Chapter 45 : The Horizon Beyond Abaca”

Request sheets fluttered like leaves, but one in particular caught his eye.
“…?”

The poster was comically oversized. Letters bold and dramatic. Impossible to miss.

“CALLING ALL MAGES! Cleanse the aberrations! Spread the light of salvation!”

It read like a recruitment flier from a back-alley cult.

And yet, at the bottom of the message… there it was—a familiar emblem, embossed in deep gold and pale violet ink.

The seal of the Church.

Curtis blinked. He leaned closer.

It was real. Official.

“The Church? Hiring mages?”

Unusual. Very unusual. Faith and magic rarely mingled in this world. In fact, most institutions that clung to divine authority kept spellcasters at arm’s length. Too unpredictable. Too autonomous. Too secular.

Mages answered to the elements, not the gods.

And yet, this paper was legitimate—no counterfeit. No joke. A formal request, written in polished, ceremonial script. It even bore a numerical job code and a stipend bracket in the lower right corner. Officially sanctioned, publicly posted, and gilded at the corners. This was no desperate outreach—it was deliberate.

Curtis tilted his head, thoughtfully scratching the stubble at his chin.

As he pondered the strange pairing of magic and divine mission, a voice brushed his ear, feather-light and clear.

“Interested, are you?”

He turned sharply.

A woman stood beside him, clad in flowing white robes. Her expression was serene, her hair pale, and her eyes—her eyes shimmered softly, like moonlight glancing off frozen glass.

She stood with a calm that unnerved him slightly. Not because she was threatening—but because she was so composed, so effortlessly in control of her presence, it felt unnatural. Like meeting someone who belonged to a higher world entirely.

“Are you, by any chance… a mage?”

Curtis didn’t answer immediately. He was studying her.

Her hair was golden—so pale it neared white, cascading like woven sunlight. Her skin was unblemished, soft as silk, clear as spring water upon untouched snow. Every feature of her face, from the gentle slope of her nose to the elegant lines of her mouth, seemed placed by a master sculptor. Not a line out of place. As if the world had paused in admiration while she was formed.

Unless one held a very peculiar idea of beauty, most would find her appearance striking—a vision of grace, purity, and holy charm.

And yet, few would dare to utter praise aloud in her presence.

She wore the robes of the Church—an immaculate white garment that reached nearly to her ankles, fastened by a wide sash at the waist and lined with dozens of hidden buttons, keeping it dignified and formal. It was the signature of the clergy, a sacred uniform known as a vestment. While monks and initiates wore gray, pure white marked her as a fully ordained priestess.

In this world, as in the medieval ages of Earth, the Church held tremendous power—political, spiritual, and social. To speak of a cleric’s appearance too freely was not just impolite—it was dangerous.

Should your words be mistaken for mockery or impiety, the consequences could be… divine.

But Curtis was not marveling at her beauty.

He was studying her age.

“She doesn’t look a day over twenty…”

And yet, if she truly held the rank of priestess, she must have ascended rapidly through the Church’s sacred hierarchy.

The ecclesiastical ranks followed a sacred order: deacon, priest, bishop, archbishop. Only priests and above were permitted to travel freely without supervision. Deacons, much like apprentices to masters, were required to remain under the guidance of their elders.

This girl—no, this child—looked barely old enough to hold a sword, let alone command divine rites. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was youthful, barely past adolescence.

“She can’t be a runaway deacon, can she? No… if she’s truly a priest at this age, then she’s already the equivalent of a silver-rank mage.”

“Brother? Are you listening?”

Her soft voice nudged him from his thoughts. She tilted her head, golden hair falling like a veil across her shoulders.

Curtis blinked, then nodded.

“Yes. I’m listening.”

“Then answer me, please!”

“You were asking if I’m a mage?”

“That’s right!” she beamed.

Curtis raised a brow, suddenly wary of her enthusiasm.

“And why, exactly, are you asking complete strangers something like that?”

“Well, you were staring at the Church’s mage recruitment notice! You must be a mage!”

“…Or maybe I’m just curious?”

“Most non-mages don’t read past the first line,” she said confidently. “Only mages really read the full thing. And besides…”

She narrowed her eyes playfully.

“You don’t look like a warrior!”

“Ah. Fair enough.”

Her logic was simple. Perhaps a little too simple—but not wrong. Who else but a mage would linger at a notice board like that?

Curtis wore no blade. His garb was light and travel-worn—functional, but not built for the frontlines. His posture was too relaxed for a soldier, too aware for a noble.

If he wasn’t a mercenary, a trader, or a priest, then that left… mage.

And mages were rare. Rarer still were ones who walked freely, unaffiliated.

“Still,” he muttered, glancing once more at the flier, “the Church doesn’t usually go out of its way to hire people like me.”

“That’s precisely why it’s important,” she said brightly. “Our current mission requires magic—real magic. Divine blessings only go so far. What we face can’t be exorcised by prayer alone.”

Curtis tilted his head slightly. “So you’re admitting divine magic has limits?”

She puffed her cheeks ever so slightly. “Don’t twist my words!”

He gave a faint smile.

“And what are you facing, exactly?”

Her playful demeanor vanished. She grew suddenly quiet, eyes cast downward.

“Something… corrupted. Twisted. Once human, perhaps. But no longer.”

“…Aberrations?”

She nodded. “We’re still not certain what caused it. But several outposts near the Shrouded Valley have reported missing clergy. Patrols vanish without a trace. Those that do return speak of shapes in the fog. Things that speak without mouths. Spirits that howl in mimicry.”

Curtis frowned.

Not bandits. Not monsters. Something else.

“And you’re recruiting freelance mages to investigate?”

“Exactly. Not many answered. Most don’t trust the Church—and I understand why. But this is bigger than doctrine.”

Her voice lowered, the playful tone fading into something more solemn.

“If you’re even considering it… come to Saint Tarellion’s Temple at dusk. I’ll be there. Just ask for Sister Lys.”

She offered a soft smile.

“Should you decide otherwise… then let us part in peace.”

Without another word, she bowed slightly, turned on her heel, and walked gracefully down the road. Her white robes fluttered like wind-blown petals as she disappeared into the crowd.

Curtis remained still for a moment, one hand thoughtfully stroking the edge of the notice.

An official mission. A rare call. A priestess far too young, and a threat that warped the very idea of what it meant to be human.

His eyes lingered on the seal once more.

The Church was asking for help.

And that… meant things were worse than they dared admit.