Miracleborn Saga

The midday heat bore down on Prada like a weight pressing against the soul. Dust hovered in the air, caught between sunbeams slanting through the high, iron-ribbed windows of the Vanguard Station.

Inside, Henry moved through paperwork like a quiet storm—methodical, focused, sharp in his black Vanguard cloak. The silver star on his top hat gleamed faintly on the desk beside him, untouched.

A few desks away, Jeff leaned back in his chair, balancing a pen on his nose.

"I swear," Jeff muttered, "these reports are mating and reproducing."

Mary Janet, standing over him with arms crossed, replied dryly, "If you did half as much work as you did talking, we'd have ended the case three days ago."

Jeff pointed at her. "That's slander."

Henry looked up from his papers. "You two flirting or filing complaints?"

Jeff's pen clattered to the floor.

Mary didn't even blink. "He couldn't handle me."

Jeff grinned, retrieving the pen. "That's… absolutely true."

Henry pulled off his gloves, checked the time.

"I'm heading out," he said, already gathering his coat.

"Where to?" Jeff called.

"Walk," Henry answered without looking back. "Air's too still in here."

Mary arched a brow. "Don't get lost."

He gave no reply—only the faint rustle of his cloak as he turned the corner and disappeared down the hallway.

....

Outside, the air slapped him full of heat and noise.

Vendors shouted in the distance. The stone streets radiated warmth like coals beneath boot soles. Henry turned into a quiet alley, ducked into the shadows, and unfastened the buttons of his Vanguard uniform.

In the cool stillness of the alley, he swapped it for a simple collared vest, sleeves rolled, and over that he placed the brown overcoat. He adjusted his fedora hat, tilting the brim just enough to shade his eyes.

Gone was the image of the Vanguard.

In its place: something more subtle, more... deliberate.

Henry, the Watcher.

The man who walked two roads—one in the sun, and the other in the shade of deeper truths.

He crossed the stone bridge and followed a dirt path, sun glaring off rooftops and temple spires in the distance. The buildings thinned. Soon fences appeared—rough wooden posts enclosing canvas tents, fluttering in the hot wind. Long benches stood outside. A few foretellers lounged beneath parasols, smoking long pipes and murmuring to curious clients.

Henry stepped past the outer fence of the Foretelling Camp, weaving through the scent of incense and sunbaked wood.

He'd work the hour.

From 2:30 to 3:30.

No one asked him why.

No one noticed the shift in his eyes.

He passed under the tattered canvas arch of the camp's gate—and vanished inside.

The interior of the tent was dim, filled with lazy strands of smoke that curled upward from a brass incense bowl resting on a crooked wooden shelf. Faded scrolls lined the back wall, and tiny glass orbs hovered midair, slowly rotating—each filled with flickering candlelight.

Julius Constantine sat cross-legged at the center, sipping cold tea from a tin cup. He wore his usual rumpled white shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open. His eyes, pale red, flicked up as Henry entered, lifting the tent flap.

"Ah, Mr. Watcher," Julius said, smiling through a half-yawn. "You look like sin in that hat. In a good way."

Henry gave a faint smirk. "You drink anything hot, Julius?"

"Not since my third dream war," he said, standing up with a groan. "Come. Let's get roasted under the sun like proper fools."

They stepped out of the tent together, the brightness hitting them instantly. Henry squinted. The camp was lively—tents bustling with murmurs, coins clinking, tarot cards flipping. The scent of sweat, herbs, and wax lingered in the dry summer air.

Julius shaded his eyes with one hand, muttering, "Every Wednesday, the sun tries to kill me. I think it remembers something I said in a past life."

Henry's response was cut off.

A scream tore through the camp. Then a rumble. And another.

Crash.

Tents tore. Tables splintered.

And then the bulls appeared.

Four massive beasts, all muscle and fury, barreled through the outer fence like paper, foam curling from their mouths, wild eyes rolling. People scattered—foretellers and clients alike leaping out of the way as horns gored the air.

A food cart exploded in a burst of cabbages and tea jars. One bull bucked, sending a chair flying into the sky.

Henry pulled Julius behind a tent post. "Where the hell did—?"

"Don't ask me, I only predict divorces," Julius replied.

And then—

A figure stepped through the dust.

Sebastian Marcel, tall, narrow-eyed, clad in his usual dark coat, walked into the path of the bulls like a man on his way to buy bread. His silver pendant gleamed once beneath his collar.

The bulls slowed slightly, confused—snorting, stamping.

Sebastian moved like fog.

The first bull charged.

He sidestepped at the last second, grabbing the horn and spinning his body atop it. He landed, drove his palm across the creature's face—stunning it with a sudden crack of spiritual pressure.

Another came.

He vaulted off the stunned bull's back, flipping through the air, landing behind the second. He whispered something. The bull froze mid-charge.

The last two circled, panicked, snorting, kicking.

Sebastian turned slowly. His eyes glowed faint silver—and then softened, narrowing.

He held that gaze. Calm. Still.

The bulls looked back—

And suddenly, like puppets having their strings clipped, they dropped to their knees.

All four.

Sleeping.

The camp was silent.

Then: clapping.

Slow at first. Then a wave of cheers.

Foretellers, merchants, even nervous clients—all applauding.

Julius whistled. "Well, that's just showing off."

Henry exhaled, lowering the arm he'd instinctively raised.

Sebastian adjusted his coat, looking mildly annoyed by the attention.

He gave Henry a passing glance.

"Animals don't lie," he said quietly, brushing dust from his sleeve. "They just feel."

Henry nodded, watching as camp attendants rushed to check the bulls.

And somewhere, beyond all the awe, heat, and cheers—

Henry wondered:

What exactly was Sebastian feeling?

The heat had begun to settle after the storm of hooves and horns. Dust hung lazily in the air, floating like fragments of forgotten chaos. The bulls now slept peacefully under canopies hastily erected by camp workers. A few foretellers went back to flipping cards. Life at the Foretelling Camp was strangely good at recovering.

Sebastian Marcel, ever composed, walked across the scorched soil toward Henry and Julius, the crowd parting with a mix of reverence and wariness.

He stopped in front of Henry, brushing a leaf off his shoulder.

"You alright?" he asked calmly.

Henry nodded. "I've seen worse. Just never from a vegetable cart."

Sebastian's mouth twitched slightly. "Carrots are the deadliest weapons."

Julius chuckled, fanning himself with a folded receipt. "Let's not forget the apples of fate. Ask Eve."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You two always like this?"

"No," Julius said, "usually we're worse."

Sebastian folded his arms, surveying the camp. "You come here often?"

"Wednesdays and Saturdays. Julius calls it 'soul maintenance.'"

"More like routine damage control," Julius added with a grin. "Besides, the Watcher's aura is too fun not to poke. Like a sleeping beast wrapped in doubt."

Henry gave him a deadpan look. "Glad I amuse you."

"You do," Julius said, then snapped his fingers suddenly. "Actually, come."

Henry hesitated.

Julius turned, walking back toward his tent.

Sebastian gave a faint nod. "It's safe. He only tries to kill his friends on Sundays."

"Cute," Henry muttered, following.

Inside the tent, the scent was different this time—fresher, sharper. Mint and ashwood. Three candles floated in a triangle above the floor, flame swaying slightly though no breeze passed through. On a small round table lay a smooth obsidian disk etched with moving silver runes, glowing faintly with thaumic pulse.

Julius knelt beside the disk and gestured for Henry to sit across.

"I'll try something light," he said. "No cosmic insanity today. We both know you've had your fill."

Henry settled down slowly, glancing around. "What's the catch?"

"No catch." Julius's red eyes sharpened, voice lowering. "I just want to look."

The candles pulsed.

The disk shimmered.

Julius's fingers hovered just above it, tracing invisible threads in the air. Henry felt something slide beneath his skin—not painful, not heavy. Just... noticed.

Like being observed not by eyes, but by memory.

A hum filled the tent.

Then the shadows shifted.

Julius's voice dropped into a tone no louder than breath.

"Let's see what fate remembers of you, Mr. Watcher…"

The glow intensified.

And Henry's heartbeat quickened.

Something was surfacing.

Inside the canvas walls of Julius's tent, time began to warp. The air thickened—not with heat, but with a kind of stillness that knew it shouldn't be broken.

Henry sat cross-legged, eyes fixed on the obsidian disk, which now pulsed with a faint silvery heartbeat. The glow was low and rhythmic, syncing almost too perfectly with his own breath.

Julius Constantine leaned over the table, a different kind of seriousness wrapped around him. His usual grin was gone. His hands were careful now, reverent—like a priest touching something sacred.

From a small black pouch, Julius retrieved a deck of color cards—no numbers, no faces, just deep shades carved into thick old paper. The backs of each card bore the same symbol: a twisting ouroboros, but its tail pierced through an open eye. Ancient, crude, yet oddly elegant.

Julius began to shuffle them with precision.

"These cards don't predict events," he said softly. "They reveal the language of the soul, the threads most active in your fate right now. Every color draws out a theme, a tension, a mirror you may or may not be ready to see."

He fanned the cards out slowly on the table, face down.

Each one looked the same.

"But this isn't about knowing what will happen. It's about understanding what wants to happen. The fate beneath the choices."

Henry said nothing.

He simply nodded.

Julius began whispering something in Hejr, the old language of invokers. As he did, the candles pulsed and the backs of the cards began to glimmer faintly—red, violet, indigo, gold, green, obsidian. The hues leaked at the edges like pressure behind glass.

Then it stopped.

No movement. No wind. No sound.

Julius exhaled, leaned back.

"Pick one," he said. "Only one."

Henry hovered his hand above the spread.

A strange gravity seemed to press from certain cards. Some buzzed against his skin, faintly warm. Others were cold and detached.

His fingers moved.

They settled.

And he pulled.

The moment he flipped it—

Everything went quiet.

No hum. No shimmer. No glow.

Just the card.

White.

A blank card of radiant white. No texture. No warmth. No pulse. No glyph beneath. Just… absence. Like the color was not painted, but burned into existence by erasure itself.

Julius stiffened.

"What...?"

He snatched the card and examined it, turning it in his fingers. He flipped the rest of the deck—color after color appeared: crimson for conflict, blue for insight, silver for sacrifice, black for endings, green for obsession...

But none matched this.

"I didn't put this one in."

His voice was quiet now. Not fearful. But confused. Intrigued. A little disturbed.

Henry looked at the card again.

"I thought you said you shuffled it."

"I did."

Henry leaned in. "So what does white mean?"

Julius didn't answer immediately.

Then slowly, he muttered:

"White means error."

He looked Henry in the eyes. "It means the system—this ritual—wasn't meant to read you."

Henry's heart skipped once.

"Does that mean my fate can't be read?"

"No," Julius said. "It means... your fate hasn't been written yet. Or if it has, it's been scrambled, overwritten, or sealed behind something I can't reach."

He leaned back and rubbed his temples.

"This is a void result. This isn't just strange. This is... forbidden strange."

Henry stared at the card.

Something deep inside him stirred—not fear exactly, but an unsettling awareness. Like a second heart that had never beat before, now pulsed once—just to remind him it existed.

Julius closed the deck, slowly.

"I've done this ritual three hundred times. Seen liars, killers, saints, and gods."

He tapped the white card.

"But this… this is something else."

Henry's eyes didn't leave the card.

And neither did the quiet.

Just the blank page of a future that even fate itself had hesitated to touch.

The strange weight of the white card still lingered in the air, like the scent of a candle after it's snuffed.

Julius Constantine sat back down on his cushion, long fingers tenting beneath his chin, studying Henry with eyes that were no longer amused, no longer glinting with jokes. Just calm. Deep. Measured.

Then, with a loud sigh, Julius suddenly clapped his hands once—sharp, breaking the silence.

"Alright, alright. Let's not spiral into existential panic," he said, his usual grin crawling back onto his face like a trained animal returning to its master. "You're not cursed. You're not dying. You're just... mysterious. We like that."

Henry didn't reply. His eyes were still on the card, which Julius quickly slid into the inside pocket of his shirt.

"You're not alone in this," Julius added, voice softening. "You've got us now. The Miracle Invokers. This camp. The weirdos, the wanderers, the ones who chew on stars and spit out riddles."

Henry looked up finally, expression unreadable.

Julius stood, stretched his arms dramatically overhead.

"Anyway," he said, shifting tone as if flipping a card, "no better therapy than good, honest work."

Henry raised a brow. "You mean scamming lost souls in the desert?"

Julius grinned. "Call it spiritual consultation."

He stepped toward the entrance of the tent, brushing aside the flap and letting the hot daylight spill in.

"I've got clients coming soon. You? You need to book a bench in the camp field. Costs 1 Gaus—local tax, blah blah. Once you've done that, go fishing for customers. Charm someone, pretend you know something. Use those haunted eyes. You'll do fine."

Henry stayed still a moment longer. Then stood without a word, adjusting the brim of his fedora and brushing the dust from his coat.

"Go on," Julius waved, voice light again. "You're one of us now, Mr. Watcher. Go show the world why fate's afraid of you."

Henry stepped out into the heat.

The camp outside had returned to its bustling chaos—dust swirling in golden spirals, wind pushing fabric walls, incense trailing across the air like faded prayers.

He crossed the field silently, coat fluttering, eyes still distant. He approached the small wooden kiosk where a bored teenage boy sat with a ledger and a single wooden token carved with a sun symbol.

Henry dropped a coin—1 Gaus.

The boy handed him the token and pointed toward an open bench near a crooked tree at the far edge of the camp.

Henry took it without a word.

No smile. No complaint.

He walked to the bench. Sat.

And waited.

Waiting—for a customer.

Waiting—for a sign.

Waiting—for the world to explain why it suddenly had no idea what to do with a man like him.