The Glitched Mage

Vera's tavern was packed by the time they arrived—but not with the usual crowd of wandering mercenaries, boisterous traders, or grim Shadow Knights nursing mead in silence.

No—this was something different.

The moment Riven stepped through the tavern doors, a wave of noise and color slammed into him like a spell.

"Surprise!"

The shout echoed from dozens of voices—some familiar, others new. Laughter followed, warm and real, spilling out into the street like light through a crack in a shutter. Candles flared brighter, banners of painted silk unfurling from the rafters with perfect timing.

Riven froze.

Truly froze.

The space beyond the doorway was no longer just a tavern—it had been transformed. Long tables were pushed together, laden with steaming platters: roasted meats, golden bread, honey-glazed roots, and dark stew that shimmered faintly with magical spices. Vera's band—a ragtag collection of musicians with questionable training but undeniable charm—was already striking up a playful tune in the corner.

Enchanted ribbons wove through the air above their heads, glowing with dim blue and violet hues, flickering like gentle flames. And high above the center beam of the tavern, suspended in a slow swirl of shadows and firelight, a glowing script hovered.

Happy 18th, Your Majesty.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Riven hadn't spoken, hadn't moved. His body registered the surprise—but his mind lagged behind. It was like his thoughts were caught in the undertow of a moment too surreal to believe.

Ember, still hovering just behind him, leaned in and tilted her head. "Okay, so… I might've mentioned it was your birthday. Recently. Maybe. Just a little."

Riven didn't respond.

Not because he was trying to be dramatic—but because he genuinely didn't know what to say.

"You all… planned this?" he asked quietly.

Damon clapped him on the back with a grin. "Hell yeah, we did. You only turn eighteen once—even if you try to pretend it doesn't matter."

"I've never…" Riven trailed off. His gaze flicked across the room—to Vera behind the bar, beaming with pride; to Krux and Mal, already nudging each other toward the dessert table; to the crowd of necromancers, knights, merchants, even children all gathered together in celebration.

Even in his past life, birthdays had come and gone like any other day. No parties. No smiles. Just silence.

He had never expected anything different.

Which made this—this warmth, this effort—utterly disarming.

"I've never had one," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "A birthday celebration."

There was a beat of silence—then Vera, from behind the bar, barked a laugh. "Well, it's about time someone fixed that!"

"To hell with the past," Damon said, raising a mug. "This one's for the present."

"And the future," Mal added, toasting him with a faint smirk.

Aria gave the smallest nod. Nyx raised her mug high. Krux actually whooped.

"To Riven!" they called out in unison. "To the Shadow King!"

He felt the press of dozens of eyes—faces glowing with laughter, hope, and something heavier beneath it all.

Trust.

Faith.

Riven lifted his mug—though the movement felt distant, like he was watching someone else's hand rise.

"To what we've built," he said, voice low. "And what we still have to become."

The roar of approval shook the walls.

The party surged forward after that. Music filled the room, wild and too-loud, exactly the way Vera liked it. Nyx pulled Krux into a dance he was far too clumsy to perform, while Ember slunk off to sample every dessert with the air of a teen with nothing to lose. Aria stood back, sipping her drink with quiet satisfaction. Mal managed to argue with three different people about the best herb to distill into wine. Damon was arm-wrestling two knights at once.

And in the midst of it all—Riven stood still for a long moment.

Watching.

Listening.

Letting it settle in.

He hadn't known what to expect when he came back. Hadn't thought he needed things like this.

But as a quiet smile pulled at the corners of his mouth he realized something strange.

He felt it now.

Not just power. Not just control.

But something warmer.

Something that hadn't been part of his soul in a very, very long time.

Belonging.

And for the first time in either life, Riven allowed himself to enjoy it.

—x—

The scent of spiced meat and firewood filled the tavern air as the celebration carried on. Shadows danced along the walls in time with the music, and laughter crackled like flame between every table. Riven drifted from group to group, pulled into quiet conversations or brief congratulations, but it was never overwhelming.

Some part of him still lingered at the edge—watching from the shadows of his own mind like a ghost tethered to memory.

It was the part that remembered the cold floor of a forgotten room, the silence of betrayal, the weight of a life discarded before it had even begun. It was the part that had learned to survive by expecting nothing, by trusting no one, by keeping his heart caged behind walls of fire and shadow.

Even now, surrounded by warmth and laughter, by the scent of roasted meat and flickering lanternlight, that piece of him stood apart—cautious. Quiet.

Still remembering what it was to be alone.

A necromancer acolyte approached shyly, holding out a carved token shaped like a flame-wreathed crown. "For your birthday, Your Majesty," she said, voice trembling slightly. "I made it myself."

Riven accepted it without a word. The token was rough, a little uneven, but the mana etched into its center was surprisingly steady.

"Thank you," he said, and the girl nearly dropped her staff in stunned joy before scurrying off to tell the others.

He stared at the token for a beat longer, then tucked it into the folds of his cloak.

"A gift, huh?" Nyx said, appearing at his side with a crooked grin and two mugs in hand. "You looked like it was going to bite you."

"I just wasn't expecting it," Riven muttered.

"You never do," she said, handing him a mug. "But you'll get used to it. They're not just following you anymore, you know. They care."

He didn't reply. Just took a slow sip and let the heat settle in his chest.

Across the room, Vera was waving someone off as she reached under the bar for something wrapped in cloth. With a flourish, she lifted it—an obsidian-handled dagger, sleek and ceremonial, the blade etched with the sigil of the Shadow Kingdom and dotted with small onyx gems.

She made her way over and presented it with a grin. "Happy birthday, Riven. It's not a sword, but I figured you have enough of those."

Riven took the blade, testing its weight. It was perfectly balanced. Not for war, but for ceremony—a symbol. A reminder.

"It's beautiful," he said simply.

Vera's smile faltered just enough for sincerity to slip through. "You've given us all more than we could repay. Consider it our way of saying thank you."

Riven looked at her, then at the others—his generals, his people, his kingdom—and a flicker of something tight gripped his chest. He hadn't done it for gratitude. He hadn't rebuilt this place for praise or loyalty. At the start, it had all been about power. About control. About proving that no one could break him again.

He had clawed his way back from nothing with the single-minded goal of becoming the most powerful mage this world had ever seen. He was going to bend the world to his will, and damn anyone who stood in the way.

But somewhere along the way… things had shifted.

The more his kingdom grew, the more faces he remembered, the more names he learned—the harder it became to keep pretending he didn't care.

Damon's loud laugh. Aria's quiet judgment. Krux's hopeful eyes. Mal's calm insight. Nyx's smirking defiance.

And even Ember, with her sharp tongue and sharper gaze, never leaving his side.

They weren't just pieces in his plan anymore.

They were part of him now.

And for the first time, he wasn't sure if that made him stronger… or more vulnerable.

But as he stood there, surrounded by the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking mugs, he realized one thing:

He was still standing.

And maybe… he wasn't standing alone anymore.

"I'll wear it proudly," he said finally.

A sudden crash echoed from the corner of the tavern as Ember knocked over an entire tray of glazed buns.

"Whoops," she said unapologetically, licking syrup off her fingers as the tray clattered to the floor. "My bad."

Riven only shook his head as laughter broke out again.

It was imperfect.

The tables were mismatched, the music too loud, and someone had already spilled wine on the floor. Laughter echoed off stone walls that had once been crumbled and broken. Plates clattered, voices overlapped, and Ember was arguing with a bard over cake portions.

It was chaotic.

Unruly. Unscripted. Filled with moments he couldn't control—could never have planned for.

And yet…

It was his.

His kingdom, carved from ruin and reborn in shadow.

His people, proud and unyielding, standing not from command—but conviction.

His family—flawed, battle-worn, and bound by something deeper than blood.

For the first time in eighteen years—through two lives and more pain than he could name—Riven didn't feel like he was surviving.

He felt like he was living.

And tonight, that was enough.