Miracleborn Saga

The afternoon sun filtered through the dusty air, casting soft golden streaks across the stone-paved street. The town buzzed gently in the background—vendors shouting over fruit stands, wheels of a passing cart creaking, a dog barking somewhere out of sight. It was a peaceful hour, the kind that made even time seem to slow down.

Allen and Henry sat on an old bench beside a narrow alleyway, tucked between a candle shop and a rust-colored wall smudged with old charcoal graffiti. The bench was slightly slanted, worn from years of use, and one of its legs creaked whenever someone shifted. Allen sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands locked together tightly. He hadn't said a word since they sat down. His golden hair fell into his eyes, catching sunlight that did little to soften the stiffness in his face.

Henry leaned back, stretching his legs out, eyes following a pair of kids skipping stones into a nearby gutter. The silence was starting to get too thick to ignore.

"You know," Henry said, not looking at him, "I never really asked where you're from."

Allen didn't answer.

"Did you grow up in the east?" Henry went on casually. "Near the coast, maybe? Or—were your parents from here?"

Allen's hands tensed.

Henry noticed, hesitated a little, but kept his tone light. "I just wondered, y'know. You never mention them. How did you end up at the Church anyway?"

There was a long pause. The sounds of town life faded to the background as Allen slowly raised his head. His eyes, when they met Henry's, were cold and hard, but not cruel. Something older than his age sat behind them.

"I killed them."

Henry blinked. "What?"

"I killed my parents," Allen said, voice flat, jaw tight. "I didn't want to. I don't even know why. Something happened. Something was wrong. And then they were dead."

His voice didn't shake, but his fingers had gone pale from how tightly he was gripping them together. He looked back down at the ground, his expression unreadable.

Henry opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words felt suddenly useless.

"I don't talk about them," Allen said after a moment, quieter now. "Don't ask again."

The bench creaked faintly as Henry shifted, sitting up straighter. The warm afternoon air pressed down on them both, heavy now with something unspoken. He nodded once, more to himself than to Allen.

"Alright," he said softly. "I won't."

And they sat like that—two boys in the middle of a slow-moving world—while the wind carried on, brushing past them as if nothing had been said at all.

The late afternoon sun dipped lower, softening the light into amber hues that poured gently across the street. The town had quieted—vendors packing up their stalls, children called home, the wind picking up traces of dust as it danced along the stones. On the bench beneath the fading sky, Henry leaned back with a lazy grin, trying to coax something—anything—out of the silence.

"So then I told him," Henry said, laughing to himself, "if the chicken's still alive, that's not stew—that's kidnapping."

He chuckled, nudging Allen with his elbow. Allen didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched—barely, faintly, but enough. His eyes, though, remained locked on the horizon, where the rooftops caught the sun like dying embers.

Henry kept going, tossing out another joke, this one about a tailor who mistook a bishop's robe for curtains. He talked with his hands, his voice lively, as if the weight of the world hadn't pressed down on them just moments ago. There was something reckless about his optimism—like a candle burning stubbornly against the wind.

Allen watched him, saying nothing. Yet the longer he looked, the more he felt something stir. Not warmth. Not even nostalgia. But recognition.

Henry laughed again, this time louder, throwing his head back with exaggerated flair.

And in that moment, Allen saw someone else. A smaller boy—himself, long ago. Sitting barefoot by a river. Laughing over a joke his mother had told, throwing pebbles into the water, not knowing what sorrow felt like. Not yet.

That boy was dead now.

"Why do you do that?" Allen asked quietly.

Henry blinked. "Do what?"

"Laugh like nothing's broken."

Henry shrugged, still smiling. "Because if I don't, I'll probably start crying. And once I do, I'm not sure I'll stop."

Allen turned his gaze away again, breathing out slowly. The world around them felt distant. Unreal.

"I used to laugh like that too," he said after a while. "Before I realized what people really are."

Henry frowned but didn't interrupt.

"They smile at you while hiding knives behind their backs. They teach you to love, then punish you for feeling it. They create rules they don't follow, and call it justice. They promise things they never intend to give. And when they hurt you, they tell you it's your fault for trusting them."

His hands, clasped tightly in his lap, trembled slightly.

"I didn't understand how cruel life could be," Allen continued. "Not until I saw what people are willing to do. What I was capable of doing."

He went quiet again, eyes following the soft drift of a torn paper fluttering across the street.

"Maybe laughter is just denial in disguise," he murmured. "A fragile lie we tell ourselves to avoid the truth—that the world doesn't care whether we live or die. That all of this," he gestured vaguely to the street, the sky, everything, "means nothing."

Henry was silent now, the smile fading slowly from his face.

"But you still laugh," Allen added, turning his head slightly. "And maybe... that's what makes you stronger than the rest."

For a moment, the wind held its breath.

Henry looked at him, the weight of Allen's words settling in his chest.

"I don't know if it's strength," he said quietly, "or just me being stupid."

Allen gave a dry exhale. Not quite a laugh. But not empty either.

As the sun dipped below the rooftops, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, two boys in a world too vast, too cruel, too complicated to ever make sense of—but still moving forward, even if only by inches.

The afternoon calm suddenly broke as a shadow darted between the bustling crowd—a scruffy thief slipping a hand into an unsuspecting woman's purse. Henry, who had just been about to stand, tensed instinctively, ready to chase after the thief. But then he caught Allen's eye. Allen, surprisingly calm, had something curled delicately in his palm—a spider, its legs twitching softly.

The thief, pocketing the purse, rounded the corner and met a bulky man waiting nearby—the obvious boss. With a triumphant grin, the thief slapped the purse into the man's hands like a prize. Both chuckled, smug and confident.

But then, the man opened the purse—only to find the tiny spider squirming inside, not the expected loot. The thief's face froze, confusion and horror spreading like wildfire. The boss stared, then burst into laughter, slapping the thief's shoulder as if to say, "You fool."

Back at the bench, Allen strolled calmly toward a flustered woman who was frantically patting her pockets. Without a word, he held out the purse. The woman blinked, stunned, before grabbing it. Before she could even manage a "thank you," Allen had already turned and slipped back onto the bench, sitting as if nothing had happened.

He muttered under his breath, barely audible, "I am not worthy of it."

Henry and the nearby crowd stared, mouths agape. Not a single person expected that quiet, composed boy to be the hero—or that he would vanish so swiftly before the gratitude could catch up.

Henry leaned closer, eyes wide, still half-laughing from the scene he had just witnessed. The thief's face when the spider crawled out of the purse—it would haunt him in the best way for weeks. But his curiosity itched deeper.

He turned to Allen, who now sat quietly, hands folded in his lap like nothing unusual had happened.

"Wait—how?" Henry asked, voice low but urgent. "I saw it. That guy definitely stole the purse. But then you just... had it. What did you do?"

Allen didn't look at him right away. He watched a pigeon hop across the street, his golden eyes distant, unreadable. The wind tousled his hair slightly. Then, finally, he spoke—softly, almost like a confession.

"I swapped it."

Henry blinked. "Swapped it? With what?"

Allen raised his hand and opened his fingers. The spider was gone. "The spider."

Henry stared. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"But—how? That purse was yards away. You didn't even touch it."

Allen tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something distant inside himself. "I touched the spider. I touched the bag. That's all I need."

Henry's brow furrowed. "No, you didn't touch the bag—"

"I did," Allen interrupted, voice calm, eyes glinting now with something sharper. "I bound the touch."

A beat of silence. The wind blew past, ruffling the leaves above. Henry leaned in closer.

"Bound it? How?"

Allen turned his head just slightly, enough for Henry to see the flicker of something ancient and cunning in his expression.

"I used a Luck Point."

Henry sat back a little, surprised. "You're one of those...?"

Allen nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Gambler Path. Route -5, The Charlatan."

The name hung in the air like smoke.

"I can replace two things I've touched in the last few minutes," Allen said, voice low. "Even across distance. But if I haven't touched it... I cheat the system. One Luck Point. One favor from probability itself."

Henry gaped. "So you spent a Luck Point just to return a purse?"

Allen looked back at the street, the woman now hugging her belongings with a dazed smile.

"I spent it," he murmured, "because that man smiled when he stole it."

And that was it. Allen returned to silence. The bench creaked beneath them as Henry leaned back, eyebrows raised, mind racing.

He didn't understand half of what just happened—but he knew one thing for sure.

Allen Cocking Iverson was not someone to bet against.

Henry stood up, stretching his arms with a yawn before tightening the strap of his old brown hat. He gave Allen a lopsided grin.

"Well, that was something. I'll head back before my landlady thinks I vanished again. Don't stay out too long, yeah?"

Allen didn't answer. Just gave a faint nod without looking up.

"Right," Henry muttered, tapping the brim of his hat and walking off into the drifting glow of late afternoon.

The bench creaked again as Allen shifted slightly. A soft wind blew past, rustling his coat and lifting the edges of scattered papers across the street. Carriages rolled by with the usual rhythm—steady wheels, soft hoofbeats, the occasional call of a driver haggling with the crowd.

Allen reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single copper coin. He flipped it silently between his fingers—thumb to middle, back again—his eyes distant but movements precise. A crow cawed in the distance. Without looking, Allen flicked the coin up into the air. It spun, shimmered in the sunlight, and landed perfectly balanced on the bench's wooden edge.

He didn't even glance at it.

Instead, he pulled a bent playing card from his pocket—its face blank except for a faint, flickering symbol that seemed to change when not watched directly. He tapped it once against the bench, then slipped it away again, like sealing a silent pact.

His eyes finally drifted upward.

The sky above was a dull blue, streaked with faded clouds—calm, distant, unbothered by anything happening below. Allen stared into it without blinking, as if expecting something to answer back. His fingers, still resting on the coin, tapped once.

No words. No expression.

Just the stillness of a boy who walked the Charlatan's road—half-lie, half-luck, and all unreadable silence.

....

Henry walked along the quiet cobblestone path, the fading warmth of the sun brushing gently against his back. He adjusted the strap of his hat again, more out of habit than need, and kicked a loose pebble down the road as he went. The sounds of the town continued behind him—carriages rolling, voices murmuring, Allen's silence lingering like a ghost.

His thoughts wandered, drifting ahead of his steps.

Tomorrow.

It sounded simple, but it carried weight. Tomorrow, everything would change.

New faces. People he'd never met, watching him, judging him, expecting something. Some would smile too quickly, others wouldn't smile at all. He'd have to remember names, memorize ranks, shake hands with people who might one day die beside him—or before him.

New uniforms. Stiff fabric, polished boots, silver thread that caught too much light. He'd look the part now. Official. Presentable. Not just a boy anymore. A real piece in the machine.

And responsibilities.

That word clung to him like a second coat.

Not just rules and orders, but choices. Real ones. The kind that didn't always have a right answer. The kind that meant people would look to him when things went wrong.

He sighed, walking slower now. His home—if he could still call it that—wasn't far, just a narrow room above a bakery that smelled like flour and burnt sugar. He used to sit by the window and dream about days like tomorrow.

Now, standing on the edge of it, the dream felt heavier than he'd imagined.

Henry didn't stop walking, but he did glance over his shoulder once. The bench was out of sight. Allen, likely still sitting there, staring at the sky like he belonged to a different world.

Henry smiled faintly.

"New faces," he muttered. "Better keep my cards close."