Sybil dreamed of broken bones and a lineage of mothers.

“Break a bone, it hardens as it heals,” one mother said.

“But that’s painful,” another said. “Drinking milk is the better option.”

“Always the worrywart,” a third mother said. “You wouldn’t let me out of my room until I was seven!”

Second mother bristled at that, the thought of something so safe used as a weapon! “I resent that sentiment. You were a fragile child—”

“Yes, yes. Spare me the walk down memory lane, please Mother.”

“Oh?” a fourth mother asked, this voice familiar to Sybil. “I haven’t heard this story before. Please, do tell grandmother. And don’t leave out any details.”

Despite the dream being only verbal, Sybil felt the familiar voice lean forward and bat her eyes.

Second mother spoke, her words gushing with that sort of sarcasm only a mother could achieve to embarrass their child, “Well, it all started when I married your grandfather—”

Sybil listened to the whole of the story, finding it oddly charming and sweet, rather than the scornful missive third mother found it to be. In the end, she realized that everyone in this dream was related. Mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and so on. In fact, her own mother was here as well. Mother four, she finally connected. Which meant the story second mother told was about her own grandmother.

“Hello?” Sybil finally asked the dream, taking a leap of faith in the middle of a lull of the conversation.

Again, without bodies and vision, there were only words. Still, she felt everyone look at her.

“Finally awake, my little princess,” fourth mother said, her mother.

“Mom?” Sybil asked.

“That’s right, honey. But don’t worry about all of that right now.”

Someone took Sybil’s hands, grasping them so tight she could feel her own pulse.

Her mom continued, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Can you see a light? Maybe a font of power?”

“It was a statue for me!” first mother yelled.

She was further away, Sybil noticed. In fact, they all were. Even her real mother, who was still holding her hands.

“Mom, I’m scared!”

“I know, Sybil. You are safe. Everything is fine.” The former queen’s voice fell in volume, the distance growing even more. “Just find the light! Or the font!”

“Or a statue!” first mother added.

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I’m faster than Isobel! I’m not going to die! I’m faster than Isobel! I’m not going to die!

The chant, while short and dire, repeated in Leland’s mind as three divine contracts propelled him forward. Eight wings pushed him far faster than he had flown before. Each flap, each beat of his heart, sent him sailing through the skies of Ivory Reach.

Behind him, sinister amalgamated power rained. He felt people die in an instant. Those who tried to interfere, the city’s defenders sworn to protect life, tried to fight off the Undying Harbinger.

And he crushed them.

A crescent of vile emerald energy split the sky, slicing just past Leland as he dove behind a curved rib bone of the fallen Lord that made up the city. The blast carved into the divine structure, chipping away at the ancient corpse.

He looked down from his flight, finding the desolate charred battleground. Fires had ruined the area, turning it to a black dot from such a view. People gathered in the dot, some with weapons drawn, others without. Most were running away, while a few traded in conversation.

Ashford wasn’t there any longer.

A sickness befell Leland. His heart skipped a beat. A strain bared down on his soul, a familiar chilling pressure. It crushed his lungs and whittled his wings. Just to stay in the air now took conscious effort, each wing working double time.

He searched for the source, finding it in mere moments.

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Two infinite orbs, two vile eyes. Ashford stared at him from across the sky through divine rib bones acting as trees in a forest. He was neither smiling nor frowning, just lame contempt, just another thing he had to do.

But Leland could see him. He could see the master pulling the strings and reaping the rewards. Far in the back of Ashford’s eyes was the Undying Lord. And while he didn’t condone his servant’s actions, there was no way he was going to interfere with more mayhem or death.

To kill the only Legacy of the Curse Lord? Of the Calamity? Of the bane of all vile Lords and the constant reminder that death, even for an Undying Lord is just a few short spells cast away.

No. The Undying Lord was not going to interfere. This was, after all, his minion’s will. A reputable, foolish goal to retain his humanity, but his foolish goal all the same. The Curse Lord will have no means of retaliation if the battle is limited to Legacies. Something the Toy Maker seemingly forgot when he faced off against the boy.

“Flight,” Ashford whispered, the word somehow the perfect volume for Leland to hear despite the distance, “you’ve got some new tools since last we fought.”

Leland turned and flew. Eight wings, all flapping at once. He traveled the distance of three city districts in the span of just a few seconds, but Ashford was faster.

The blow came out of nowhere and caught Leland in the side. He hurdled across the sky, a pain reminiscent of when the Lord of Souls grabbed his arm erupted in his gut. Sickness spilled from his mouth as his wings fought for dominance over the open air. He spun, feathers of black and white were ripped out from sheer drag alone.

Another contract activated, the Lord of Nature. Regenerative magic was hardly more than a breeze in a tempest of pain. Stability caught, and Leland found his attacker instantly. Watching him, with those cold dead eyes, Ashford floated on a trail of green miasma.

A potion appeared in Leland’s hand, one of the stolen high quality ones. Its taste was overshadowed by the blood in his mouth, though the healing properties were nothing to scoff at. The pain fell away, only for the weight of Ashford’s aura to smash down.

“Your turn,” the man whispered, again his voice carrying over the air.

Running was out. Soul Fire? Maybe, but Leland had no hope Ashford would stand still long enough for him to properly throw the curse. He’d be dead in an instant. He needed allies. He needed someone to hold Ashford in place—

“Dad!” Leland yelled. “Help!”

Ashford raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t think so. This is between you and me.”

“Worth a shot,” he replied with snark, the potion doing more than just easing his pain.

It reminded him just how close to death he truly was. One punch, a punch he doubted was Ashford’s full strength, nearly killed him. As he shifted, despite the potion, his guts still felt like jelly. He was out gunned by all measures, and the likelihood help would arrive in time was low. So, Leland straightened his back, cracked his neck, and did as he always had done.

Prepared for an unwinnable battle.

“Alright fine,” he then said, in case Ashford was growing bored. “My turn.”

He moved slowly through the air, staring the Undying Harbinger down as he went. Ashford, of course, followed, realizing a change in venue was appropriate for the battle to come. Leland didn’t fly down, however, instead traveling a short distance up.

“What better battlefield than on top of a dead Lord?” he asked as he gently landed on the Lord's cracked sternum.

Ashford did the same, the green mist surrounding him fading. “I suppose it is fitting.”

Legs shaking, Leland pulled his grimoire round, making the gesture as flamboyant and long as possible. Anything to gather a few seconds.

“Right,” he muttered. “My turn.” He rocked his shoulders back. “Slow.”

The word came out quickly and decisively. For a single heartbeat, he and Ashford were connected. It was a lesser aspect of the Curse of Collapse, but an aspect all the same. Usually, Leland ignored whatever vile sting of emotions he felt in these moments, but this time he paid attention.

For that heartbeat, Leland only felt sorrow. A tortured existence pushed until it was one step from collapse. He wanted a release, a final judgment on a life ill-lived. Penance, maybe, or maybe just the longing for rest. Either way, Ashford wasn’t human anymore. The heavy ache in his heart nothing more than a void of what once was.

“Maul!” Leland then yelled, his flock of most trusted summons appearing from beyond reality.

They came in like arrows fired from ballistae, staying low to the ground while moving to kill. Led by a larger, more real alpha crow, the murder split in two, each group attacking simultaneously from either side. Blood spilled as they clashed, razor-like talons and pike-like beaks lacerating into Ashford’s hardened skin.

They did little more than scratch the man, but blood still dripped on the dead Lord’s bones.

“Hmm,” Ashford hummed. “I was expecting more.” And with that, he darted across the ivory battleground, his speed far lower than before.

Able to follow his movements, Leland activated another contract, cycling out the Lord of Crow’s for the Lord of Erupting Skies. Bursts of lighting pulsed from his every step as he back peddled across the white desolate, each booming with electric magic and powerful lifeforce.

Ashford stayed with his jerky and erratic movement, the two seemingly dancing back and forth in a murderous waltz.

“Fracture,”

Leland had long known the feeling when one of his curses failed to take. It felt dull, like a dull edge of a blade striking against a perfectly forged shield. This time was no different, the curse failed.

Let me give you the power—

Leland snarled, doing an uppercut from Ashford that sent emerald cracks through the air.

Lodestar had woken up.