Miracleborn Saga

There was no beginning.

No slipping into sleep, no sense of lying down, no boundary between the waking world and what came next.

Only falling.

Henry plunged through something thinner than air, softer than silk, yet heavier than iron. It was as if the world had disappeared under his feet—and then all at once, there was silence.

He landed without sound.

The ground beneath him was shallow water—ankle-deep, unmoving, clear as glass. It stretched forever in every direction, reflecting the sky above, which was not sky at all—just an endless expanse of white.

There were no clouds.

No sun.

No horizon.

And no warmth.

He stood in the middle of it, utterly naked. No clothes, no breath on the air, no sound of wind or ripple. Only the faint, constant hum—like the world itself was thinking.

Henry turned slowly, heart already racing.

His reflection wavered in the still water below. Behind him… nothing.

Then something.

A presence.

A shadow before its body.

From the nothingness rose a beast, towering, covered in bristled fur, four-limbed and lumbering—a bear, or something shaped like one. But its shadow, stretching unnaturally long across the water, was not a bear. It twisted and bent as if a hundred limbs and faces danced in its outline, flickering like flame.

Henry stepped back.

It didn't growl.

It spoke.

Its voice was neither beast nor man, but something beyond both—low, cold, and patient. It rolled through the air like thunder in a cave.

"You called, and I have come."

Henry's mouth went dry. "Wh… what are you?"

The thing lowered its head. The water didn't move.

"I am Death."

Henry blinked. "Death?"

"I serve you." Its black eyes shimmered, reflecting Henry's terrified face. "I always have. From the moment you were named, I watched. From the moment you walked alone, I followed."

Henry's skin prickled. "This is a dream."

"No," Death said. "There is no dream that is this much true."

Henry stepped back, shielding himself with trembling hands. "If you're really Death—prove it. Show me something real. Something true."

Death tilted its head, and the white above turned slightly grey.

From its own shadow, a shape emerged—a reflection of Henry himself, aged and broken, kneeling beside a grave Henry had never seen, mouthing words he could not hear, crying for someone he did not yet know.

The image faded.

Henry clutched his head. "Stop… I—I didn't ask for this…"

"You never ask. Yet I still come."

Henry glared through fear. "If you serve me—then obey. Take me back. I didn't ask to be here."

A pause.

Then, Death bowed—lower than expected.

"As you wish."

And just like that—

Henry gasped, sitting upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. The afternoon light leaked through the shutter slats, casting slanted beams across the floor. Mimi lay by the window, twitching in her sleep.

His heart pounded.

His body trembled.

He looked down at his palms, still shaking.

"…What the hell was that…" he whispered.

But the room gave no answer. Only silence.

And somewhere, faintly, his shadow felt just a little… longer.

Henry sat at the edge of his bed for a while, letting the dream dissolve like mist at sunrise. His shirt clung to him with sweat, but the terror had ebbed, replaced by a quiet unease that pressed beneath his ribs. The echo of that voice—I serve you—still scraped faintly at the edge of his memory.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

Enough.

It was just a dream. An absurd, terrifying, too-vivid dream.

He stretched his arms above his head, rotating his shoulders, neck cracking as he shook the tension out. His bones still ached from the morning's climb and the university visit. But movement grounded him. Familiar motion dulled the strangeness.

Down on the floor, Mimi batted a small leather ball across the wooden planks. She pounced, misjudged the roll, and spun in a confused circle before locking eyes with Henry. Her tail flicked twice.

He smirked. "You're unbothered by shadows, aren't you?"

Mimi meowed without concern and continued her war with the ball.

Henry wiped his face with a fresh cloth and slipped into his regular clothes—a cream tunic, brown wool trousers, and the long grey jacket he favored on easy days. He paused near the hat rack.

Then smiled faintly.

"Not forgetting you this time."

He took his fedora hat, brushed a layer of dust from the brim, and placed it firmly on his head.

Stepping toward the front door, he gave Mimi a glance. "Don't destroy the place while I'm gone."

She yawned in reply.

With a firm click, he locked the door behind him and stepped into the light.

The world outside had shifted.

The air was divine—no other word suited it. The breeze was crisp but gentle, sweeping the rooftops with the scent of wildflowers and dew-bathed stones. The sunlight bathed everything in a soft gold, not harsh, not blinding, but warm and noble—as though the heavens had leaned just slightly closer to the world for a moment.

Henry stood there, still, letting it wash over him. His shoulders relaxed. The scent of bread and river wind passed on the air. Leaves danced on the cobbled path.

It was a perfect afternoon.

And in that serenity, something settled quietly in his chest.

What does it mean… to have a life?

Not just to breathe. Not just to pass exams or eat bread or dress well.

But to live.

To face dreams that made no sense. To walk among strangers. To know silence. To hold fear, and still go on.

" To live.... is to question yourself again and again. We humans are just bunch of slaves to Success. "

Henry adjusted his hat.

He didn't have the answers.

But for the first time in a long while, he felt like it was worth asking the question again.

Henry strolled gently through the narrow stone lanes of Old Prada, letting the wind tug at his coat and sun-warmed air breathe against his skin. The sky above had begun to mellow, the gold of afternoon giving way to a cooler, amber tone that kissed the rooftops and painted the cobblestones in faded fire. Church bells had fallen quiet. Doves fluttered from one chimney to another.

It was, for a moment, perfect.

Until he heard the murmurs—voices raised not in laughter, but confusion.

He followed the source, the quiet tranquility around him dimming as he rounded a corner.

A crowd had formed near the grain square, tightly gathered at the edge of the street. Traders stood frozen, baskets of apples or fish forgotten at their feet. A man dropped a loaf of bread. A butcher wiped his hands and pushed through the people with dread on his face.

Henry slowed.

A body lay in the street, covered only by a sheet too small to conceal the full shape beneath.

Blood.

Not much, but enough to stain the cobbles in a way that felt permanent.

The Vanguards—Prada's official enforcers—were already on site, wearing black cloaks with red cuffs and a sun-emblem stitched into their shoulders. They moved around the corpse with trained precision, asking short questions, marking down notes, placing stones at the corners of the sheet to keep it from lifting in the wind.

Henry's stomach twisted as he recognized the boots peeking from beneath the linen.

Zach.

His colleague. A quiet, clever student. They had shared ink, argued over translations, even stolen honey cakes together during library lockdowns.

Now, his body lay still, motionless, and somehow wrong, as if death had bent him slightly out of alignment with the world.

To the side, a woman knelt on the ground, perhaps in her early forties. Her eyes stared at nothing, mouth slightly open. She wasn't crying—only empty. Beside her, a little girl clutched the hem of her dress.

"Brather?" the girl asked, her voice trembling. "Mama, wat hapened to brather? Why he iz nhot waking uph? "

The mother gave no answer. Her arms hung limp at her sides.

Henry could not move. His knees weakened.

Then—

From somewhere behind the crowd, or within it—he couldn't say—came a voice.

Low, calm, and foreign.

Not from any tongue he had heard in the university's lecture halls or prayer recitations.

Not Latin, not Old Pradaic, not Norvanic or Southern Rhun.

It was short. A single phrase.

Like wind passing over cold glass.

"Ka'alom nevrath shettir."

Henry's eyes widened.

He didn't understand it.

But every hair on his body stood upright.

The world felt suddenly off-balance. The sky slightly too silent. The wind no longer warm, but cold and watching. That single line settled in his chest like a stone.

Then another sensation struck—

A fear so pure, so primal, that he stumbled back, gripping a lamp post for support. His vision blurred, the corners of his sight trembling as if the world were flickering like candlelight.

Something inside him whispered—

This wasn't a murder.

This was a message.

And the words he did not understand…

…were meant for him.

He crumbled to the ground, clutching his chest, trying to breathe, as the crowd swirled around, unaware that Henry Ford had just heard something not of this world.

And the air, once divine and calm, now tasted like the calm before a scream.

The streets blurred beneath Henry's steps.

His breath came in ragged gasps, lungs on fire, legs burning with panic. He didn't know how many people he pushed past, didn't stop to hear what anyone said. All that mattered was getting away—from the crowd, from the words, from the body, from that voice.

That impossible phrase still echoed in his skull like a curse, warping with each heartbeat:

" Ka'alom nevrath shettir... "

By the time he reached his house, the sky was already deep blue and bleeding into the first shades of night. He fumbled with his key, dropped it, cursed, picked it up with trembling fingers, and finally unlocked the door.

He rushed in and slammed it shut.

The bolt slid into place with a loud clack, and Henry leaned against the wood, panting, sweat beading across his face, his hands clammy and shaking.

He didn't even take off his coat.

He stumbled through the front room, knocking over a stool, sending a book falling open to the floor. He ignored it all.

His eyes locked on the far corner of his room—the one beneath the window where the old woven blanket still lay folded.

He collapsed there, curling his arms around himself, shoving his body against the wall like he could disappear inside it. Shivers rocked his frame, uncontrolled and violent, as if his body was remembering something it should never have known.

The sob came uninvited.

Then another.

Then a broken groan, as he reached up toward the small photo frame on the window ledge. A faded portrait behind cracked glass—his mother, smiling softly, hand on his father's shoulder, both of them standing in front of this very house, years before the plague had taken them.

He pulled the frame into his chest and held it like a child with a candle in a cave, the groans deepening, his forehead pressed to the cold wood of the wall.

"I-I didn't… I didn't ask for this…" he choked. "Please… not again… I don't want to see things—I don't want to hear them... I just wanted a normal life…"

His voice fractured into gasps.

From across the room, Mimi padded over silently.

She didn't meow.

She didn't paw.

She simply pressed her small body into his side, curling up beside him like she knew exactly what he needed.

Henry didn't move.

Only shuddered harder.

One hand clutched the photo frame to his chest.

The other trembled at his side as the warmth of his only companion grounded him.

Outside, the wind picked up.

And somewhere beyond that wind—

the air whispered back.