Curselock

Chapter 142: Tradition

Leland and Jude stared at Glenny as he attempted to consolidate a platter of words, tests, and results that were freely swimming around in his mind. Some results came easier, others were near impossible. But that was the key, near.

His fingers kneading the blank scrap of fabric, Glenny realized he wasn’t holding an edged glass shard. He looked down, unraveling that cloth and looking around his feet. It was simply gone. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was gone materially, yes, but the information it held had been passed from Lord to Legacy.

Glenny swayed, his knees suddenly the weight of an anvil. Jude and Leland guided him down, sitting him on the cobbled street.

“Glenny?” one of them asked.

“Glenny?” the other asked after no response.

The Legacy of the Chameleon grunted, hopefully conveying that he was fine but needed a minute. He didn’t get a chance to confirm, however, because the world fell away and the glass shard prominently appeared in his mind.

Hypotheses, tests, results.

Necessity, requirements, results.

Greed, pain, results.

Again and again, the shard poured information pertaining to adaptation. Parsing through it the best he could, Glenny read over items of note. Fire, drowning, sharp blades, blunt force. He twitched, the information on how to adapt to these as torturous as they should be. They were the cream of the crop, the worst of the worst.

Yet, there was one towering far beyond. The information sat in his mind like a mountain, a mountain Glenny so very much wished to climb. To see the top, to see what the most difficult, and powerful, adaptation would be.

His mind started walking, and the pain of these tests and results started reaching. Whispers and yelling, his ears screamed in agony. A warning, not to venture further. Adapting past the first steps, adapting to something far beyond his abilities, was impossible – at least his Lord thought so.

But that was fine. Glenny had time. He didn’t need to rush. The mountain of information had a path that led to its peak. It started with the first step, the step needed to control the others.

Hypothesis: Adaptation to the Void.

Tests: Experience the Void and learn to adapt.

Results: Basic manipulation over the Void.

Glenny opened his eyes, finding himself now sitting. The ground was cold and hard, enough to make his butt sore even through the leather pants he wore. He groaned, standing.

“Well that was something…”

“You alright Glenny?” Jude asked, thrusting a canteen forward.

He accepted it graciously, downing multiple gulps. “It was a lot, but I think I’ve got it all organized.”

“Will it be any help?” Leland asked.

“Let’s put it this way. If my mother was still alive, she would have killed to get the information the shard held.” Glenny went thoughtful at that, realizing just what was now in his mind. Guidance, like what his mom was going to provide. “Thanks Leland,” he muttered.

With that, the group sat back and relaxed. News of the Royal Dream starting had spread, and soon the street was thick with the musk of adventurers and civilians. Packed like sardines, shoulders grazed one another as people talked and laughed, a set of Reflections performing a comedy skit overhead.

The boys weren’t concerned with the ghosts, however. Instead they focused their attention on their surroundings, specifically eyeing the crowd and trying to find their parents among them. After twenty minutes of no luck, they moved to identifying the most suspicious people. That proved much more interesting, as well as much more distressing.

Paranoia was, as they quickly found, a slippery slope. A woman in a hood suddenly was a killer on the run. A man with a scar and blind eye was a mercenary here to kill the princess. A group of like-dressed adventurers were a cult, their master with grave power hidden among them.

Truthfully, the boys didn’t know what to actually look for. Because a scar, hood, and being dressed similarly were, in fact, weak evidence of a conspiracy. That was when Leland decided that if someone was going to attack, they’d do it under the guise of magic, not forthright in front of a crowd.

So, Leland got to scanning the area with his perception but quickly found himself thinking about perception. Specifically the Lord of Chameleon’s contract. He had yet to fully test the contract’s limitations, but since it was tailored to his needs at any given moment, he figured actively searching for magic would trigger the effect.

Wish I could cast Harbinger’s Halo without others noticing, Leland thought, recognizing the magical halo portion of the curse was quite a downside. But in a way, any visual portion of a spell was a downside.

Fire blooming on a mage's hands? They were probably going to throw a fireball. Water swirling like a vortex? The Mage was casting a water spell. It was a weakness all mages had shared for thousands of years, a weakness that, under the right circumstances, was quite deadly.

By the time Leland felt a magical change in the air, he had already thought over the issue and wondered about a potential contract for a solution – the Hidden Lord being his first choice. But that was for later, it was starting.

The troupe of comedian ghosts abruptly ended their set, fading away while a few dozen musician ghosts took their place. They floated high above the gathered crowd, instruments in hand. They began to play, summoning forth a hail of magical wind and royal essence. Red and white blazed without reserve as the Palemarrow Kingdom’s anthem sung through Ruinsforth’s streets.

A golden hue extended across the whole of the city, of the kingdom, as the noon sun morphed. Thick excitement came to life as the street stretched, giving way to a single isolated channel through the civilian cheers. A waterfall of light spilled from the heavens, casting deep into the ruins the city protected.

Nobles and the poor stood together, garments elaborate and silken or dirty and torn. Elders standing with children, wrinkled skin versus smooth. Regal regardless, all watching the start of something far beyond them.

Murky chatter suddenly went silent, the tapestries and enchanting song of the ghosts ending. Divinity made way for thought, summoning itself in all present. Very few recognized the feeling, only those with the strongest connection to the Lords able to identify such a feat.

For Jude and Glenny, the feeling was like swimming in the shade or eating a platter of desserts without guilt. For Leland, however, he felt consumed. He was suffocating in a heat unwilling, or unable, to dwindle. He was naked, standing in a snowstorm. Breathless while underwater. Starving in a kitchen. Hopeless, even though the crops were growing, the economy booming, peace through the lands, and surrounded by love.

His chest tightened like it was trapped in a vise, Leland counted the moments as his breath failed to catch. One… two… three— A million invisible ants crawled across his skin at that moment, twisting his spine into the arc of a bow while forcing his hand to his neck. His knees jittered and buckled as the golden light continued to circulate through the crowd like a spotlight searching for a ship lost in the night.

The spotlight centered on Leland for a breath longer than the rest, abruptly leaving him, along with the pressure it created.

In the power’s wake, a single change had been made. Standing where the street had been widened, a lone young woman now stood.

Garnered in all white marble armor with scarlet accenting leathers, Sybil silently marched. Her skin glowed with the light of a gray stone, illuminating her pathway through the street and crowd, and into the depths of Ruinsforth. Scarred and terrified, she walked, heritage and tradition pushing her feet to move.

Around her, citizens roared in praise. Their Queen’s daughter, now old enough to assume the throne, now old enough to rise and protect their nation.

Of course there were some who sought to ruin such an event. Their reasons their own, they rushed their Princess arms out wide or daggers in hand. Portals opened just before each of them, swallowing them whole before snapping closed.

Spencer, wherever he was, created a dome of safety around the Youngest Princess, protecting her as she marched… That was, until a child stood before Sybil, his arm outstretched, a flower in hand.

Hesitating, Sybil remained stoic but ultimately stopped. She regarded the boy for a long moment, deciding whether or not to take the flower or—

A clap of thunder ripped through the crowd, the heartbeat after a flash of blue sparks exploded overhead. A shockwave came next, knocking the legs out from the weak, old, and young.

“Mom!” Leland yelled, finding her silhouette hurtling through the air, a smoke trail behind her. His eyes went wide in shock, and he began shoving through the crowd to— A chill creeped up his spine and into the base of his neck.

Standing a few paces away, a man threw off his cloak, revealing a thin blade. The man cut through those closest to him, those impeding his path. Multiple died in a spray of blood, the man uncaring of their cries. A few heroic souls reacted to the man quick enough, but each was cut down with less than a flick of a wrist. None would stop him from reaching Sybil.

It was then chaos raged through the street. A city full of adventurers was no stranger to death, but as more and more cloaked figures began cleaving through the crowd, death became a best friend.

As quickly as the street was set in ceremony and pride, war had broken out. Common enemies were quickly identified and pursued, those killing indiscriminately were challenged and barred from their targets. An understanding overcame those fighting, and soon a resolving notion was established.

Protect the princess.

Leland surrendered himself to the idea, and looked ahead to Sybil. Fear had long made her scars even more prominent, appearing like chasms along the smoothness of her face, but she continued to walk. She had to, the ceremony demanded it.

Defenders gathered around her, far enough that no portal would send them away but close enough that she would be protected. Ghosts also appeared, the Reflection Kingdom’s own army. They fought with foggy spears and shields, pushing back those who wished to do harm.

More than a few terrorists were dispatched this way, each fizzling away into a muddied green mess. It was then an emerald ring cast its light above the crowd – above one man in particular, the man who hardly needed to raise a hand to kill.

Halo above his head, the Harbinger followed Sybil.