The Glitched Mage

The merchant trade house in the heart of the Shadow Kingdom had been purpose-built during the early days of expansion—modern in design, yet steeped in that familiar blend of dark stone and obsidian elegance. Discreet, secure, and far from the palace, it served as a neutral ground for visiting traders and high-ranking negotiations.

Tonight, it served a far greater purpose.

Riven entered through the rear corridor, the hood of his travel cloak low over his brow, his shadow magic subtly distorting the details of his face. Not enough to look unnatural—but just enough to be forgettable. The same guise he'd used in Eldrin's Crossing, the one that had let him move freely as a "merchant" of the Shadow Kingdom.

Two guards stationed at the private suite bowed wordlessly and opened the door.

Inside, the room was candlelit and quiet, a long table set with a decanter of dark wine and three chairs. Veylen was already seated, swirling a glass between his fingers. Lucien Deveroux stood at the far end of the chamber, his gloved hand resting against the edge of the table, gaze drifting toward the open window and the city beyond.

He didn't turn when Riven entered. "You've all built something dangerous," the Duke said calmly.

Riven slipped off his gloves with deliberate ease and sank into the chair across from him. "It's only dangerous," he said, voice smooth as cut stone, "if you're standing on the wrong side of it."

Lucien glanced over his shoulder then, sharp gray eyes flicking across Riven's obscured features. "You wear shadows like most men wear armor. It's difficult to trust someone who never shows their face."

Riven offered a faint smile. "Trust is earned, not handed out with wine."

Veylen chuckled, sipping from his glass. "He's got you there."

Lucien sat, folding his hands together. "Then let's talk trust. The herbs you sold in Eldrin's Crossing are still making waves. We've had to turn away three merchant guilds looking to buy directly. And already, collectors are asking about repeat shipments. You've created demand."

"Good," Riven said. "That was the plan."

"But with demand," Lucien continued, "comes expectation. The contract you negotiated granted us exclusive distribution rights. One year. High margin. We accepted."

"You did," Riven said. "And you've made good coin from it already."

Lucien leaned forward slightly. "Which is why I want to discuss what comes next. The contract's solid, but temporary. You've proven the supply is real. The infrastructure is expanding. The herbs are stable, potent, and consistent."

"And you want to lock it in," Riven said simply.

Lucien didn't smile, but his eyes gleamed. "I want to invest."

Riven tilted his head slightly. "Clarify."

"The guild will fund further development—warehouses, processing centers, expanded trade routes. We'll send more than just workers. We'll send coin. Manpower. Influence." He steepled his fingers. "In exchange, I want more than herbs."

Riven's expression remained unreadable. "What else?"

Lucien didn't flinch. "I want a stake in the Shadow Kingdom."

A long silence followed.

Veylen shifted in his seat, sipping his wine like he was watching a play.

Riven's voice was quiet, but firm. "That's not how this works."

Lucien studied him. "Why not?"

"Because you don't invest in a kingdom you don't understand," Riven said evenly. "You don't own a piece of something that isn't for sale."

"And yet you came to us," Lucien said. "You needed reach. Influence. Credibility. Without our network, you'd still be peddling goods out of the dirt."

"That's true," Riven admitted. "And we paid for it—heavily."

"Not heavily enough," Lucien murmured. "Not if you want to hold your place at the table."

Riven leaned back slightly. "We're not looking for a seat at your table, Duke. We're building our own."

That made Veylen laugh. "Spoken like someone who's not just a merchant."

Lucien didn't rise to Veylen's jab. He simply leaned back, his expression as composed as ever. "So what are you, then? A mouthpiece? A proxy? Or something more?"

Riven's smile was thin. "What I am doesn't matter. What we offer does."

Lucien studied him in silence, weighing that answer. "You speak like someone used to power. Not just wealth or status—real power. The kind that doesn't ask permission."

Riven let the implication hang, unbothered. "Do you want to renegotiate the distribution contract, or did you come here to speculate?"

That got a reaction. Veylen chuckled into his wine again, but this time it was quieter.

Lucien finally nodded. "Very well. The contract. I won't press the issue of ownership. Not yet." He reached into his coat and retrieved a small, rune-sealed scroll. "But I am prepared to offer a ten-year extension. Exclusive distribution. No one else gets access to your product without our blessing."

Riven's brow lifted slightly, though the shadows cloaking his face obscured most of the reaction. "And what do you want in return?"

Lucien placed the scroll on the table between them. "More. Not just herbs—refined products. Processed, packaged, branded. You've proven you can harvest them. Now I want to turn that raw resource into a dominant market presence."

Riven remained silent, listening.

"In addition to continued exclusivity," Lucien went on, "I want to set up a refinery near your southern docks. Our alchemists. Our equipment. But your supply."

"And our land?" Riven asked, voice calm.

Lucien inclined his head. "Long-term lease. We handle the labor, the branding, and the continental distribution. You receive a larger cut of the profits, and your kingdom avoids the logistics of building a dozen new facilities."

Riven considered that. "And if I refuse?"

Lucien shrugged lightly. "Then in a year, the contract expires, and every guild from Solis to Danu will begin fighting to fill the gap we leave. You'll be richer, certainly. But you'll also be surrounded by wolves."

It was a clever ploy. Not a threat—an inevitability wrapped in reason. And in truth, Riven had expected something like this.

He tapped a single finger against the table. "I'll allow your refinery. But under three conditions."

Lucien gestured for him to continue.

"First," Riven said, "you only bring in your top alchemists—no scouts, no spies. Anyone not on the list gets turned away at the docks."

"Acceptable," Lucien replied.

"Second," Riven continued, "no permanent housing. Your workers are guests, not settlers. They stay in designated quarters and rotate out every season."

Lucien's brow lifted faintly. "You don't want them growing roots."

"I don't want them growing assumptions," Riven corrected.

Lucien gave a short nod. "And the third?"

Riven leaned in slightly, shadows curling faintly at his shoulders. "You don't sell anything we don't authorize. You'll handle branding, packaging, and distribution—but if even one crate of refined product leaves this kingdom without our sigil, the deal ends."

Lucien studied him for a long moment. Then, with deliberate precision, he reached for the scroll and slid it across the table. "Make your edits. Send it back by week's end."

Riven nodded once, accepting the terms—but not submitting to them.

Veylen raised his glass again. "Well. I was expecting fireworks. Instead, we got trade policy."

Riven stood slowly, retrieving his gloves and slipping them on. "Trade shapes kingdoms more quietly than war."

Lucien remained seated, but his gaze followed Riven as he turned toward the door.

"One more thing," the Duke said. "The Danu Empire."

Riven paused, only slightly.

Lucien's voice was smooth. "They've gone quiet lately. But not idle."

Riven didn't turn. "I'm aware."

Lucien's tone shifted, just a touch. "If they reach out to your kingdom—and they will—know this: they don't offer anything without strings."

Riven allowed himself a quiet smile, hidden by the cloak of shadows. "Neither do we."

And with that, he stepped out, the door closing behind him.

—x—

Outside, the night had deepened. The air was cool, the scent of fresh-cut stone and distant hearthfires lingering beneath the stars. From the rooftop of the merchant trade house, the lights of the city stretched far and wide.

Riven walked down the darkened corridor alone, his cloak brushing softly against the blackstone floor, the weight of a new alliance stitched quietly into its folds.

Riven didn't return to the palace right away.

Instead, he followed the narrow stone path that branched off from the trade district, leading to one of the city's newer overlooks. The walkway curved past workshops and storehouses still under construction, each marked with the signs of careful planning—sharp angles, reinforced arches, runes embedded into the foundation.

The overlook itself was a modest platform of stone and darksteel, built into the outer edge of the merchant quarter. From there, the entire kingdom stretched before him—layered in motion and shadow.

The harbor flickered with blue wardlights as shipments were loaded and inventoried. Cranes turned slowly, guided by tireless undead crews and living handlers. Down by the market square, even this late, a few stalls still buzzed with trade. And beyond the glow of rune-torches and faint lanterns, the farmland stretched far and wide.

Riven watched it all for a moment, letting the silence settle. The wind carried the scent of tilled earth, salt air from the harbor, and the iron edge of progress.

Footsteps approached from behind—deliberate, light.

Nyx.

She didn't say anything at first, simply moved to stand beside him, her hair half-tied, her posture casual.

"You were gone longer than expected," Nyx said, her voice quiet as she stepped up beside him.

Riven didn't look at her right away. He stood with his hands resting lightly on the overlook's railing, his eyes fixed on the darkened sprawl of the kingdom below—alive with flickering runes and the soft, rhythmic glow of wardlights shifting with the breeze.

"Lucien," he said at last, the name leaving his lips like a stone dropped into still water. "He finally got what he wanted."

Nyx let out a soft scoff and leaned beside him, bracing her elbows against the railing. "The Duke of Trade himself, dragging his silk-cloaked ambition all the way to our doorstep. What was it this time? Did he offer to buy the kingdom outright? Or just the land under your feet?"

"He came close," Riven murmured. "Dressed it in nicer language, but the intent was clear. He wants to secure his place before the storm breaks."

"And you?" Nyx turned slightly to study him. "Did you let him?"

Riven's expression didn't shift, but something behind his gaze sharpened. "I gave him what he came for—a foothold. A refinery on the southern edge of the docks. His alchemists, his labor, his coin. But only under strict terms."

Nyx tilted her head, one brow arched. "You planning to let him keep it?"

"For now," Riven said.

Her smile was all teeth. "That's the kind of 'for now' that usually ends with someone vanishing into the marshes."

"He's useful," Riven replied. "And dangerous. But not in the way he thinks. Lucien plays at control through influence, economy, infrastructure. He thinks if he supplies the gold and the craftsmen, he'll be able to leverage us into compliance."

"He forgets you built this place from nothing," Nyx said, her tone a little softer now. "With mana, shadows, and stubbornness."

"He sees a kingdom rising out of a ruin," Riven said. "But he doesn't understand what it cost. He thinks it's a frontier market to exploit. A passing power. A gamble worth managing."

"And he's wrong."

Nyx let out a breath, her breath fogging faintly in the cool air. "You think he suspects that you're the King?"

Riven shook his head. "Not yet. He doesn't see me as anything more than a well-connected merchant with unusual authority. That's how I want it—for now."

They stood together, watching the lights flicker over the city that wasn't supposed to exist.

And in that stillness, Riven's voice was barely a murmur. "The moment Lucien realizes who I am… it'll be too late for him to do anything about it."

Nyx leaned back against the railing, a slow grin curling at her lips. "Good. I'd hate to waste a perfectly good dagger on a man already hanging himself with his own ambition."

Riven gave no reply.

The world was moving now—alliances shifting, empires leaning toward war, old names being whispered with fear again. Lucien Deveroux had walked willingly into the Shadow Kingdom's grasp.

And the doors had closed behind him.