The Glitched Mage

Damon exhaled, his arms crossed as he watched Riven take in the sight before him. "Not bad, huh?"

"Better than I expected," Riven admitted, his voice quieter than usual. He turned his head slightly. "How much of it is finished?"

"The main structure is solid," Mal answered, stepping beside him. "The throne room, the war chamber, and the private quarters are complete. Most of the lower halls and outer defenses are still being reinforced."

Aria tilted her head. "Would you like to see inside, my king?"

Riven said nothing, but he stepped forward. The answer was clear.

The massive obsidian doors swung open at a mere gesture from Mal, revealing a grand entry hall lined with towering columns, their surfaces etched with delicate abyssal veins that pulsed faintly in the dim torchlight. The ceiling arched high above them and the floor was polished blackstone, smooth as a mirror, reflecting the flickering violet glow of enchanted lanterns.

A long, deep carpet led from the entrance to the heart of the palace—a grand staircase that split into twin spiraling paths leading to the upper floors.

"The throne room is ahead," Mal gestured toward the great doors at the end of the hall. "But we can tour that later. You should see your quarters first."

Riven followed without protest, his generals falling into place beside him. Their boots barely made a sound against the stone as they ascended the stairs, moving through corridors lined with high archways and rune-etched sconces that cast a soft, perpetual glow.

His quarters were at the highest level of the palace, set apart from the others. Mal stopped before the massive double doors, their surfaces marked with intertwining runes.

"The wards are keyed to you alone," Mal said, placing a hand against the door. "No one enters unless you allow it."

Riven stepped forward, resting his palm against the carved runes. The door shuddered, recognizing him immediately. A pulse of dark light rippled outward, and with a deep, resonant click, the doors swung open.

Inside, the chamber was vast. A high ceiling stretched above him, lined with ribbed arches of shadow-forged steel. One entire wall was made of darkened glass, overlooking the city below. Energy hummed faintly through the walls, woven into the very foundation.

The furniture was minimal but elegant—deep-toned wood, silver-trimmed furnishings, and a massive bed draped in black and crimson silk. A hearth, lined with runes, flickered with blue flame.

Damon let out an approving whistle. "Not bad. Almost makes me wish I lived here instead of my own room."

"You do live here," Aria deadpanned. "We all do."

Nyx stretched, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Oh yes, we each have our own chambers—though I do think Krux's is a bit too nice for someone who whines so much."

Krux, still slightly frazzled, merely grumbled something under his breath.

Riven turned slightly, glancing at them. "Your rooms are in the same wing?"

"Of course," Mal nodded. "Close enough for convenience. Secluded enough for privacy."

"And the war room?"

Aria gestured toward the corridor leading away from the main chambers. "Two floors below. We made sure to keep it reinforced—should anything go wrong, it'll be one of the most secure places in the palace."

Riven exhaled, gaze drifting back to the towering windows. The city sprawled below, its lights flickering in the dark like stars reflected in a vast abyss.

Home.

He turned back to his generals, their expectant eyes watching him closely.

"Well?" Damon asked, grinning. "What do you think?"

Riven stepped forward, letting his fingers brush against the carved railing of the balcony. His expression was unreadable for a long moment.

Then, quietly—

"It will do."

The tension in the room eased instantly. Damon laughed. Mal let out a small, knowing sigh. Aria smirked.

Nyx rolled her eyes. "Typical."

Krux, still slightly sulking, brightened just a little. "So you like it?"

Riven glanced at him. "I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't."

Krux beamed.

Mal folded his arms. "Rest for the night. Tomorrow, we'll go over everything properly—trade, infrastructure, expansion plans."

Riven gave a faint nod. He was exhausted, but there was no denying the satisfaction simmering beneath his fatigue.

He was home.

—x—

Morning came quietly. The city stirred with the first signs of life—merchants setting up their stalls, smiths stoking their forges, the living and the undead moving side by side as they worked to rebuild what had once been lost.

Riven stood on the balcony of his new quarters, watching. The distant hum of the mana anchor pulsed faintly through the air, a steady heartbeat beneath the surface of the kingdom. The view stretched far—past the market, past the growing infrastructure, past the walls that now stood reinforced against whatever the world might throw at them.

His city.

A knock at the door drew his attention.

Mal entered first, followed by Damon, who stretched with a lazy grin. "Time to work, my king."

Riven turned. "The necromancers?"

"Waiting in the lower district," Mal confirmed. "They've been settled in temporary housing near the market square. Not the most elegant arrangement, but the new apartments aren't finished yet."

"They're making do," Damon added. "But they've been asking for you. They want to know what comes next."

Riven nodded once. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

—x—

The streets were still quiet in the early morning as Riven and his generals made their way through the central district. The air held the cool bite of dawn, laced with the scent of smoke and fresh bread. Shadows stretched long between buildings, and every few steps, a living merchant or skeletal courier bowed in passing.

When they reached the lower district, the sound of quiet conversation met them.

Dozens of figures were gathered outside a row of reinforced barracks—temporary housing fashioned from salvaged stone and darkwood, arranged in a neat line beside the market square. Despite the humble structures, the aura of power was unmistakable. These weren't refugees. They were necromancers—cloaked in robes, bearing arcane brands and bone-carved tools, their presence radiating quiet control.

Elara stood at the center, her back straight, her dark hair braided and draped over one shoulder. She wore simpler robes today, practical but elegant. Her staff was slung across her back, warded and wrapped, but still humming with latent power.

She turned the moment she sensed him.

Her expression didn't shift into a smile, but her eyes softened.

"My king," she said, her voice carrying through the square.

The necromancers turned as one. Conversations died. Movement stilled.

Riven stepped into the square, his presence drawing every gaze like gravity.

"Elara," he greeted, nodding once. "I trust you've been adjusting."

She inclined her head. "It's not a palace, but it's more than we expected. The wards are holding, and the citizens haven't interfered."

"They won't," Riven said. "You're part of this kingdom now."

A flicker of emotion crossed her face at that—too fleeting to name. She stepped forward, lowering her voice as the two walked a short distance apart from the others.

"You could've warned me, you know," Elara huffed, folding her arms. Then her cheeks flushed a faint pink. "I was rambling like some wide-eyed apprentice the entire journey—going on and on about how brilliant the Shadow King was." She groaned, burying her face in one hand. "And it was you the whole time!"

"It wasn't the right time," Riven said, trying—and mostly failing—not to smirk. "I needed to make sure you all arrived safely first. Then we could talk."

He tilted his head slightly, his tone shifting. "How are the others? The necromancers—are they adjusting?"

"They're loyal," she said quietly. "And grateful. But they're also uncertain. They've spent their whole lives being hunted, Riven. They don't know how to be anything else."

"They'll learn," he said.

Elara studied him for a moment, then gave a faint nod. "Some of them have already asked if they'll be permitted to teach. To train. Others want to know what role necromancy will truly have here."

Riven turned toward the gathered necromancers, letting his gaze sweep across them—men and women who had hidden their gifts in fear, who had crossed borders and defied their kingdom to be here.

He raised his voice just enough to carry.

"Necromancy is not a curse in this kingdom. It is a foundation. You are not guests. You are pillars. And I intend to build something that ensures the world never forgets that again."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Elara arched a brow. "What exactly are you planning?" she asked, though there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes—like she already knew the answer. "An academy? Here, in the Shadow Kingdom?"

Riven nodded. "Eventually. A place of learning, of mastery. It will be rooted in necromancy—but open to all who live under our banner. We'll teach magic, warcraft, medicine—whatever our people need to thrive."

"And you want me to lead it?" Elara asked, voice careful.

"I want you to shape it," Riven said. "Guide it. Make it more than just a school—make it a legacy."

Elara was silent for a long breath. Then, slowly, she smiled.

"Then I'll begin planning immediately."

He inclined his head. "You'll have what you need."

Behind them, the necromancers stood straighter.

Not just because of what had been said.

But because—for the first time—they were being seen not as tools.

But as builders of something greater.

Riven turned away from the gathering, Mal falling into step beside him.

"You really mean to start building it?" Mal asked quietly.

"Yes," Riven replied. "Soon."

He looked toward the eastern skyline, where the sun was just beginning to rise over the mountains, casting long shadows behind the growing walls of his kingdom.

A new day had come.

And the real work had only just begun.

—x—

By late morning, the palace's war chamber buzzed with quiet activity. Arcane maps shimmered atop the central obsidian table, glowing with projected mana lines—roads, patrol routes, farmland boundaries, and infrastructure zones—all laid out in flickering detail. Riven stood at the head of the table, flanked by his generals, each reporting on their assigned sectors.

Damon leaned forward, one arm braced on the edge of the table as he traced a glowing thread that curved from the southern gate to the far-off symbol of a wagon. "The roads have held so far," he said. "We've had to reinforce the path to Eldrin's Crossing twice—damned rains nearly washed it out—but the new drainage runes seem to be holding."

"Merchant traffic?" Riven asked.

Damon grinned. "Increasing. Word of the herbs is spreading faster than we anticipated. Caravans from Eldrin's Crossing are starting to arrive more frequently—and with better quality goods in tow. We've even had inquiries from lesser trade houses in the Solis fringe territories."

Mal, arms crossed and eyes sharp, added, "That's why we need to accelerate infrastructure. The lower quarter can't handle this much traffic without reinforcement. The temporary docks we built on the shadowflats are already overcrowded."

Aria flicked her fingers, rotating the map projection. "We'll need to expand the merchant ward southward. I've already marked three suitable zones for permanent market structures."

Riven considered that in silence. Then, with a faint nod, "Do it. Prioritize materials we can source locally. I want to avoid depending on outside imports too heavily."

Damon cleared his throat, expression tightening slightly. "Speaking of outside influence… Duke Deveroux has requested another meeting."

Riven's gaze shifted. "Again?"

"This makes five requests in the past month," Damon said, his tone dry. "He says he wants to 'further refine our arrangement.' But if I had to guess…" He leaned back with a snort. "He wants more herbs. Probably exclusive access to more than just medicinal exports."

"He's testing the waters," Mal murmured. "Seeing how far he can reach before we push back."

"He won't stop," Aria added. "Not until he thinks he has the upper hand."

Riven's expression didn't change, but the shadows at his feet thickened slightly.

"Let him wait a little longer," Riven said quietly. "Not out of discourtesy—but to remind him we're not the ones seeking favor."

Krux, who had been uncharacteristically silent near the back of the room, finally piped up. "Still, wouldn't it be smart to meet him again? Keep the peace while we get more construction done?"

Riven didn't dismiss the suggestion outright. He turned, gazing toward the southern edge of the map where merchant routes flowed like veins into the city.

"We will," he said at last. "But on our terms. Once the new market district is finished, we'll host him here. Let him see what his investment has created firsthand."

Damon gave a slow nod. "He won't miss that invitation."

"And he won't forget who extended it," Mal added.

The projection shifted again as Riven moved his hand, displaying the farmland plots next. Thin veins of abyssal soil stretched out from the center of the kingdom like a growing spiderweb—slow, deliberate, spreading one inch at a time.

"Expansion?" Riven asked.

Mal stepped forward. "It's slow. Your ability keeps it stable, but we're limited by how much mana you can safely expend. We've been alternating sections—letting one stretch settle while the next is seeded."

"The crops?"

"Flourishing. Etherbloom and Void Thistle have entered second-stage flowering. Bloodroot is stabilizing. The Ashen Sage is… still locked away."

Damon raised a brow. "You sure you don't want to just feed a bit of it to Duke Deveroux and see what happens?"

Riven shot him a look.

Damon shrugged. "Kidding. Mostly."

Krux cleared his throat. "And the roads to the outposts?"

"They're being paved in reinforced stone," Aria replied. "Harder to damage. Slower to build. But they'll last through war, weather, or worse."

Riven stepped back from the table, letting the full projection linger in the center of the chamber. His city. His kingdom. Slowly awakening, piece by piece.

"Assign more workers to the southern merchant district," he ordered. "Bring in stonecutters from the trade caravans if they're skilled. Offer them housing and coin."

"And what about the auction?" Mal asked, tilting his head. "There's another scheduled in Eldrin's Crossing next week."

Riven's gaze sharpened. "We'll attend. Quietly. Let the mystery build for a little longer."

The chamber settled into silence again, the map pulsing with ambient mana as if echoing the breath of the kingdom itself.

Outside, the kingdom stirred—blacksmiths pounding metal, necromancers walking the streets with purpose, merchants haggling and children laughing beneath banners marked by shadow.

Everything was falling into place.