The Glitched Mage

The air outside his chambers was still.

Too still.

Riven stepped into the corridor, his boots landing with quiet precision on the rune-carved blackstone beneath him.

And then he saw them.

All five of his generals—Nyx, Krux, Damon, Aria, and Mal—stood in a loose formation just beyond the threshold of his quarters, positioned like a wall between him and the rest of the palace. None spoke. None moved. They simply waited, weapons sheathed but hands never far from the hilts.

Riven's eyes narrowed.

"You're all up early," he said, voice calm but edged with curiosity. "Or didn't you sleep?"

Damon was the first to speak, his arms crossed, earth-toned armor still marked with faint scuffs from the sparring match hours earlier. "Didn't need to."

Krux nodded once beside him, expression unusually serious. "We felt it."

"Felt what?"

"The mana," Mal answered, his voice low and measured. "It came pouring from your room like a tidal wave. Dense. Volatile. It reached the far end of the palace before it began to stabilize."

"The palace shook," Krux said, voice edged with disbelief. "Not just mana pressure. The walls—everything—physically trembled."

"The feeling of the power was… different." Mal murmured. "Wilder. I've never felt anything quite like it. Shadow, fire… but something else too. Something I couldn't identify."

Nyx shifted slightly at the edge of the formation, but said nothing. Her gaze flicked over Riven like a silent assessment, as if checking that he was whole, still tethered to himself. She knew what they had felt—what he had done—but she wouldn't speak it here. Not yet.

Aria's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't just mana. Whatever it was… it brushed against the wards. Shattered half of them outright. The rest are barely holding."

Damon grunted. "We thought maybe someone had broken in—or was trying to."

Krux, ever the honest one, frowned. "Or that you'd exploded."

Riven let out a soft breath, something between a sigh and a chuckle. "Would've taken half the palace with me."

"You almost did," Mal said dryly.

Riven looked at them—his five loyal generals, standing in the dim corridor before dawn, drawn not by duty, but instinct. Protectors not just of the kingdom, but of him. They had come without being called, without understanding, simply because they felt the shift. That unspoken bond between king and loyalty pulsed like a living tether.

"It's… stabilized," Riven said at last, his voice quieter now, threaded with something darker beneath the calm. "No danger."

They didn't relax. Not really.

"Whatever that was," Aria said after a pause, "it wasn't just your power expanding. We've all felt you break through before. This was different."

Her tone wasn't accusatory. Just careful.

Riven met her gaze. "It was."

Krux tilted his head. "What happened?"

He considered the question—and the truth. The fire that still pulsed faintly beneath his skin. The egg pulsing in the void between spaces, deeper in bond than it had ever been.

He almost told them.

Almost.

But not yet.

Nyx caught the hesitation. Her eyes narrowed faintly, lips twitching into the barest smirk, as if to say: They would definitely freak out if they knew.

Riven exhaled, straightened his shoulders, and let his presence settle like a mantle around them.

"Whatever it was," he said, "it's under control now."

Aria studied him a moment longer, then gave a single nod.

Krux stepped back into formation.

Damon cracked his knuckles. "Guess that means you're done scaring the shit out of the castle for one night."

Riven arched a brow. "No promises."

Nyx spoke, her tone light but laced with knowing. "You should eat. You look like you've bled half your mana into something ridiculous."

"I did," Riven said smoothly, walking past them down the corridor. "And it was worth it."

The generals exchanged glances.

Then, as one, they fell into step behind him.

He didn't explain.

They didn't ask.

—x—

The obsidian corridors gave way to open air as Riven stepped out onto the palace overlook. The early light cast long shadows across the rising spires and bustling streets of his city, but it wasn't the architecture that drew his eye—it was the life.

Below, the Market District stretched wide, carved from blackstone and shadowforged steel, woven with avenues that glowed faintly with residual runes. Riven paused at the edge of the overlook, Nyx beside him, both watching the city unfold beneath them.

It had changed.

When he'd first walked these streets, they had been half-formed—scattered vendor stalls, temporary timberwork, the bones of a district in its infancy. Now…

It thrived.

Dozens of permanent structures lined the main walls, each one unique—some sleek and modern, others archaic and bone-carved, all humming with mana. Stone walkways guided foot traffic between towering merchant halls and arcane auction yards, while floating platforms carried the heavier loads overhead powered by Earth mages.

But what caught Riven's eye—what gave him pause—were the merchants draped in slate-blue silks, their wares displayed with the precision of ritual and their accents unmistakably clipped and formal.

Danuans.

The Danu Empire had always kept its distance—aloof, cold, and proud. And given their growing hostility with the Solis Kingdom, Riven hadn't expected to see them here. Not this soon. Not like this.

Yet here they were—calmly negotiating with undead clerks, exchanging coins etched in the Danuan script for crates of refined mana salts and abyssal herbs.

Merchant guards patrolled the square in light armor etched with the Shadow Crown sigil, keeping order with silent vigilance.

And still, the Danuans did not flinch.

Riven watched them for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Interesting, he thought. Very interesting.

Riven took it all in—the noise, the movement, the low thrum of mana-infused commerce.

"…They've done well," he murmured.

Aria nodded, her voice laced with admiration. "You should've seen it a week ago. The lower ward was barely holding up under the caravan load. Damon and Mal had to reinforce the freight paths themselves while Krux bullied the local smiths into tripling output."

Riven glanced behind him at the four waiting generals—each standing in calm silence.

They didn't speak of their work because they didn't need to. He saw it now—the careful infrastructure, the trade wards embedded in stone, the subtle patrol patterns of trained security. Everything here bore the fingerprints of his inner circle—of four generals who had not just held the kingdom in his absence…

They had elevated it.

"I thought it'd be smaller," Riven admitted quietly. "More contained."

Damon gave a short laugh. "It was. Until the coin started rolling in."

"Once the Deveroux contracts took off, it snowballed," Mal added, stepping forward, his hands folded behind his back. "We didn't expect this level of outside interest so soon. So we hired three local financial minds—ex-merchants. Smart, adaptable. They streamlined trade logistics and helped manage the surge."

Aria nodded. "They've earned their place. Loyal, so far."

Riven's gaze swept the market again. "What's our current import ratio?"

"Sixty-forty," Mal replied. "Forty percent of our goods are leaving faster than we can produce, and the merchants are beginning to fight over exclusivity. We'll need to expand production again and build up our stores until the Deveroux contract is up."

"Let them fight," Riven said, eyes narrowing. "So long as they bleed coin when they do."

Nyx smirked beside him. "You've missed your kingdom, haven't you?"

"I have," Riven said, his voice low, almost reverent. His gaze swept over the rising towers, the bustling market streets, the living and dead walking side by side beneath banners that bore his sigil. "But it's not the same place I left behind. It's more. Stronger. Hungrier. Like it's finally remembering what it was meant to be."

He let the moment settle, the weight of it sinking into his chest.

Then he turned to Aria, his tone shifting with quiet command. "Walk with me."

Aria gave a subtle nod and stepped forward, her cloak catching a faint breeze as she pivoted sharply and began leading him away from the central avenue, down a narrow side path that curved between two tall merchant halls. Nyx raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and the others remained behind, each returning to their own duties without needing instruction.

The path wound deeper into the Lower Ward—quieter here, shaded by towering buildings and rune-bound awnings. They passed a bakery, a weaver's hall, then a quiet tailor's shop tucked into a crooked corner, its weathered sign creaking faintly in the wind: Lira's Fine Stitchery.

Aria didn't slow.

She pushed open the door with barely a glance and stepped into the shadowed interior. Fabric lined the walls, bolts of silk and wool arranged with obsessive precision. The tailor herself, a gray-haired woman with sharp eyes, barely looked up from her counter as she muttered a greeting.

Riven moved after Aria, slipping through the curtain at the rear of the shop. She led him behind a nondescript wardrobe, its frame etched with faint, almost-forgotten runes—then down a spiral staircase that descended beneath the building's foundations.

The descent was silent—just the soft sound of boots against stone and the low hum of protective wards embedded in the walls. At the bottom, a stone corridor led to a heavy blacksteel door.

Aria placed her palm against a rune in the center. It flared red once—then dissolved into mist.

The door swung open.

Riven stepped into the headquarters of the Shadow Fangs.

The chamber was stark and dimly lit, carved directly into the bedrock beneath the district. Maps covered the walls—topographical, magical, political—marked with pins, string, and layered glyphs. A central table glowed faintly, projecting a three-dimensional model of the known continent. Dozens of shadowy alcoves branched off the main room—cells, training chambers, war rooms.

A few agents moved silently through the space—hooded, armed, and utterly focused. None looked up.

"Your spies have been busy," Riven said, gaze scanning their war table.

Aria stepped beside him, her voice low and clipped. "They've embedded deeper into Solis than we expected. Two of our runners reached the capital's outskirts last week. I had them follow the military supply lines through the west—they intercepted several dispatches intended for the inner courts."

She reached for a rolled parchment beside the table, unfurled it, and laid it flat beneath the projection. Riven's eyes flicked over the coded markings.

"The Solis King is growing agitated," Aria continued. "Restless. He's been hearing rumours about a dark city rising in the east, about trade coming from the lands he thought were cursed and abandoned."

Riven's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"He doesn't have confirmation. But he suspects."

She pointed to a red-tipped pin near the eastern frontier of Solis territory.

"Three days ago, he approved a scouting order. A paladin patrol—five knights and a single Seeker—they've already begun moving. Their orders are vague: 'Investigate activity beyond the wastes.' They're not officially sanctioned for conflict… yet."

Riven's eyes narrowed, his voice a low growl. "But if they find us…"

"They'll report back. And the next time it won't be a patrol," Aria said. "It'll be war."

Silence settled between them, heavy and absolute.

After a moment, Riven stepped forward and placed a hand over the table's central rune. The projection shifted, refocusing the map on the eastern mountains—on the hidden pass that led to the Shadow Kingdom's borders.

"How long until they reach the outer valley?"

"If they move with caution—five days. If they're reckless, three."

Riven's shadow thickened slightly, pulsing around his feet.

"Send a scout group to intercept," he said. "I want eyes on them from the moment they step into the valley."

"Already in motion," Aria replied. "And… one more thing."

She reached beneath the table and pulled out a sealed letter—black wax stamped with a raven crest.

Riven took it, recognizing the seal immediately.

The Danu Empire.

"They've sent a messenger," Aria said quietly. "Discreet. No banners. No entourage. But they know who we are."

Riven looked down at the letter, unreadable.

"And what we're becoming."

He slipped the message into his robes and turned, his voice smooth as obsidian.

"Let them come. All of them."

Aria bowed her head once. "We'll be ready."

Riven's gaze lingered on the map for a moment longer—on the moving pieces across the board.

Then he turned and strode from the room, cloak trailing behind him like a living shadow.