game you didn't choose. Use them… and whatever you do will succeed. No failure. No risk. But never without consequence. Your Luck points will recharge after every 24 hours."

Henry clenched his jaw.

Two.

Only two.

It sounded like a gift, but felt like a loaded dagger handed politely with a smile. A Luck Point—a divine insurance policy against failure, fate, and the grotesque roulette of existence. You could save a life, dodge a sword, open a sealed truth, or even reshape a moment meant to be irreversible.

But it was the weight that disturbed him.

Because the Watcher's Route wasn't about control. It was about awareness. About seeing too much, too deeply. About knowing that every choice leads to ten unseen branches. The power of luck wasn't just about success—it was about accepting that success means something else must fail.

And only two.

Two chances in an entire lifetime where you could say:

This must go right.

And the universe would obey.

Henry's grip on the railing tightened. The thought of using them now—so early, so blindly—made his stomach twist. But not using them at all? What if he wasted them by hesitating? What if something… irreversible happened again?

Like Zach.

He closed his eyes and whispered to himself, voice low and bitter:

"Two coins to rewrite fate…

and a thousand chances to ruin everything else."

Mimi stretched, yawned, and padded over beside him.

Henry didn't move.

He just watched the horizon as the sun slipped further away,

and wondered what it meant to hold luck in a world that had none.

Prada – Midday Pulse

"Sometimes, fate sends a whisper through a scream."

---

Henry sat cross-legged on the floor of his drawing room, a patch of sunlight resting at his side. Mimi sprawled on her back nearby, belly shamelessly exposed, one paw twitching with the remnants of a dream—or the echoes of something unseen. A few scraps of salted bread crusts sat between them, remnants of a lunch neither truly cared to finish.

"So then," Henry said, biting off a dry corner, "you're telling me I should've joined the Miracle Invokers ten years ago and saved myself the trouble?"

Mimi rolled to her side and flicked her tail in protest.

"I agree," he chuckled. "They probably don't offer dental."

Mimi sneezed.

Henry chuckled again, eyes drifting toward the street through his arched stone window. The sunlight outside glowed richly on the cobbled roads and cream-colored buildings of central Prada. The world looked quiet. Almost normal.

Until—

A small movement caught his eye.

A woman passed below, her shawl gently rippling in the wind. In her arms, nestled against her chest, was a newborn child, swaddled in pale green cloth, cheeks flushed with the softness only birth could give.

Henry's smile softened.

But then—

As the infant passed beneath the light, its head tilted back—and their eyes met.

And in that fraction of a second—

Vision.

A flash. A broken image.

The baby, crying. Blood? No.

Someone hurt. Falling.

A sharp twist of instinct told him—it wasn't the child. It was the mother.

Henry's legs moved before he had time to question.

He rushed down the stairs two at a time, bolting into the street, scanning the crowd. The world pulsed with that same low pressure he remembered from the dream. Reality bent ever so slightly around him, as if aware of what was about to happen.

And then it did.

The mother slipped.

Her foot caught on a protruding stone. Her body began to twist. The child tumbled from her arms. No one reacted fast enough.

Henry gasped, hand stretching forward—

And then—

Time shattered.

Not in noise. In stillness.

Everything froze.

A bird hung mid-flap. A merchant mid-shout, mouth open. Even Henry himself was locked in place—only his mind still alive, floating inside his body.

And with it, came the awareness.

" This happens when I think too deeply… too seriously… when I sense the break in fate.

My Route. The Watcher. "

He saw everything. The angle of the fall. The arc of the child. The precise heartbeat where pain would become irreversible.

He knew he was too slow.

He had no time.

Unless—

Unless he used it.

A Luck Point.

Twelve hours to recharge.

One absolute success. One unchangeable win.

Inside the frozen world, Henry whispered mentally:

I will not let this child grow up motherless. The moment the decision clicked in his soul.

Time snapped back.

The bird flew. The merchant shouted. The mother fell.

But Henry's body moved faster than physics allowed.

He surged forward, hand catching the woman by her waist and the child in the same motion, rolling with practiced grace as if he had done it a hundred times.

The mother gasped, cradling her child.

She hadn't even realized she was falling.

Henry stood still for a second, heartbeat loud in his ears.

The world was normal again.

But somewhere in the air—

Luck had answered.

And it had marked him.

Mimi, still lounging on the balcony far above, sneezed again.

Henry exhaled.

And looked at the clocktower:

02:03 PM.

Twelve hours until the next Luck points.

The woman steadied herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her child, eyes wide with confusion.

"I—did I stumble?" she asked aloud, glancing at the uneven cobblestone. "I must've... how clumsy of me—"

Henry offered a soft smile, brushing dust from his coat sleeve. "It happens to all of us."

The mother looked at him, searching his face, clearly aware something more had occurred—but unsure what.

Then the infant let out a gentle coo, blinking up with glassy brown eyes that shimmered like honey under the sun. A small hand grasped at the air, tiny fingers curling and uncurling like the world was still new and unsorted.

Henry knelt slightly, gazing at the baby.

"She's... adorable," he said gently. "Soft like dawn. You've been gifted a light in this heavy world."

The mother smiled, some tension fading from her shoulders. "Thank you. Her name is Elsra."

Henry nodded, not letting a flicker of what almost happened show on his face.

He stepped back, gave a polite bow—nothing dramatic—and turned to leave without another word.

He didn't want gratitude.

He didn't want questions.

He didn't even want to think about the fact that time had broken itself so he could act.

The walk home was quieter than before.

No birds. No bells. Just his boots tapping against the familiar roads, echoing back at him like a thought unspoken.

Henry's expression darkened as he climbed the stairs to his white-bricked flat.

One Luck Point gone.

Used well. But spent.

He could still feel the strange energy crackling faintly beneath his skin—like remnants of something bigger than him had briefly used him as a vessel. His fingertips tingled, and behind his eyes, the world felt a little sharper.

He closed the door behind him, bolting it quietly.

Mimi looked up from her perch on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily.

Henry didn't say anything.

He just leaned his back against the door and sighed—long, slow, and heavy with thought.

"What if I hadn't?" he muttered under his breath. "What if I had hesitated?"

His stomach growled in reply.

He blinked.

"Right. Of course. Cosmic panic and starvation go hand in hand."

With a weary smirk, he pushed off the door, walked to the small stone counter, and began rummaging for whatever meal made the least noise.

The world hadn't ended today.

But his hunger? That was immediate.

Henry rolled up his sleeves and stood before the small stone hearth in his kitchen. The midday sun filtered through the stained-glass window, scattering fragments of color across the tiled floor, painting reds and greens like a forgotten cathedral.

His flat was quiet—too quiet, maybe—but warm. Clean shelves lined with old books, a few potted herbs near the sink, a hanging lantern above the dining table. For all its peace, the house gave little hint of its outer face: a modest, narrow structure that looked like it should have collapsed years ago. Anyone passing by might mistake it for abandoned.

But inside, it felt like a world carefully built—like Henry had carved himself a sanctuary, piece by piece, against time.

He turned his attention back to the pan.

A little olive oil. Bread. Something light. He had skipped breakfast, after all.

But as he reached for the iron pan and tipped it toward the fire—

"Tsssss—!"

A flick of oil spat from the pan and licked the back of his hand, burning fast and sharp.

"Damn—!" He hissed and dropped the spatula, shaking his hand, fingers clenched, eyes watering slightly from the sting.

For a moment, everything went still.

And then, like a whisper pulled from the attic of his mind—

he heard her voice.

"Again, Henry? Are you trying to burn the house down this time or just the soup?"

"Let it go, Mother," the younger version of him had mumbled.

"Let you go near a fire and we'll need three priests and a new ceiling."

The memory wasn't cruel—it was teasing, warm, mocking in that maternal way that wrapped love in insult. But it still made his throat tighten.

He sat down at the kitchen bench, hand resting in a cool cloth, eyes staring at the flickering hearth.

His thoughts wandered deeper now.

Childhood.

No friends to call for.

He never played ball with the others in the town square. Not because he wasn't allowed—but because no one ever passed him the ball. All he could was just to Watch. Once, he tried throwing it to the baker's boy and it had smacked the edge of a cart, rolled into a puddle, and the others had laughed.

That silence—the one between being noticed and being pitied—was something he had never grown out of.

He exhaled.

The sting on his hand was minor. But the ache in his chest wasn't.

Mimi jumped up onto the table beside him, head tilting curiously.

Henry gave her a weak smile. "Still can't cook, still can't throw… but hey, I've made peace with tentacle gods. That's something."

Mimi meowed, unimpressed.

And Henry, despite everything, chuckled softly.