Miracleborn Saga

The lamplight flickered gently inside Henry's small home as the cold wind outside hummed like a whispering spirit. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, but it wasn't the kind of darkness that frightened him—it was the kind that reminded him of silence, of aftermaths.

Henry sat down slowly on the floor near the center of the room. His ribs were tightly bound, a bandage coiled around his head, stained faintly red at the edge. But his movements were steady. Worn—but steady.

He didn't forget the small glass bottle sitting on the side table. Mimi's medicine. A soft mewl reminded him—two tiny kittens hopped over the wooden floorboards, chasing each other around a half-folded blanket. Mimi herself rested quietly in the corner, eyes half-lidded, breathing slow but stable. He gave her the drop of medicine gently in her bowl. She sniffed, then slowly licked it. Henry smiled faintly.

"I'll keep this place safe," he muttered, brushing the top of her head.

Then he stood again and moved the center table aside.

It was time.

The ritual wasn't anything grand or ancient—but old, and true. Something passed down among certain wanderers. A house-binding. A chain sigil.

Henry knelt, drawing with his own fingers the curved interlocking loops of the Chain Sigil directly on the wooden floor with white chalk dust. Its edges curled inward, forming what looked like an unbroken knot of defense.

He placed three ordinary candles at the key points around the sigil—left, right, and top—forming a triangle with the sigil in its heart.

With slow, practiced breaths, Henry stood in front of the center point. His coat flared slightly with the breath of wind from the window, but his focus remained still.

He closed his eyes, pressing both palms together near his chest. Then he chanted softly, under breath, a string of old protection phrases. The language was forgotten to the world outside. But it wasn't made to be understood. It was made to work.

As the words reached their final phrase, Henry pulled a small vial from his pocket—Holy Basil Juice, freshly blessed by Father himself.

He uncorked it carefully and let one drop fall on each candle.

The moment the juice hit the flame—the room darkened instantly.

The candles didn't go out, but their fire turned a deep bluish silver, casting strange shadows across the walls. The sigil on the floor pulsed once—like a heartbeat—and then faded into an invisible mark.

The wind stopped completely.

Everything went silent.

Then—a tiny glimmer of light hovered in the air above the sigil. Slowly, like a falling snowflake, a necklace began to descend from above, dangling by a thin silvery chain. Its pendant was simple—a small ringed spiral, like a bird in flight or a shackle being broken.

Henry's breath caught in his throat.

This was not part of the usual effect. This was something else.

He stepped forward and took it gently. As he held it in his palm, a strange warmth passed through his fingers—a sense of release, and yet, purpose.

The sigil had heard him. The house had accepted the ward.

Henry stood and looked around.

The room now felt... clearer. Like something heavy had stepped back into the mist. A layer peeled.

With careful hands, he walked to the wall above his desk and hung the necklace on a nail he hammered gently into place. It hung freely now, catching the candlelight.

The Sigil of Freedom.

A soft purr from Mimi echoed in the room. The kittens quieted, curling beside their mother. Henry sat down on the bed, stretching his legs, and for a moment—

—he allowed himself to breathe.

Henry lay on his bed, breath steady, bandages still fresh against his ribs. The moonlight bled gently through the cracked window, frost lining the sill like whispered secrets. He had done all he could.

With quiet determination, Henry tied two ribbons around his wrists—one yellow, one black.

"Yellow to confuse it, black to bind it," he muttered, tugging them tight. "Let's see you get through that, Death."

Then he drifted to sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the world was bone white again.

That endless blankness stretched in all directions, weightless and eternal. A flat sea of light and nothing. He stood up, disoriented. His ribbons were still there—but something was off. He felt it.

A shadow elongated in the horizonless distance.

It slid forward, gliding like a silk curtain in a windless room, and soon a gigantic shape loomed in front of him—not cloaked, not hooded.

This time, Death took the form of a massive, curved blade, hovering upright. No hilt. Just the sheer sharp presence of it—floating as if resting on the world's breath.

"You're cheating now," Henry said flatly, arms crossed. "Yellow and black. That's the rule. You're not supposed to be here."

The knife didn't speak at first, but the voice came. Smooth. Genderless. Like something echoing from a cave that didn't exist.

"Rules are for the living. You are dreaming, Henry. Dreams are death's alleyways."

Henry sighed. "Fine. You win again. But next time I'll add red. Maybe that'll block you."

"It won't."

He groaned, rubbing his temples. "So, what now? Here to tell me I'm dying again? Show me more freaky dead stars and call it insight?"

The knife tilted slightly. Then it spoke again, softly:

"I saw four crows today."

Henry blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"When I opened the window this morning—four crows on the ledge. That's the same number as yesterday."

"…Wait. You have windows?"

"Only when I borrow yours."

"…That's horrifying."

The blade's voice turned amused:

"The old lands had a tradition. Counting crows meant counting fate. One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a letter. Four for the same as yesterday."

Henry squinted. "Is that even real?"

"It is and isn't. Like most traditions. But I find it charming."

Henry muttered, "Four crows, same as yesterday. That's just depressing."

"Or stabilizing."

"Or boring."

"Or safe."

Henry sat down cross-legged on the nonexistent floor.

"Tell me something," he said, more serious. "Do people make their own fate or do they just follow bird omens and hope not to die screaming?"

The blade shimmered slightly.

"Both. They build a road with meaning, but only when walking barefoot. Symbols are for fools and kings. But meaning—meaning is made in the mud."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You're in a philosophical mood today."

"That's what the fourth crow does to me."

A pause.

"Do you ever get tired of it?" Henry asked, suddenly softer. "Seeing people fall. Over and over. Pretending it matters?"

Death was silent for a long while.

Then—

"Sometimes I envy the living. They get to break. I only bend."

Henry smirked. "That's… actually kind of beautiful."

"You have feathers. I bend like wind through them."

"Alright, easy with the poetry," Henry chuckled. "Next you'll be writing a memoir."

"Chapter One: Four Crows. Chapter Two: You."

He laughed. Genuinely.

Then the white world started to shift. The sound of wind returned. The blade slowly dulled its glow.

"When you wake up… check your windowsill."

"Why?"

"If there's a fifth crow… make peace. If six… prepare."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "And if there's seven?"

"Then someone's rewriting your story."

With that, the domain dissolved. The knife unraveled into thread-light and was gone.

Henry's eyes snapped open. Cold sweat. The ribbons still tight on his wrists. He looked to the window.

Just shadows.

But in his heart, he swore he heard wings.

The room was still wrapped in early morning blue. Faint snow crusted the edges of the windowpane, and the world outside looked brittle, glasslike — as though it might shatter with a whisper.

Henry sat upright in bed, eyes groggy yet sharp with memory. His fingers instinctively touched the yellow and black ribbons still tied around his wrists, now loose, as if their purpose had quietly unraveled during the night.

His gaze drifted to the window.

He sat there for a long moment, unmoving. The words of Death still echoed in the corners of his mind like candle smoke.

"If there's a fifth crow… make peace. If six… prepare. If seven—"

He shook his head. No use letting that voice nest in his skull.

With a deep breath, Henry stepped onto the cold wooden floor and walked toward the window like a soldier unsure if he's disarming a bomb or opening a gift.

His hand hovered over the latch. A chill swept through his fingers.

He opened it.

The frost sighed. The hinges gave a tired creak. Wind slipped through like an invisible whisper.

And there it was…

Nothing.

No crows.

Not one.

Not even a feather.

Just the distant street, painted in morning snow. Smoke curled up from a neighbor's chimney. A quiet cat dashed across a rooftop. The usual winter silence, untouched and undisturbed.

Henry stared out for a long time, as if waiting for a punchline. Or a sign.

Then he smirked and muttered under his breath, "Guess Death lied."

He turned around, exhaling relief that wasn't quite full. Something about no crows at all felt just as strange as too many.

He walked to the kitchen corner, still in his long shirt and bandaged arms. The kettle had boiled already — forgotten from the night before. He reheated it, poured himself a cup of green tea, and leaned against the wall.

Steam curled into his face. Familiar, grounding.

He sipped.

Bitter and warm. Just the way he liked it.

"…Four yesterday," he whispered, eyes narrowing.

No crows today.

Not even one.

He held the cup tighter, the warmth sinking into his fingers as a single thought crossed his mind—

What does it mean when even sorrow forgets to show up?

The tea had no answer.