The Glitched Mage

As the crowd began to disperse, the initial wave of cheers fading into murmurs of awe, Riven found himself quickly surrounded by his generals. They gathered around him like loyal hounds left alone for too long—wide-eyed, eager, and just shy of scolding him for staying away for too long.

"Welcome back, my king," Mal said first, his voice calm, composed. His face was the picture of seriousness—except for the way the corners of his lips kept twitching, struggling to contain the grin threatening to break through.

"You've gotten even stronger since you left!" Damon laughed, giving Riven a hearty pat on the shoulder that nearly rattled his bones. "I bet you turned that academy upside down."

"Rumors of a shadowed fire climbing the power charts reached my spies days ago," Aria added with a knowing smirk. "We knew instantly it was you."

Their voices blurred for a moment—praise, relief, affection—but one among them remained silent.

Krux.

Riven's gaze shifted, and he noticed the warrior standing stiffly to the side, head slightly bowed, golden hair catching the flicker of torch light. The usual gleam in his molten eyes was missing.

Riven stepped closer, boots scraping against the stone.

Krux's head lifted the moment those familiar footsteps entered his vision.

"Aren't you going to welcome back your king?" Riven asked, tilting his head slightly.

Krux blinked. His golden eyes welled with tears.

"Oh no," Damon muttered, already bracing.

Then it happened.

Krux lunged.

"You were gone forever!" he sobbed, throwing his arms around Riven and clinging like a child to a long-lost parent. "And then I hear about all these duels—these fights! You didn't even take me! It's not fair!" His voice cracked as tears streamed down his face, leaving streaks on Riven's cloak. "You took her—" he jabbed a finger toward Nyx. "—but not me!"

"Her?!" Nyx's eyes narrowed. "Did you just—"

"You left me behind and took that witch!" Krux wailed louder.

That was all the permission Nyx needed.

"Oh, I see how it is." She grabbed him by the hair with a venomous grin. "You've clearly forgotten who trained you. Let's refresh that memory, shall we?"

"Noooo—my king!" Krux cried as Nyx began dragging him off by the scalp, flailing and weeping with all the dignity of a toddler.

Mal sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He hasn't stopped whining since the day you left."

"So it seems," Riven murmured, brushing a damp spot on his cloak where Krux's tears had left their mark.

"Come on," Damon said, clapping Riven on the back. "Ignore the chaos. You've only been gone a few months, but we've got a kingdom to show you."

Riven gave a faint nod, his gaze drifting once more across the cityscape as the crowds began to disperse back into alleys and homes, the whispers of his return lingering like embers in the wind. The torches lining the streets flared softly, reacting to the ambient magic that still hummed through the air—echoes of the old kingdom's heartbeat, revived.

Damon gestured grandly as he and Mal fell into step beside Riven, the rest of the generals following after—except for Krux, who was still being unceremoniously dragged by his hair, whimpering under Nyx's iron grip.

They passed through the central district first.

"This," Damon began proudly, gesturing to a towering structure of obsidian and rune-etched stone, "was once the shattered shell of an old mana anchor. We've rebuilt it from the foundation up."

The structure pulsed faintly, wrapped in intertwining bone-vines and carved with countless sigils that shimmered with ambient light. Runes crawled up its surface like veins, and a low hum thrummed through the air around it—subtle, steady, alive.

"It draws in ambient mana," Mal added, stepping beside him. "Stores it. Refines it. And when triggered, it'll form a dome of pure arcane force over the entire city."

Damon crossed his arms with satisfaction. "A proper shield. Strong enough to repel a siege or mask our presence entirely if needed. Took a dozen boneweavers and nearly killed three of them, but it's stable now."

Riven raised a brow. "Only three? You're improving."

Damon grinned. "Give us another month—we'll get the casualty count down to two."

They moved on, past the forges, where undead blacksmiths hammered glowing blue flame into steel, and the veins of abyssal ore shimmered like lightning beneath their hammers. Living apprentices worked alongside them—children of the fallen, reborn into purpose.

"Where is all the undead coming from?" Riven asked, watching a half-skeletal blacksmith hammer glowing metal with mechanical precision. "I didn't create them."

"Since you left, people have been pouring in," Mal replied. "Some are refugees, others are descendants of the original Shadow Kingdom. And then there are those like the group you brought with you—necromancers, drawn by the rumors."

"Necromancers?" Riven's brow arched.

Damon nodded. "Word's spreading fast. The Shadow Kingdom's return has become more than a myth. Necromancers who've lived in hiding their whole lives are coming back—finally somewhere they don't have to pretend to be something they're not."

"They've begun raising the fallen from the war," Mal added. "Not as weapons—but as citizens. Workers. Guards. Craftsmen. They live here now, just like anyone else."

Riven glanced back toward the skeletal blacksmith as it passed a finished blade to a living apprentice.

"And it's helped with trade, too," Mal said, almost amused. "Dead don't sleep. Turns out, that's good for business."

Mal continued as they walked, his tone thoughtful. "Speaking of trade—since the auction in Eldrin's Crossing, interest in our herbs has exploded."

Riven gave a faint nod, pleased. "Good. And the crops?"

"Thriving," Mal said, his silver eyes gleaming. "The last harvest nearly tripled our expectations. The Abyssal energy is more potent than we originally measured. We've had to stagger the planting cycles just to keep up with testing."

"They're already preparing for the next shipment," Damon added. "Void Thistle, Etherbloom, Nightshade Marrow—the usual, but we've also got a batch of Bloodroot that nearly fried one of our potion testers." He grinned. "He's fine. Mostly."

"And the Ashen Sage?" Riven asked, his tone sharper.

Mal hesitated. "We haven't touched it. It's under constant warding. That thing devours affliction… and mana. Even the test samples made the lab feel wrong."

Riven hummed low in his throat. "Keep it locked down. For now."

They passed the edge of the market square, where fresh undead assisted living vendors in setting up merchant stalls. Lanterns glowed a soft violet. The air smelled of dry earth, herbs, and distant forge smoke.

Aria, walking slightly ahead, glanced over her shoulder. "Trade routes are holding. The road to Eldrin's Crossing is nearly finished. We've had no interference since the last patrol cleared out some bandits."

Nyx reappeared then, Krux trailing behind her with his hair tousled and expression dazed, like he'd just survived a warzone. She shot a wicked grin at Riven. "He's been properly reminded of his place."

Krux sniffled faintly but tried to look dignified. "She fights dirty."

"You were crying," Damon muttered.

"I was overwhelmed," Krux snapped.

"Uh huh."

They reached the edge of the plaza, where a row of tall, blackstone pillars formed an arc—marking the threshold of the central district.

Mal glanced sideways at Damon, who gave a nod.

"What is it?" Riven asked, catching the exchange.

Damon smirked. "We've got something to show you. A surprise."

Riven raised a brow. "Surprise?"

"You'll like this one," Mal said, his voice oddly pleased.

The generals came to a halt in the center of the plaza.

A soft shimmer pulsed through the air, and Riven felt it immediately—magic. A glamour spell.

Mal stepped forward and lifted a hand, speaking a brief incantation.

The illusion peeled back like gauze from a wound.

And beneath it—

A Palace.

Half-finished, rising from obsidian foundations, its great black towers reached toward the sky like jagged teeth. Runed scaffolding crisscrossed the structure, glowing softly with stabilizing enchantments. The main gate was framed by twin statues of robed, faceless figures, their hands outstretched in welcome—or warning.

The skeletal framework of the central keep glistened faintly under the night sky, shaped from darksteel and shadow-forged stone. Balconies, walkways, arched bridges—every inch of the design spoke of elegance and dread, power and permanence.

Long banners had already been strung between the upper towers, snapping softly in the wind. Each one bore the crest of the Shadow Kingdom: a dark shield emblazoned with a silver crown at its center, encircled by skeletal arms reaching hungrily toward it. It was a symbol not just of rule, but of reclamation—of something once lost now held tightly in the grasp of the dead and the risen.

Riven stared.

Not at the beauty of it.

But at what it meant.

A true home.

"We started construction after the first few payments from the herb sales came in," Mal said quietly. "Didn't want to mention it until we were sure the mana—and the coin—would hold steady."

"It's still under construction," Damon added, "but the wards are in place. And we've reinforced the anchor lines—this place will stand even if Solis comes knocking."

Riven stepped forward slowly, each footfall echoing softly against the polished stone. His eyes swept over the structure rising before him—towering spires of shadow-forged obsidian, arches veined with faintly glowing runes, and banners stitched with his crest fluttering in the breeze like whispers of a legacy reborn.

It wasn't just a palace.

It was a promise carved into the heart of a once-fallen kingdom.

His kingdom.

Behind him, the generals fell into reverent silence, watching as their king stood before the home they'd built for him.

And for the first time since his return…

Riven smiled. A quiet, rare smile—sharp at the edges, but real.