Miracleborn Saga

The sun hung slightly westward now, casting long shadows across the marbled plazas of central Prada. The town had slipped into its afternoon rhythm—traders lowering their voices, noblemen leaving tea houses, and the ever-present sound of polished boots tapping stone.

Henry walked the winding streets alone, wrapped in his long brown leather coat, creased at the elbows from age and wear. The collar turned slightly up, catching the light breeze. A Fedora hat rested on his head, angled just enough to shade his eyes without blocking his view.

His pace was even, deliberate. Not rushed—but not casual either.

He was headed somewhere that mattered.

The Vanguard Administrative Facility stood near the inner quarter—a stately structure, carved in pale, polished stone. The building stretched wide with gentle arches and a balustrade framing its roofline. Flags bearing the insignia of the Vanguard—a shield pierced by a vertical sword—waved silently in the wind above.

Despite the stone and formality, there was no lifelessness to it. There were carriages parked at its side, wheels still warm from recent travel. Two officials argued quietly near the entrance steps, one holding a clipboard, the other holding a worn leather satchel. A courier boy sprinted by holding sealed letters, nearly colliding with Henry as he climbed the stairs.

Inside, the marble floor gave way to polished blackwood counters. Shelves with labeled scrolls and drawers marked with brass plates stretched across the lobby walls. A subtle scent of ink, lacquer, and worn parchment hung in the air—like authority built over decades.

Henry stepped forward to one of the counters.

A junior Vanguard clerk, no older than twenty-five, stood behind it, dressed in a clean navy-blue uniform with gold buttons, a sword holstered at his hip more for symbol than function.

"Application for enlistment or administrative license?" the young man asked, glancing up.

Henry removed his hat slowly, brushing a finger along the brim. "Enlistment. Civilian division. I'm not interested in frontline work."

The clerk raised an eyebrow. "Civilian division? Rare these days. Plenty of blood, not enough paper."

Henry smirked. "Paper doesn't bleed when you cut it right."

The clerk offered a thin, amused nod and passed a form and quill across the desk.

Henry took his time, filling out the boxes:

Name. Age. Prior education. Affiliation. Mental state. Emergency contact.

He paused at that last one. Left it blank.

As he scratched his signature across the bottom, the clerk asked curiously, "You come from the university?"

"Graduated yesterday," Henry muttered without looking up.

"Congratulations. Why Vanguard?"

Henry placed the quill down. "Because I've seen enough to know that law is just war in cleaner clothes. And I prefer clean clothes."

The clerk blinked.

Henry tipped his Fedora back on. "Where do I submit?"

"Room twelve. Down the hall, second left. You'll be processed by someone who looks far too tired to care."

Henry nodded once and walked away without another word.

But deep inside, behind the calm gait and sharp coat—

he knew something was already shifting.

The walls of Room Twelve were less ornate than the lobby—stone lined with muted tapestries and shelves filled with outdated legal tomes, faded banners from past regional campaigns, and a faint scent of dust and polished metal. A single arched window let in natural light, where flecks of air shimmered lazily in the sunbeam.

Henry stood straight, hat in hand, coat unbuttoned, facing the desk where a mid-ranking Vanguard Officer—square-jawed, gray-stubbled, eyes like a ledger with no margin for mistakes—flipped slowly through the form Henry had just submitted.

The officer clicked his tongue lightly and set the document down.

"Everything seems… orderly," he said, tone neutral but not unfriendly. "Prada Military University. Three years. General Philosophy, mastered in History and Civil Conduct. Application to civilian-intelligence tier." His eyes flicked up. "What made you pick that over fieldwork or enforcement?"

Henry offered a measured smile. "Because pens stain less than swords."

The officer didn't smile back. "Fair."

He leaned back in his chair slightly, one boot resting on the leg of the desk. "You'll need to sit for a Viva Voce before we can push your file forward. Standard protocol for civilians entering from intellectual backgrounds. Can't have half-baked minds in sensitive departments."

Henry's smile didn't falter, but something in his throat tightened. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning. First bell. Be sharp. The panel's not generous with second chances."

Henry gave a small nod, careful not to let his inner thoughts show.

So much for slipping in quietly...

"Anything I should prepare?" he asked.

The officer shrugged. "They'll ask theory. History. Crisis procedure. Maybe a few personal cases—see how you'd handle stress. Some of them are there to push you. Don't take it personally."

Henry nodded again, this time slower.

"Right," he said. "That makes sense."

"Report back here with your entry token before dawn. Someone will escort you to the hearing chamber."

Henry took the stamped token the officer held out and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. As he stepped out of the room and back into the lobby, his thoughts moved faster than his steps.

I need this job to stay low. Blend in. Eat, live, work. The Miracle Invoker thing… it can't become my whole life.

I didn't choose this path, but I can still choose where I walk.

The sunlight outside was starting to dim toward gold again.

He pulled on his Fedora, exhaled once through his nose, and walked back toward the streets of Prada, preparing himself not for a test of knowledge but a test of who he could pretend to be.

....

The stone house was quiet when Henry returned—shadows long across the floor, a golden hue spilling in through the arched windows. Dust motes drifted lazily in the warm air as if time itself had grown drowsy. The scent of chamomile and wood polish lingered faintly from the cleaning he'd done days before.

He took off his Fedora, set it on the wall hook, and unfastened his coat, placing it gently on the wooden rack by the door. His boots clicked softly against the floor as he walked through the living room and into the hallway that led to his study—and beyond that, the small woven rug beside the hearth.

It was there he heard it.

A sound, so soft it was almost imagined.

A squeak, barely more than a breath.

Henry paused. His brow furrowed.

Then he stepped into the room slowly—eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze toward the wicker basket beside the low cabinet.

And there, nestled in the folds of a thick woolen cloth, lay two impossibly small kittens—barely larger than his palm, blind and squirming, tiny bodies pulsing gently with fragile warmth.

Mimi sat beside them, upright and proud, her tail curled protectively around her newborns. Her eyes met Henry's with a kind of knowing. She blinked slowly.

He knelt down, breath caught in his chest.

"…You did it."

He reached out a single finger, and one of the kittens instinctively wriggled toward it, brushing its little head into the side of his nail.

"This one's Jeena," he said softly, recognizing the thinner frame and curled tail. "And the other… Marsh."

The names came quickly. He'd thought of them once, in passing, as if preparing for something he didn't dare assume would arrive.

He hadn't even realized Mimi had been pregnant again—not fully. He'd seen the signs, of course, but she was so private, so composed. And after Lorn—his old male cat—had died from that sudden illness three months ago, he hadn't expected life to continue this way.

"I guess he left a little something behind... a family." Henry murmured, brushing a tear from the edge of his eye before it could fall.

He sat cross-legged by the basket, simply watching. Mimi gave a short, approving purr before lowering her head to lick one of the kittens clean.

Henry exhaled, a weight in his chest softening.

He knew about kittens. Their timing. Their feeding. How careful you had to be with temperature, with scent, with noise. He'd raised two litters before, long ago. When things were quieter.

He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

The world outside was full of crumbling time, dead friends, gods and fate bending in corners he couldn't see.

But here—right here, in a basket woven by hand—

Life had arrived.

Uninvited. Quiet. Perfect.

The evening had settled with the softness of a closing eyelid.

The last rays of sunlight filtered through the tall arched window beside the bed, casting gentle gold over the quiet room. The walls were made of smooth stone and painted with fading pigments—soft ochres, forest greens. A shelf ran above the headboard, lined with old books, stacked letters, a chipped hourglass, and a few smooth stones Henry had once picked up during long walks.

At the far corner of the room stood his reading table, carved of black walnut, aged and beautifully worn. A single brass lamp with a green-tinted shade flickered gently above it, casting its glow on the spread of paper and parchment below.

Henry sat hunched over, coat hanging on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled just past his elbows. His hand rested on an open page, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the margin as his eyes scanned the ink.

On the floor behind him, Marsh and Jeena, the newborn kittens, fumbled and tumbled over each other, clumsy and soft, chasing imaginary foes. Mimi lounged nearby, tail flicking in satisfaction, watching them with silent pride.

Henry smiled faintly, gaze lifting from the text.

The sight warmed something in his chest—a warmth too old to be called simple.

He thought for a moment.

"What would it feel like to have a sibling?"

The idea drifted into his mind like a question asked long ago but never answered. Someone to lean on. Someone who understood the silence behind your words. Someone who stayed.

Maybe they would've played in the streets of Prada, laughing at things only they understood. Maybe someone would've passed him the ball.

He looked down at Marsh, now attempting to stand on Jeena, who squeaked in protest and rolled aside.

He gave a soft chuckle.

Maybe it would've been like this. Stumbling through life together. Falling, but not falling alone.

He turned his attention back to the book before him.

The cover was aged, leather-bound, faded with time. Gold-lettered in High Franciscan:

"The Anatomy of the Mind and Its Shadows"

By Doctor Renaldi of the Francis Kingdom

It had taken him a whole year to save enough to buy this copy. A rare edition, imported from across the strait. He remembered holding it for the first time—feeling like he'd stolen a piece of truth from the world.

He flipped the page slowly.

Diagrams of thought processes, emotional resonance cycles, case studies of trauma victims and recovering soldiers. Marginal notes in Renaldi's precise hand, footnotes, contradictions, amended theories.

Henry inhaled deeply. The scent of old paper always made the room feel fuller.

He underlined a passage:

"The mind does not bend to logic—it yields only to understanding, which is messier, slower, and infinitely more human."

He paused.

Then wrote in the margin, in his own tidy script:

"Maybe that's why we break first—before we learn anything."

Outside, the wind brushed softly against the windowpane.

Inside, two kittens played in the glow of a flickering lamp,

and a boy, once alone, turned the page.

The brass lamp hummed faintly, casting its dim green glow over the pages like mosslight in a forgotten temple. Outside the stone window, the skies of Prada had faded into a deep blue-black. The wind had quieted, and the air now hung heavy with the stillness of night's approach.

Henry, seated at his old black walnut reading table, rubbed his temples slowly. His eyes had dulled, once sharp with curiosity but now glazed with fatigue. He stared at the open book, "The Anatomy of the Mind and Its Shadows," its dense paragraphs bleeding into one another like waves of ink.

He leaned forward, rereading the same sentence for the third time:

"A repressed trauma, when locked into the fourth layer of ego, often manifests through subconscious displacement—frequently in symbols tied to cultural, environmental, or inherited emotional memory."

He blinked.

Then sighed.

"Brilliant," he muttered. "But tell that to someone panicking in a bakery queue."

He tossed the quill gently to the side and closed the book with a soft thump. The sound echoed a little too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

He slouched in the chair, head tilting back until it hit the cold wall behind him. A long breath escaped his chest—more from boredom than exhaustion. The day had drained him, the book demanded more than his brain could give, and now the silence felt less like peace and more like numbness.

Across the room, Marsh and Jeena were curled up now, tiny purring lumps nestled beneath the edge of a hanging cloak. Mimi was nowhere to be seen, likely perched on some window ledge or quietly judging him from a shadowed corner.

Henry stared up at the ceiling and muttered, "I'm twenty-four, graduated, and still feel like I've got less control over life than a kitten trying to fight a curtain."

He chuckled faintly at his own joke, but there was no joy behind it.

Just thought.

Idle, looping thought.

The kind that made reading books on psychology feel more like staring into a mirror—until even the mirror got bored and turned away.

He stood up slowly, stretched his arms with a soft groan, and gave the book one last look.

Then turned off the lamp.

And let the silence settle in again.