Miracleborn Saga

The wind moved lazily through the worn linen tents of the Foretelling Camp, carrying with it the scent of dry herbs, paper ink, and the faint ozone of divination. Somewhere in the background, a kettle whistled. The camp buzzed with murmurs, quiet laughter, and distant incantations—its usual rhythm.

Henry sat alone beneath the faded cloth shade of his deck stall, the wooden sign above him painted with a modest sunburst and a single word: Cartomancy.

He sat with his legs crossed, fedora tilted down over his tired eyes, gently shuffling his deck of marked cards. He had already done five readings today. Small payments. A few Gaus at most. But it was enough. His small metal cup rattled faintly with coins.

His scarf hung loosely over his neck, catching the drifting dust. Mimi's medicine still weighed in the side pouch of his coat. And yet, there was an eerie quietness in him. A silence not caused by fatigue, but by thought. Reflection.

Footsteps approached—measured and light.

"Working hard today?"

Henry looked up slowly, finding Julius standing at the edge of the deck, a subtle smile stretched across his wise, creased face. The Oracle wore his usual black and gold robe, fingers stained faintly with dried ink, a few divination talismans hanging from his belt.

"Six readings. Two happy, three uncertain, one… complicated," Henry said, voice low but steady. "They still paid."

Julius chuckled gently. "Well, you've already surpassed what I made in my second month." He leaned against the wooden post beside Henry's stall, gazing out at the camp with an amused sigh. "It's strange, isn't it? Watching someone else grow in a field you once thought was only yours."

Henry glanced at him, uncertain how to respond.

Julius continued, tone soft but warm, "You've progressed. That's what I wanted to say. Quietly. Slowly. But you're starting to leave your mark." He turned to look at him fully. "There's more control in your readings. Less fear. More precision. You still don't realize it, but you're beginning to carry that silence like an old prophet. It suits you."

Henry dipped his head, unsure if it was gratitude or guilt swelling in his chest. "I'm just… trying to make it work."

Julius smiled, eyes twinkling like someone who had seen too much and still chose to believe. "And that's what progress is, Henry. Trying. Even when the strings of fate tighten around your throat."

He gently placed a single Gaus coin on Henry's table. "That was for the reading you gave Norell. I saw the marks." He turned away, then paused. "Come by later. I've got some old scrolls that might interest you."

Julius hadn't walked ten paces away from Henry's cart when a woman in a fur-edged traveling coat, her face hidden beneath an extravagant parasol, bumped hard into him, nearly knocking his satchel to the ground.

"Watch where you're sleepwalking, old man," she muttered briskly and moved on without a second glance.

Julius blinked slowly, brushing his robe. "Charming," he mumbled.

Henry raised an eyebrow from his desk, standing halfway. "You alright?"

Julius waved him off, chuckling softly. "I've been elbowed by fate harder than that."

Before Henry could sit again, more figures emerged from between the flickering tents—this time a group walking toward him with focused steps and layered presence. They had the bearing of power and knowledge, but carried themselves like wandering pilgrims rather than tyrants. Among them, he recognized a few familiar faces.

Mitchell Margaret walked ahead. Slick black gloves, sharp eyes that never stopped moving, even behind his round spectacles. A tactician through and through, with that ever-tight satchel looped over his chest. A man of maps, contingency plans, and whispered truths.

Beside him strode Callinger Zagreb, his posture loose like a dislocated shadow, his pale face hidden beneath a silk hood, but a strange charisma bled from every motion. Henry could sense it—something beautifully wrong in his presence. The way he smiled with the corners of his eyes, like a man who had seen something rotten at the center of heaven.

Then came Megan Fox, dressed in soft beige robes, lined with charms and bells. She seemed too serene for a battlefield, but every footstep felt chosen by destiny. A small green clover clip held her braid back. Her energy, however, was unnervingly precise, as if the world bent slightly to make her path more graceful.

Lastly, a tall, broad woman with a molten aura—Bertha Macbeth, arms crossed over her apron-layered armor. Her massive build was dusted with soot, hammer hanging from her back like a sword. Her scars told of fire and ruin. The Blacksmith, they called her. Survivor by name, furnace by heart.

They stopped beside Henry's deck as Julius caught up behind them.

"Henry, meet my companions," Julius said, straightening his glasses with a faint smile. "They're all Miracle Invokers. Veterans."

Mitchell gave a curt nod. "Julius said you've been making progress."

Callinger grinned. "You smell like someone who accidentally walked into a miracle and came out without a soul."

Megan bowed her head gently. "I'm pleased to meet you, Henry. The Church speaks well of your potential."

Bertha grunted. "So this is the guy who stood against a storm and survived? Doesn't look burned."

"Yet," Mitchell muttered dryly.

Henry nodded, unsure of what to say. His hands rested on the table edge.

From behind the others, Roze appeared silently, her feather hat tilted low, eagle perched above her shoulder. She walked beside Sebastian, arms crossed, usual aloofness trailing her. Sebastian wore his rust-colored scarf tighter than usual, a notebook peeking from his coat pocket.

Allen came last, quietly biting a donut as usual, his presence ghostly but noticed.

"Small world," Roze said softly, looking to Henry with a knowing smile. "They were asking about you."

Megan chuckled. "Yes. Apparently, your name's been stirring wind in the Hall of Routes."

"What do you think of him?" Callinger asked suddenly, looking straight at Roze, whose expression stiffened.

Roze paused, glanced at Henry—his scarf slightly crooked, his fingers still trembling from the last battle, and his eyes quietly weathered by dreams and weight.

"I think," Roze said gently, "he's not yet the man he'll become."

There was a silence. Even Allen stopped chewing.

Mitchell's eyes flicked toward Julius. "How much does he know about the Diary?"

Julius didn't answer directly. "Enough to stay alive. Barely."

Sebastian added, "But maybe enough to die for it too."

Henry met their stares. He didn't feel fear—only weight. The kind of gaze a wanderer gets from a room full of survivors.

Julius finally broke the stillness. "We're all gathered here for a reason. Henry, I hope you're prepared. These people aren't gods, but they've danced with them."

Bertha grinned, teeth flashing. "And lived. Mostly."

They all started to move toward the inner part of the camp for a gathering. As they walked, Henry fell in stride beside Roze. Allen lagged behind them all, donut gone, staring at the sky.

The group settled beneath a large canvas shade, its ropes tied between elderwood poles that creaked faintly in the shifting breeze. Hanging from each corner were faintly glowing lanterns, infused with sigil-thread — they hummed like quiet hearts. A small firepit burned nearby, warming a kettle. Julius poured tea into earthen cups and passed them around as the Invokers formed a loose circle.

Henry sat cross-legged on an old rug, slightly off-center, uncertain if he was part of the conversation or simply orbiting it. Roze stood beside him, arms folded as usual, eyes scanning the distance like she was half-present. Allen sat on a fallen log, scribbling something in his notebook and occasionally peeking at everyone like a ghost with ears.

Mitchell Margaret leaned back on one hand, taking a sip. "Let's get this awkward part over with."

He looked at Henry, then gestured grandly like a stage actor.

"Strategist Path. Route –5. The Spy. Not the sneaky assassin kind. I dismantle miracles, mislead gods, and know how to ruin someone's destiny with a well-placed sentence."

Callinger Zagreb stretched, arms behind his head. "Charmer Path. Route –2. The Sinner. I charm, I corrupt, I inspire. Think of me as a talking cigarette—bad for your soul but addictive in dim lighting."

Megan Fox smiled gently. "Lucky Charmer Path. Route –4. The Guardian. Not really a fighter, but things around me tend to… work out. Sometimes people survive just by being near me. I don't take credit, but I accept offerings of tea and flowers."

Henry raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Then Bertha spoke, her voice deep, scratchy like gravel soothed in honey.

"Survivor Path. Route –3. The Blacksmith. My job is simple: I make things that don't break. Tools. Shields. People, sometimes. Survived five divine encounters and still got both my hands." She tapped the mug in her hand. "For now."

There was a small silence. Then Callinger clapped softly.

"Five divine encounters and still drinks tea with pinky up. You're terrifying."

"I like Bertha," Roze mumbled from the log. "She doesn't talk too much."

"I do talk," Bertha muttered, frowning slightly.

"Yeah," Mitchell said, "but when you do, it's like the ground starts preparing for an earthquake."

Everyone chuckled.

Henry leaned back slightly, glancing at Roze. "You didn't say your Path."

Roze narrowed her eyes at him with an amused glance. "You'll know. Eventually."

Callinger leaned toward Henry conspiratorially. "Translation: 'I'm mysterious and traumatized, and if you ask again, I'll kill you with elegance.'"

"Not wrong," Roze replied flatly.

Megan was giggling softly, sipping her tea.

Then Mitchell pointed at Henry with a teasing smirk.

"Alright, newbie. What's your path, fortune-teller? Feather conjurer? Mistwalker? Fear-collector? Memory Binder? Monster crawling in brightness? Please say something dramatic."

Henry hesitated. "... I am from The Mystic Path, Route –5 The Watcher. "

"Even better," Callinger said, laughing. "He's a blank page! We can ruin him together!"

Roze, deadpan, added, "I give him a month before he either dies or kills a god."

"Make it two," Mitchell offered.

"Three, if he keeps drinking green tea," Megan whispered from the side.

Bertha, almost kindly, said, "He'll live. He's stubborn."

Henry blinked, surprised by that quiet support. He nodded toward her. "Thanks."

She only grunted and took another sip.

The air lightened with their chatter. Even Julius was smiling from behind his cup. For a moment, the burdens of curses, cults, and divine horrors seemed far — as though under this stretched canvas of oilcloth and light, they were just strange people trying to live one more day.

....

Far beyond Prada's reach, beneath the forgotten cliffs veiled by snow and silence, inside a jagged, decaying cavern carved by time and hate, Martin Lawden — The Fiend — stood alone in the black hall of his hidden base.

The room was dimly lit with hanging bone-lanterns that flickered not by flame, but by the glow of stolen spirits trapped within. Green phosphorescent veins pulsed along the ancient wooden pillars, twitching as if the base itself was alive… or trying to wake up.

Martin was stripped to his waist, clothed only in the lower half of his stitched, old leather gear. His signature green cape — heavy and tattered from countless battles — rested on the cracked stone near him. On his upper body, faded scars crisscrossed like broken promises, and ink-black tattoos of his Path spiraled across his back like vines of sin. Tonight, however, a new mark would be born.

In the center of the chamber, a ceremonial circle had been carved into the stone floor — not with chalk or blood, but etched by flame and bound with cursed resin. Ancient sigils from forbidden rites spun slowly within the grooves, like dying stars orbiting a black sun.

Behind thick iron bars nearby, Hana Kraves sat with her knees pulled to her chest, watching with soft, tired eyes. Her wrists were released from chains. Her voice had long gone quiet. She had stopped begging. Not out of peace — but because she knew it made no difference. Although, Martin was acting like a father figure to her.

Martin rolled his shoulder and lifted the ancient object from the box beside the altar — the Necromancer's Log. Its spine was made from stitched human vertebrae. Its pages? Not paper — but memories soaked into stretched soulskin, written in bloodless ink.

As he pressed the Log against his bare chest, it sank into him.

There was no scream.

Only the sound of bones shifting, ribs cracking, muscle expanding and snapping, reshaping like molten wax under divine heat. His eyes rolled back briefly — lips quivering, not from fear, but pleasure. Sick, steady pleasure.

Green lines spread over his chest and stomach like creeping vines with thorns — they pulsed, glowed, and then settled — jagged like scars, yet alive like veins. He breathed out — slow, cold, ruthless.

"I've tolerated worse," he muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

He stepped barefoot into the Ritual Circle. His mouth moved slowly now — ancient words, long forgotten to even the gods. He began a rite not to call upon deities, but to force fate itself to bend.

A Ritual of Probabilistic Dominance.

A spell designed to warp reality in his favor — for a short time, all misfortune would curve around him like water around stone. Bad luck, chance interference, unpredictable interruption — nullified. He wasn't leaving anything to fate. Not for this.

He held out his arm, sliced his palm with a serrated dagger, and let the blood spill into a copper basin. Smoke hissed upward. The basin cracked in half. A chain of symbols etched themselves into the air — floating midair, pulsing like a living script.

He spoke again, low and slow, as the last words tore through his teeth like nails:

"I trade consequence for certainty. For hours — I become the exception."

The chamber shook. The marks on his body pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

In the prison corner, Hana turned her face away.

He approached her slowly now, voice calm — almost… tender.

"After I hold the diary in my hand, I'll cut you piece by piece," he said with a soft, convincing smile. "Not because I want to. But because that's what the Ritual needs. Sorry, darling."

She didn't respond. She didn't cry.

Martin leaned close to the bars, studying her face like it was a painting. His shadow stretched over her, long and inhuman under the flickering lanterns.

"You've made this harder than it had to be," he whispered. "But I'll give you a beautiful end. The last moments — I'll fill them with peace, like a lullaby made of roses."

He smiled.

Then he turned away, picked up his old green cape, and slung it across his shoulders. The vines on his ribs tightened — a constant reminder of the Necromancer's Log fused within him. Every step he took now, he felt hundreds of voices whispering in his spine.

With the Necromancer's Log his necromancy trait will get a boost for next certain hours.

Martin walked out of the chamber and into the dim corridor beyond, the thorns of fate curling at his heels, veins, so it could not interfere physically in his destination.

The Fiend was ready. And destiny would not interfere — not this time.