The Glitched Mage

The sun had not yet risen, but the outer wall of the capital glimmered with the first hints of dawn—slivers of gold brushing against the stone as if the morning itself were trying to peel away the night.

Riven stood at the edge of the forest just beyond the city's perimeter, his cloak drawn tight and hood low over his brow. Behind him, Ember lingered in silence, her newly forged presence pressing against the edge of reality like a blade sheathed in shadow. Nyx had not yet emerged from his form, and he preferred it that way—for now.

Up ahead, near the eastern gate, a cluster of figures stood in calm formation. Students—at least in appearance.

Robes in the colors of the Academy, book satchels slung over shoulders, the occasional yawn or murmured conversation drifting on the wind. They looked like any group of upper-year students on a sanctioned research trip.

But Riven knew better.

Beneath the illusion woven into their attire and posture, the full might of the Necromancer Temple waited. Scholars, summoners, archivists, boneweavers—all cloaked in spells of misdirection and glamour.

At the center of them all stood Elara.

Her violet robes had been replaced by a more modest academy cloak, her staff wrapped in runed cloth to obscure the symbols etched along its shaft. But her presence couldn't be hidden. There was a certain weight to her gaze, to the way she carried herself—regal, but dangerous.

She looked up the moment Riven stepped from the treeline.

And smiled.

"You're late," she said mildly, though her eyes flicked from Riven to Ember with sharp interest.

"I was tying off loose ends," Riven replied.

Elara's gaze lingered on Ember a moment longer. "So I see."

Ember didn't speak. Her expression remained calm, almost serene, but her crimson eyes never left Elara's face. It was not distrust—but a predator's patience.

Elara tilted her head. "Is she—?"

"She won't be a liability," Riven said simply. "That's all you need to know."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Elara nodded. "Fair enough."

She turned, leading him back toward the group. As they passed, the cloaked Temple members gave Riven short glances—some in recognition, others wary. None spoke aloud.

"I've assigned false names and roles to everyone," Elara said as they moved. "We'll pass through as an Academy research group en route to study ruins near the western marshlands. It's a route no one questions during this season."

"And the guards?" Riven asked, eyeing the twin towers flanking the eastern gate.

"Taken care of," she said, a trace of amusement in her tone. "I'm still the Archmage of the Academy, Riven. Even here, they know better than to detain me."

He didn't respond, but the flicker of approval in his gaze didn't go unnoticed.

As they approached the gate, one of the armored city guards stiffened slightly. He was young, probably fresh out of training, and his hand twitched instinctively toward his sword hilt before recognizing the face beneath the hood.

"A-Archmage Elara," he stammered. "I—I wasn't informed of a departure—"

"Last-minute order," she replied smoothly, offering a rolled parchment she didn't let him open. "You'll find it signed and sealed. Would you like to delay us over a formality, or shall we be on our way?"

The guard blinked, then flushed.

"N-no, ma'am. Of course. Please go ahead."

The gates creaked open.

Elara strode through without another word.

The disguised necromancers followed in silence—one by one, filing out into the pale light of the waking world. Riven and Ember brought up the rear, slipping into the morning mist as the city slowly began to stir behind them.

The capital faded in the distance, its towers no longer threatening and ahead, the road stretched wide and empty.

The early morning mist curled around their boots as they walked, muffling the sound of dozens of footsteps along the dirt path winding into the southern woodlands.

Elara walked at Riven's sid, her hands clasped behind her back, posture relaxed but alert. She glanced toward him occasionally, her expression thoughtful. Curious.

And more than once, downright giddy.

"Have you heard the newest one?" she asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "They're saying the Shadow King once reanimated an entire battalion with a single gesture. Entire soldiers—bones, armor, weapons—all puppeted like marionettes under his will."

Nyx, nestled deep within Riven's shadow, gave an audible snort that only Riven could hear.

She pressed on, her tone far too enthusiastic for someone talking about a figure most kingdoms considered apocalyptic.

"They say his shadows walk even when he sleeps. That he commands a divine beast—no one knows what kind. But the descriptions? Scales like pearl and teeth like knives." Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, if only half the stories are true…"

Riven kept his expression neutral, though Nyx's voice echoed dryly in his mind. 'She's going to pass out when she finds out who you are.'

"I thought everyone supposed to fear the Shadow King," he said, just to test her reaction.

"Oh, most do," Elara admitted with a wave of her hand. "The cautious ones. The ones stuck in the old ways. But not me. Not anymore." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "I think he's the only one who truly understands what necromancy could become. Not just forbidden magic… but power. Empire. Legacy."

Riven said nothing but the shadows around his boots curled like cats basking in sunlight.

Behind them, Ember walked in silence, observing everything and everyone with those faintly glowing crimson eyes. The Temple members kept their distance from her instinctively—none of them quite able to place the cold weight she carried or the way her presence brushed against their wards like fingers on glass.

They walked for hours, the sky brightening as the sun began to crest over distant hills.

Eventually, they reached a forest glade just off the beaten road—a wide clearing where Elara finally called a rest.

The moment they stopped, some of the younger acolytes slumped gratefully onto logs or unpacked traveling gear. A pair of masked boneweavers quietly refreshed the illusion spells cast over the group's disguises. Everything moved in perfect rhythm, organized and prepared—Elara had clearly planned this escape for weeks.

As Riven settled onto a low stone, Elara took a seat beside him with a sigh, brushing loose strands of hair from her face.

"Once we cross the forest," she said, "we'll be far enough beyond the reach of Solis patrols. From there, we'll use the teleportation scrolls to bring us near the borders of the Wastes."

"And after that?" Riven asked.

Elara smiled faintly. "Then we present our strength to the Shadow King and hope he allows us to call the Shadow Kingdom home once more."

Riven didn't answer right away.

He simply leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze distant as he watched the glade's edge ripple with drifting mist. The trees beyond stood tall and silent, their shadows long and reaching. To the others, it may have seemed like he was simply contemplating Elara's words.

But Nyx, still tucked within his shadow, felt the slight pulse in his mana—the slow, measured hum of a predator preparing for the long game.

'Do you think they'll kneel,' she whispered in his mind, 'once they know?'

'They'll have no choice,' he replied.

"Ah, I just can't wait to get there," Elara murmured, wringing her hands with a mixture of impatience and barely restrained excitement. There was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before—hope, untempered and raw.

Riven's gaze didn't leave the distant horizon. "And the others?" he asked quietly. "Do they share that same hope? That belief?"

Elara followed his line of sight, then turned to look at the gathered necromancers trailing behind them.

Some knelt in the dirt, drawing careful sigils with soot-stained fingers. A few chanted under their breath, steadying their spellwork. Most remained silent, composed—but Riven saw what others might miss. The slight tremble in their shoulders. The way they kept glancing at the tree line. The tension coiled beneath their skin like wire.

"They're young," Elara said, her voice softer now. "But forged by fire. Every one of them has lived under the weight of silence, hiding who they were in a kingdom that treated their very existence as treason."

She exhaled slowly. "Being able to breathe freely in the Shadow Kingdom… it won't just be life-changing for them." Her eyes flicked back to him, sincere. "It'll be the first time they've ever lived."

—x—

As dusk fell across the glade and the last rays of sun vanished beneath the horizon, the Necromancer Temple gathered in silence. Cloaks were pulled tight, scrolls unrolled, and sigils carved into the earth in careful, practiced motions. The teleportation circle shimmered with abyssal energy—dull violet veins pulsing like a heartbeat beneath their feet.

Riven stood at the center, Ember to his right, Elara to his left. With a single nod, the incantation was triggered.

A flash of cold, otherworldly light.

Then silence.

The world reassembled itself with a low hum. When their vision cleared, they stood upon cracked earth scorched by centuries of ruin.

The edge of the Wastes.

Ashen wind howled through the broken trees. The sky here was tinted a permanent gray, the clouds thick like smoke. Elara took a cautious step forward, adjusting her hood against the wind. Behind her, the Temple acolytes stared across the desolation, their illusions still intact but their composure faltering.

Then they saw it.

In the distance—rising from the ruins like a fortress reborn—a wall.

Massive. Dark stone reinforced by abyssal blacksteel, glowing softly with runes. It stretched for miles, circling the land like a titan's crown. The city beyond pulsed with life, faint flickers of mana visible from here.

The Shadow Kingdom.

It had returned.

Riven's eyes narrowed with satisfaction. They had built well in his absence.

Without a word, he knelt briefly, placing one palm to the ground. His shadows flickered—and from within them, Nyx emerged. Her form melted into the surrounding gloom.

"I'll go ahead," she whispered, already vanishing into the dark. "Let them know their king has come home."

She was gone before anyone could question it.

The group pressed on, navigating the dead landscape. The Wastes had not yet been restored—the land still bore the scars of Solis's purge—but life stirred beneath the surface. As they neared the great wall, a presence shifted. Something moved along the ramparts. A signal flared—one only Riven could see.

The gates opened.

Elara froze.

"What…?"

The obsidian doors parted with mechanical precision, revealing armored figures flanking the entrance.

No challenge. No questions.

The guards stepped aside in unison and allowed them to pass.

Elara looked to Riven, baffled. "They didn't even ask for our names."

Riven said nothing.

They stepped through the threshold and into the city.

And the Temple froze.

It wasn't ruins.

It was a kingdom.

Streets paved with onyx stone. Tall, towering buildings of blackened marble and darkwood—structures the Temple didn't even recognize. Multi-tiered apartments. Market rows. Blacksmith forges with glowing blue flames. Shops and stalls lined the main roads, staffed by undead with polished bone and precise movement. Children—living children—ran past them laughing, flanked by undead pets that snarled playfully.

Elara's voice dropped to a whisper. "What… is this place?"

Citizens paused at the sight of them—hooded strangers in foreign robes. Whispers rose. Curious eyes turned. Then… silence.

A ripple moved through the crowd.

The Temple group was watched not with suspicion… but with awe.

The crowd parted as they passed. Word spread like wildfire.

By the time they reached the city's heart, the streets were lined with silent onlookers—citizens, artisans, even undead laborers who had dropped their tools and turned to face the square.

And there, waiting in the centre of the city stood five figures.

Armored. Poised.

Familiar.

Elara's breath caught in her throat because she knew those faces.

They were identical to the statues back in the Temple—the generals of the fallen Shadow King. Immortalized in stone.

And now they stood before her in flesh and blood.

Krux stood tall, golden hair tousled beneath the edge of his dark helm, his molten eyes warm but tired—like a soldier who'd waited far too long for his king to return.

Nyx lingered beside him, arms crossed, a smirk playing at her lips as shadows curled at her feet—effortless and unbothered, as if she'd never left the fold.

Aria was still as a statue, cold-eyed and precise, her fingers resting lightly on the hilt of her curved blade, ever a breath from violence.

Mal loomed nearby, robed in quiet mystery, the violet runes etched across his arms pulsing faintly like heartbeats in the dark.

And at the center—Damon stood. Cloaked in earth-toned armor veined with glowing stone, his feet planted like roots in the obsidian ground. Small, obsidian horns curled from his brow, a subtle mark of his abyssal blood.

They stepped forward in perfect unison.

And then…

One by one, they dropped to their knees.

Helms lowered. Heads bowed.

Then, in perfect unison, their voices echoed—

"Welcome home, your majesty!"

A wave of motion rippled through the gathering crowds and the people of the shadow kingdom also dropped to their knees one by one, calling out and cheering for the return of their king.

"What in the world…" Elara breathed, her voice barely audible. She stood frozen, eyes wide as she took in the sight of the gathered crowd—hundreds, perhaps more—all dropping to their knees in reverent silence, heads bowed low.

Riven let out a small sigh before taking a step forward, and with that single step, he let go of the mask he'd worn for far too long.

His aura spilled out in a slow, suffocating wave—no longer restrained, no longer subdued. Shadows around him surged like a living tide, coiling through the air, flickering across the buildings and streets.

The crowd reacted instantly. As if struck by a divine wind, the masses bent even lower, foreheads brushing stone and soil. The very air trembled.

Riven continued forward, the soft scuff of his boots against obsidian echoing like a war drum through the city's heart. The cloaked members of the Necromancer Temple parted instinctively, eyes wide as the weight of realization pressed down on them.

Elara remained rooted in place, lips slightly parted, her fingers gripping the staff at her side. Her mind raced to assemble what her heart already knew.

No one had announced his name.

No proclamation had been made.

And yet they bowed.

Not to the Temple.

Not to her.

To him.

The generals remained kneeling, unmoving, as if carved from stone. And before them, the people bent low, their foreheads brushing the ground, their voices rising in a chant that was not shouted, but whispered in perfect, echoing reverence.

"Long live the Shadow King."

Her voice cracked as she whispered, "You…"

Riven turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers—and though his expression was calm, there was no longer a need to hide what he was. The shadows around him coiled with hunger, responding not to command, but to recognition.

"What…" Elara tried again, but her voice faltered.

One of the younger acolytes dropped to their knees beside her, then another. And another. One by one, the Necromancer Temple began to kneel, not out of fear—but something deeper.

Recognition and submission to power.

Riven paused as the final echoes of the chant—Long live the Shadow King—rippled through the streets like a sacred prayer. The air itself felt heavier now, steeped in reverence and old magic. He looked out over the sea of bowed heads, past his kneeling generals, past the walls built in blood and shadow, and for the first time since his return…

He allowed himself to feel it.

Not triumph.

Not pride.

But homecoming.

Elara slowly lowered herself to one knee, her trembling hand clutched around the base of her staff. Her breath hitched as the realization fully sank in—not metaphor, not myth, not ambition whispered in the dark—but truth. The boy she had watched rise through the Academy, the enigma cloaked in quiet menace, the one she had called ally…

Had been a king all along.

And not just a king.

The king.

The last true monarch of necromancy. The heir of Velmorian. The reborn will of the fallen kingdom, breathing again through flesh, through flame, through abyss.

"How…" she managed, her voice no more than a rasp. "How did none of us know?"

Riven's eyes lingered on her—not unkindly, but without apology.

"Because I didn't allow you to know." he gave a small chuckle, his voice was calm. Steady. The voice of a man who had nothing left to prove. "Not until now."

Behind her, the other necromancers bowed—some with awe, some with disbelief—but none with resistance.

He had not asked them to kneel.

And yet they did.

Riven moved past Elara, his robes trailing behind him like a living shadow, his gaze sweeping over the gathered necromancers. When he spoke, his voice was calm—measured—but it carried with it the weight of something undeniable. Every ear heard him, every heart felt it.

"You were cast out. Branded heretics. Forced to hide your craft beneath layers of shame and secrecy. They told you necromancy was evil. That your magic was corruption. That the shadows you wielded were chains, not strength."

He paused, letting the silence stretch, the truth settle like a blade into flesh.

"They were wrong."

"They feared what they couldn't control," Riven continued, his voice like a blade cutting through the stillness. "So they silenced you. Hunted you."

His gaze moved across the kneeling crowd, sweeping over the Temple acolytes, the onlookers, his people. "But you endured. You carried our craft through the ashes. You remembered when they wanted you to forget. You survived."

The shadows around him stirred—not violently, but reverently. As if the kingdom itself were listening.

Riven turned slightly, arms outstretched, as his voice deepened with purpose. "You are not cursed. You are not broken. You are the rightful heirs of a power older than any throne of Solis. And now—"

He stepped forward.

"Now, we rise."

A surge of abyssal energy pulsed from him, not destructive, but commanding. The air trembled as the sigils lining the walls of the Shadow Kingdom flickered, responding to their king's call. Magic hummed through the foundations of the city. The pulse of something ancient. Awakening.

Behind him, the five generals rose in unison, their armor catching the faint light as they took formation around their king. Silent. Unshakable.

The kneeling citizens began to lift their heads—faces filled not with fear, but something rarer.

Hope.

Elara rose slowly, her movements reverent, almost hesitant. Her eyes shimmered—not with fear, but with awe—and yet no words left her lips. The truth hadn't just reached her mind; it was still sinking into her bones, ancient and undeniable, like the echo of a prophecy long forgotten… now fulfilled.

Riven turned back to the Temple acolytes.

"You came here thinking to find shelter," he said. "But this is more than sanctuary."

His voice dropped lower, more intimate—but no less powerful.

"This is home."

Riven took one last look at the kneeling necromancers. "Rise," he commanded gently. "Stand, and be what they tried to erase."

One by one, they obeyed. Standing taller than they had in years. No longer hunted. No longer hiding.

Necromancers.

And now—citizens of the Shadow Kingdom.

They were home.