Horizon of War Series

Saint & Mage

Clementine

The fire crackled softly, its warmth battling the chill of the night wind that whipped through the camp. Canvas tents flapped noisily in the breeze. Clementine, wrapped in her wool cloak, sat huddled near the flames. She had finished her bread and gruel and lingered by the fire. For some reason, while the guards had tied her hands again, they hadn’t escorted her back to the holding place. She couldn’t care less; this was far more comfortable, even out in the open.

The holding place lay between the palisade wall and the ditch, fortified with barricades and cruel-looking barbed wire. The prisoners had come to respect and fear the seemingly harmless coils of thin metal. There, they were given canvas, looted from their own camp, and blankets to sleep on. Patrols roamed the area, guards watched from the palisade, and nomads lingered nearby, making any escape attempt suicidal.

The place still reeked of death, even after major efforts to clean it. The smell lingered, heavy and grim in the air. Yet, as captives, they had no choice but to endure. A bigger concern loomed: the kind of fate they would meet. Many could only hope it wouldn’t end with a journey to the east, to Navalnia, a kingdom from which nobody ever returned, and where merchants’ tales were too horrific to believe.

As a Saint Candidate, Clementine was kept separately, in a makeshift cell beneath a wooden tower, where the guards on the palisade could observe her at all times. Sir Harold and his men took no chances, likely fearing she might rally the fanatics or incite rebellion. But they were wrong; she was just a simple girl with no grand ambitions, only a desire to live her life to her heart's content.

Her only issue was her gift of magic, which had defined her from an early age. Born to a poor esquire family who couldn't afford even a single laborer, young Clementine helped in the family fields. From a young age, her gift of magic was powerful enough to manifest in her daily work. Even without understanding the art, her source naturally seeped into her body, enhancing her physical abilities to a noticeable degree. Despite her small frame as a child, she could easily outwork or outrun anyone, even adults, in speed, strength, and stamina.

Later, when she was found and adopted into the monastery, she learned night vision and strengthening magic. In terms of raw talent, few in her age group could match her. When she eventually passed her test and was ordained as a young Saint Candidate, even fewer seniors had abilities comparable to hers.

Yet, many dismissed this, claiming such skills were useless for Saint Candidates, whose role was to heal. They argued that strengthening magic was only valuable for battle-oriented guilds, such as mages. However, she knew the Healer Guild's perception was flawed.

Unlike the Mage Guild, the Healer Guild taught its members not to tap directly into the source. They shunned this method, deeming it volatile, risky, and unreliable. Instead, they relied on the magic that naturally seeped into the body, which they called the soul.

While this greatly limited their abilities, it was not without reason. Drawing from the soul was more reliable and far better suited for healing, which required delicate and precise control of magic. Meanwhile, the power from the source was like a waterfall—hard to control, strong, and often unpredictable.

By honing their soul, they gradually lost their innate ability to connect with the source and became distinct from mages. They lacked access to a stream of magical power but trained their bodies to become suitable vessels, capable of storing magic and expending it with precise accuracy.

However, not all Saint Candidates followed this path. Some rogues secretly continued training to tap into their source, believing they could fulfill both roles, albeit risking their proficiency. Clementine was one of them. Strangely, despite the guild's disapproval, her abilities stood out so much that she was often assigned tasks beyond the monastery as an extension of the guild's influence. Yet, nothing could have prepared her for the role she had just faced or the outcome of the battle yesterday.

"Sister, wake up," a guard's whisper startled her.

Clementine had been on the verge of falling asleep. She gazed at the guard lazily, assuming it was time to return to her holding cell. But to her surprise, the guard pointed toward Sir Harold's tent, whispering, "The squire just left."

She squinted. "What do you mean?"

"It's your chance," they said cryptically, their mischievous grin unmistakable.

"You're not afraid I’ll stab him in his sleep?" she asked, voicing the first thought that came to her mind.

"Lesser men, perhaps. But him?" They exchanged grins. "Besides, we’re sure you don’t have a knife on you, and we’re definitely not removing that wrist tie."

She hesitated, but another guard added, "Go on, have a little chat."

"A chat?" she asked, suspicion filled her tone. "Why are you risking your necks for me?"

"It’s not like we hate you, good woman," one replied. "You’ve healed several of our friends since this morning without caring that we’re your enemies, and for that, we’re grateful."

She inhaled deeply, pondering her options, and nodded. "Then I shall have a chat."

One of the guards helped her to her feet.

"But what about those two?" she asked, glancing at the guards posted near Sir Harold's tent.

"Try kind words," one suggested with a faint smirk, stepping aside to let her pass. She made her way to the tent, where the two guards immediately stopped her.

"I just need a few words," she explained. "You can search me. I’m tied anyway."

"He’s resting, woman," the first guard said firmly.

"Earlier, he mentioned he wanted my company," Clementine replied, her voice softening. She hesitated, then removed her headscarf, allowing her long brown hair to fall freely. Her cheeks reddened while cool night air brushed against her exposed neck.

The guards exchanged glances. For a woman to undo her headscarf in front of unrelated men was a bold and humiliating gesture. It meant she was utterly serious.

"She looked after my brother's wound this morning," the second guard whispered, glancing at his comrade.

"If you or anyone else has an ailment, come visit me tomorrow," Clementine quickly added. "I’ll heal you."

The first guard frowned, thinking for a moment before grumbling, "Fine, I’ll ask him—"

"And embarrass me further?" she interrupted, her face reddening as she turned her gaze sideways, avoiding their stares.

The guard stared at her, then glanced toward the others by the campfire, who were watching the exchange with amused interest. With a sigh, he relented. "Alright, if this goes bad, plenty will be sharing the blame anyway," he said, his smirk indicating accepting a dangerous prank.

...

Sir Harold

The day had been exhausting, as was expected in the aftermath of a battle. As the acting Marshal, Harold had to ensure the army, the captured men, and the camp were in order. He and his staff were also responsible for a myriad of other tasks: organizing loot collection, scouting, determining how many supplies could be used for a small feast, and ensuring their defenses against possible night attacks.

Tomorrow would demand just as much of his attention, with the army slated to move toward their new base camp. Harold snuffed out the lantern and headed to his canvas bed. His armor hung nearby, freshly cleaned by his squire.

He wore his tunic loosely, using his gambeson as a makeshift blanket—a habit from his years as a traveling knight. Thinking back, he had never dreamed of holding a role like this or managing a large army. Last year had been incredible, filled with experiences that opened his eyes to a new way of life.

To face mage-knights in combat, encounter half-beasts, witness flying ships, see the unification of Lowlandia, and endure the dreaded fall of the Imperium; it all felt like a whirlwind, both a dream and a nightmare. Yet none of it deterred him. A knight’s ideals remained steadfast, even if the world seemed to be ending before him. Many said chivalry was just an idea written on paper, but he believed it was a cause worth striving for.

If not for fairness, truth, and justice, then for what other cause should a man fight?

With his resolve hardened once more, Harold let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. The flickering shadows of the campfire outside and the natural sounds of whispers and men on patrol became his lullaby. Muffled conversations reached his ears, but such things were to be expected. Reports often came at odd hours, but one of the guards would be diligent enough to keep a record. Only the highest priority matters would require his immediate attention.

He exhaled, shifting slightly in his bed, ready to continue his rest. Before long, a rustling sound, absent the chill of the wind, caught his attention. Despite the guards outside, Harold quietly extended his hand toward the hilt of his battle axe. It was brand new, replacing the one he had lost in battle the previous year. He had purchased it while marching through southern Midlandia.

Alert but motionless, his eyes opened to slits in the darkness, watching as a lithe silhouette slipped into the tent. Confident in his reaction time, Harold decided to wait and observe the intruder’s intent. If they tried anything insidious, his axe could cleave faster than anyone could shout.

To his surprise, the figure began a strange, almost clumsy dance-like routine. Their movements seemed awkward, struggling, but in the faint light that filtered through the canvas tent, it was hard to discern what was happening.

A soft grunt broke the silence, and Harold immediately recognized the intruder. Rising from his bed like a prowling cat, he approached stealthily, axe in hand.

"Wait, wait!" came a startled voice. "Sir Harold, I can see you! Please drop the axe."

"Yeah, it's you, alright," Harold sighed, recognizing Clementine’s ability to see in the dark like mages. "What are you—"

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A flicker of fire caught his attention as the lantern suddenly flared to life, bathing them in soft amber light.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his curiosity piqued as he glanced at the lantern. "I don’t think any mages can do that."

"They lack the fine control over magic," Clementine explained. "All it takes is a gentle wind to the wick. If it’s still hot enough, it can ignite again easily."

"Interesting," Harold mumbled, then turned toward her. He saw her in an awkward position, struggling with her tied hands to undo her cloak and robes. Her cheeks were flushed, and her face was clearly embarrassed as she whispered, "I didn’t think this through, did I?"

"Indeed," he said, turning to the side to avoid taking advantage of her. "Look, I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for a night company."

"B-but you said I need to pay the price if I want to free even one of my sisters?"

Harold sighed heavily, lowered his axe, and rubbed his face with his free hand. "You misunderstand. What I meant was to petition Lord Lansius to take you as our healer for several years."

The answer surprised her, and the moment turned awkward. "Is that so...?" she mumbled.

"Yes. We don’t have a healer, and you’re the most talented one I’ve encountered. I’m thinking of employing you and your sister for several years. In time, you’ll learn that we’re not the barbarians your eldest sister makes us out to be. Our cause here is justified."

"I know," she replied unexpectedly, making Harold frown in disbelief.

She continued, "Even in the monastery, there are many who’ve grown uncomfortable with the direction the guild is heading. The worship has been getting out of hand, and the veneration feels misplaced. By naming herself the Living Saint, does Saint Nay proclaim herself as equal to the ageless? Even among us, there are fears. However, she has her fanatics and influential supporters in high places."

Harold nodded but gave no quick response, allowing Clementine to add, "You need to help me. My hands are tied."

The tall knight shook his head but looked toward her, his eyes lowered to the ground. "Give me your hands," he said, extending his palm. Clementine obeyed, and he undid her ropes.

Several soft rustles of cloth followed before she spoke nervously. "I’m done."

Harold looked at her and froze. She was standing naked, her arms and hands covering her modesty. Her face turned sideways, refusing to meet his gaze. He didn't expect to fall into this predicament. For a man to see a woman's body could spark scandal; a glimpse of a thigh might force a nobleman into marriage. What he saw now left no room for escape—everything.

"Clementine, I expect you to fix your clothes," he said, his eyes briefly catching the irresistible pale skin before he forced them away.

She hesitated, shivering from both the chill and the nervousness. She glanced at Harold, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she whispered, "If you’re going to take me out of the monastery, then..."

"It doesn’t have to be this way," he said, his tone heavy with regret.

"I’ve seen enough and learned enough," she replied.

"Seen and learned what?"

"Of you," she clarified with a sudden hint of wit. "You’re not the only one capable of judging others. I see a man who is powerful yet refuses to use that power for selfish gain. You have good morals, which makes you trustworthy, even while holding a high rank. Any woman would find you a desirable partner."

Harold let out a thin smile. It was rare for a woman to say something like that to his face. "You could say the same to many other knights."

"Others are unlikely to handle me, or my mace," she said, her tone softened. Then, in a more serious voice, she added, "My apologies for this underhanded approach, but you said it yourself—I’m up against the notorious Black Lord. A captured Saint Candidate against such a ruthless nobleman… I don’t know what he’ll do to me or my sister. I prefer a guarantee: yours."

"Misunderstanding upon misunderstanding," Harold lamented, referring to Lord Lansius’ reputation.

Clementine's tone was hesitant as she said, "Earlier, you spoke of an ideal knight. Now that you’ve seen me—"

"You don’t have the standing to force me into marriage," he reminded her.

"I know. But your ideal as a perfect knight wouldn’t allow you to turn your back on me."

"How devious of you," he remarked sharply, masking his respect for her resolve. "When did you plan all this? Has this ever worked in your favor?"

"I didn’t," she replied, shivering from both the chill and his accusation. "No man has ever laid eyes on my body. I’m trusting my future to you."

Harold exhaled and took pity on her. He retrieved his gambeson from his bed and draped it over her shoulders.

Taking it as a rejection, tears streamed down Clementine’s cheeks. Her voice trembled as she whispered, "Nobody shall hear of this from me. I’ll accept your decision with grace. I won’t force you."

Moved by her sincerity, Harold stepped closer, scooping her into his arms. "I’m not rejecting you," he said softly.

"Huh?" Clementine’s bravado vanished as she clutched the gambeson tightly, holding it close to cover her chest.

"You’re a real Saint Candidate. You think independently, you take chances, and now you’re on my side." Harold lowered her gently onto the bed. "I’ll ask for your hand in front of the Lord tomorrow morning. Is that alright?"

She nodded and closed her eyes, her heart racing. But Harold simply draped her robes over her, pulled a traveling cloak to the ground, and lay down to rest there.

Clementine was surprised and let out a soft giggle.

"What’s funny?" he asked.

"I thought... well...," she tried to explain, the relief evident in her voice.

"We're surrounded by only canvas walls. The guards will hear you moaning," Harold replied bluntly.

Her cheeks flushed as the realization hit her. "I’d better put my clothes back on, then."

"Yes, there’s no need to rush," Harold said casually. "Sharing this space tonight is enough to seal the arrangement." Then, as sleep began to claim him, he reflected that answering Lord Bengrieve’s call to head south with his battle brothers in support of a minor lord in Korelia had turned out to be the greatest choice he had ever made. It had even brought him face-to-face with a Saint Candidate who, for better or worse, would become his future wife.

He knew a certain half-breed would laugh at this and question his resolve, but in truth, he simply couldn’t be bothered with the idea of having a family. Francisca had respected that. Despite her initial jests, the half-breed had become a battle brother, not a lover.

Meanwhile, from the canvas bed, oblivious to his thoughts, Clementine gazed at him with profound respect. Finding herself safe at last, the mental stress that had weighed her down vanished, replaced by butterflies in her stomach at the thought of being married tomorrow. Still, fatigue overtook her, and she drifted into a peaceful sleep, as serene as a child.

***

Lansius

It was the dead of night when Lansius woke, his eyes red with fatigue. He yawned, almost regretting his decision to ask to be woken up. Though it felt like he'd only closed his eyes moments ago, he knew at least an hour must have passed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head felt light, yet his shoulder was heavy.

"So your love for Valerie is this shallow, huh?" Audrey's voice cut through the gloom. She stood by the bed, her sharp, amused eyes glinting in the dim light, as alert as a half-breed.

"Yes, so you don’t have to worry," Lansius replied in jest, though his eyes burned with prickling pain.

Audrey leaned in closer, her smirk playful. "I wonder if you’d be like this if it were me who’s sick?"

Her face was dangerously near, her lustrous lips teasingly close. Acting on impulse, Lansius grabbed her head with both hands and stole a kiss. Audrey, though briefly startled, didn’t resist and decided to enjoy the fleeting moment.

A few minutes later, Lansius was ready. A sip of spiced wine, secured from Margo, had brought much-needed warmth and color to his face.

"My Lord," greeted the physician, Margo, Tia, and Francisca as the Lord and Lady arrived at the meeting area beneath the command tent.

"Are you well-rested?" Lansius asked the physician, who had accompanied him since his visit to Three Hills.

"Not as much as I’d like," the physician admitted with a faint smile, "but I trust you won’t demand too much of me."

"I assure you, I’m reasonable. I only need your expertise about blood," Lansius said. He began explaining his concerns, detailing what he knew about blood types and asking whether the physician had ever heard of, or seen, instances of blood clumping.

With humans in this world being different—special, and not following the evolutionary path of his own world—Lansius couldn’t afford carelessness. Valerie’s life depended on him.

As Lansius spoke, Audrey led Tia and Margo back to Valerie’s side. The woman remained unchanged, still deep in sleep.

The physician listened carefully and explained, "I’ve never seen blood clumping like you describe." But when Lansius revealed the idea of using the bloodvine for transfusion, the physician’s doubt was easy to see. "One person’s blood to another? I’ve never heard of this. I wouldn’t recommend it, but if it’s critical…"

Lansius nodded, considering. Audrey returned to his side as he motioned for everyone to speak in hushed tones. "Francisca," he whispered, "can you sense if Valerie’s scent is... different from others?"

Francisca stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Indeed. She has a distinct scent."

"Is it because she’s a mage?" Audrey asked, her curiosity evident.

"That’s part of it," Francisca replied. "But she also has a unique scent unlike any other."

Lansius hesitated, his nerves showing. "Does she have a scent like mine?"

Audrey’s sharp gaze darted to him, but Francisca answered calmly, "You’re both unique, but different."

"No similarities?" Lansius' eyes met Francisca's. She shook her head slightly. "Too distinct. I’m certain you’re not related by tribe."

Lansius nodded, his gaze shifting to the physician who had treated him several times. "I need to tell you a secret." He paused, glancing at the other two. "Valerie isn’t from this continent."

The others exchanged surprised glances.

Lansius explained, "She comes from a place where people aren’t descendants of the Ancients—or at least, that’s what she believes."

Audrey frowned, whispering, "I didn’t know that."

"I’m telling you this because it'll affect the bloodvine transfusion. She doesn’t have Ancient’s blood," Lansius said.

The physician nodded readily as understanding dawned on him. "So her blood is different from ours."

Francisca massaged her forehead, her expression troubled. "Then what can we do?"

"It means she can’t take your blood or any other half-breed’s," Lansius clarified. "But I think she can take blood from anyone else—except me."

"Why not?" Audrey asked, her concern deepening.

Lansius looked uneasy. "I don’t remember much about my homeland, but I likely come from a place like hers. My blood type might be different."

Francisca’s brows furrowed in surprise as she mumbled, "So that's why you asked about the similarities in your scent..."

Meanwhile, Audrey merely nodded, unfazed. To her, it changed nothing.

"Now, we need to find a candidate," Lansius continued. "The scripture didn’t specify human donor, but it said the donor should be healthy in body and soul—not pregnant, bodily active, and without yellowing in the eyes or any other disorders."

"Those are sound points," the physician agreed.

"I think Margo fits the bill," Audrey said, turning toward the two youngsters sitting beside Valerie.

"Or my lord's sister," Francisca remarked casually, surprising the others.

"Why is Tanya suitable? Is her scent similar to Valerie’s?" Lansius asked.

Francisca frowned. "No, not the scent—it's the hair color. I thought hair color indicated similarities to a tribe. Is that not so among humans?"

The physician and Audrey exchanged amused glances, and Lansius let out a smile. "There's some truth to that, but blond in humans is usually just a coincidence."

The half-breed nodded, pleased with the opportunity to learn. Most of their understanding of the world came from books, so naturally, there were some gaps in their experience.

Lansius turned to the physician and said, "Before we do anything else to Valerie, we need to test her blood, and that’s where you come in."

Under Lansius' watchful eyes, the physician sterilized a set of knives by boiling them. After ensuring they were clean, he carefully avoided touching the blades and pricked Valerie’s finger, placing four drops of her blood onto separate silver and gold plates, which had also been boiled beforehand.

The physician then added a drop of his own blood to one plate, while Margo and Francisca tested the others with theirs. Lansius took the final plate, curious to see if his blood would react with Valerie’s. Everyone watched intently as the samples were gently tilted and swirled, careful not to disturb them too much. Any signs of clumping could indicate incompatibility.

The problem, however, was their limited understanding of blood coagulation. After some time, all they observed was the natural drying of blood due to air exposure. None of the samples showed any significant reaction.

Am I missing something...?

Lansius wondered in frustration, then realized he had likely overlooked the role of blood plasma and antibodies.

So just mixing different blood won’t give any result I need...

He vaguely remembered a simple blood type card he had once seen that had small circles to place blood drops and a chart to match the results.

Breaking the silence, the physician finally said apologetically, "My Lord, I see no differences at all."

"We’re likely missing something to trigger the reaction," Lansius exhaled sharply.

The physician and the others waited in silence as Lansius deliberated. Based on the scripture he had just read, the safest course seemed to be giving Valerie a blood transfusion from a human native to this world. Margo was a likely candidate—he was healthy and met the criteria. Yet Lansius couldn’t take the risk. Their understanding relied entirely on lore claiming that the Ancients' blood was compatible with other races, a trait supposedly inherited by humans.

While Lansius acknowledged the existence of half-breeds as evidence of such compatibility, he wasn’t willing to gamble with Valerie’s life. Lacking definitive test results, he wouldn’t dare attempt it unless her condition deteriorated further—and he feared that might happen soon. With only two cups of honeyed water and a few spoonfuls of porridge, before she fainted, Valerie wouldn’t last much longer.

"After the morning meeting, call for Ingrid and Sir Stan," Lansius decided. "If there’s no breakthrough, we’ll proceed with the bloodvine."

***