The Glitched Mage

The room pulsed with quiet tension, the weight of unseen calculations filling the space between them. Riven studied Veylen Deveroux as the man leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

A handler for the Deveroux Guild wasn't just a merchant. He was a strategist, a man who knew exactly how to push, pull, and manipulate markets to the Guild's advantage. If he was here, it meant the Deveroux Guild saw value in their presence.

Or danger.

Veylen took a slow sip of his wine, eyes sharp over the rim of his glass. "The Shadow Kingdom," he repeated, as if testing the weight of the words. "That's quite the claim."

Riven smiled, slow and measured. "It's not a claim. It's a fact."

A few murmurs from nearby tables signaled that their conversation was already drawing attention. Veylen was too high-profile for subtle meetings, which meant this was a deliberate move—one meant to apply pressure.

Good. Let them listen.

Veylen hummed. "Strange, then. Last I heard, the Shadow Kingdom was little more than a ruin—abandoned, forgotten. Nothing of value left to salvage." He tilted his head. "And yet here you are, selling herbs more potent than anything this region has seen in decades."

Mal chuckled, resting his arm along the back of his chair. "Guess you heard wrong, then."

Veylen didn't look at him. His gaze stayed locked on Riven. "If your Kingdom is truly rising, that means two things," he said, voice smooth but carrying an unmistakable edge. "First, you'll need allies."

Riven's fingers drummed against the armrest. "And second?"

Veylen smirked. "You'll make enemies."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

Riven let the moment breathe before he answered. "That was always going to happen. Power doesn't go unnoticed."

Veylen studied him for a long moment, then exhaled in amusement. "You understand how this game is played, then. If you want to carve out a place in the trade world, you'll need more than just high-quality goods. You'll need protection. Leverage."

Riven met his gaze, blue eyes unblinking. "And you think the Deveroux Guild can provide that?"

Veylen chuckled. "We don't offer protection. We offer opportunity. And in our world, the right opportunity is far more valuable than any sword or fortress."

Mal tapped his fingers against the table. "What do you want, Veylen?"

The merchant swirled his wine, thoughtful. "I want to know what your next move is." His voice lowered slightly. "These herbs are valuable. But they're a glimpse, not the full picture. You wouldn't risk revealing yourselves for a single auction. So tell me…" He set his glass down. "What's your real play?"

Riven leaned back, considering.

This was the test.

Veylen was fishing for information—seeing if they were reckless, overambitious, or simply another upstart faction trying to make noise. If they played this wrong, the Deveroux Guild would either move to control them… or eliminate them.

But Riven wasn't here to play by their rules.

His smile was slow, deliberate. "We're not here for scraps, Veylen."

The merchant's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—an almost imperceptible flicker of interest.

"We're here to set the foundation for something bigger," Riven continued, his voice calm but unwavering. "This auction is just the first step. We're not selling out. We're inviting the world to realize what's coming."

Veylen's fingers drummed against his glass. "And what exactly is coming?"

Riven exhaled, his smirk turning razor-sharp.

"A new power."

The words settled between them like a loaded crossbow.

Veylen watched him carefully, then, after a beat, chuckled under his breath. "Bold." He lifted his glass again, tilting it slightly in mock toast. "Lucien will be interested in hearing about this."

Mal smirked. "That was the idea."

Veylen finished his drink, setting the empty glass down. "I'll pass the word along." He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. "I imagine we'll be speaking again soon."

Riven inclined his head. "Count on it."

With that, Veylen turned and walked away, slipping seamlessly back into the flow of the Merchant's Hall.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Mal exhaled, shaking his head with a low whistle. "Well, that wasn't ominous at all."

Riven picked up his own glass, rolling the dark wine in his fingers. "We've got their attention."

Mal grinned. "And now?"

Riven took a slow sip, the taste rich and smooth.

"Now," he murmured, "we wait."

—x—

The following evening, the auction hall was packed. Nobles, merchants, and guild representatives filled the chamber, eager for the first bids of the night. The Mystic Flora Lot was scheduled for later in the event, but already, anticipation buzzed in the air.

Riven and Mal sat in one of the private balconies, watching as lower-tier items were auctioned off—rare gems, enchanted armor, rare spell scrolls. The bids climbed quickly, gold exchanging hands in the thousands.

When the time finally came for their herbs, the atmosphere shifted.

The auctioneer stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, our next set of items comes from a newly established trade faction, presenting a collection of medicinal herbs unlike any seen before."

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

"Our first lot—Etherbloom."

The crate was carried onto the stage, unsealed under the glowing verification array. The delicate petals shimmered beneath the light, pulsing with an ethereal glow.

Gasps echoed from the alchemists in attendance.

"The mana purity level of this batch is recorded at an unprecedented 98%. We will start bidding at 500 gold."

The first bid came instantly. Then another. And another.

Within seconds, the price had skyrocketed past 3,000 gold.

Mal leaned back, smirking. "Looks like we've got their attention."

Riven's gaze swept the crowd, noting the figures who bid the highest—the Silver Veil Consortium, the Drakos Guild, several independent aristocrats. And, of course, a quiet, watchful presence in the Deveroux Guild's private booth.

They weren't just here to buy.

They were here to assess the real weight of their competition.

The bidding war continued, numbers climbing higher with each passing moment.

By the time the first Etherbloom crate was sold, the final price stood at 7,200 gold.

Mal let out a low whistle. "That's nearly three times the normal market value."

Riven didn't smile. "That was the test."

Mal arched a brow. "And the real fight?"

Riven's eyes gleamed. "Starts now."

The next item was Nightshade Marrow. Then Bloodroot. Then Void Thistle.

Each time, the same pattern repeated—initial hesitation, then a frenzied battle as buyers realized just how rare these herbs were.

By the time the final crate was presented—the largest supply of their stock—the entire auction floor was a battlefield of gold and status.

The auction hall buzzed with tension, the air thick with anticipation as the final crate of abyss-touched herbs was brought onto the stage. The auctioneer, ever the showman, let the moment stretch, letting the weight of expectation settle over the crowd before he spoke.

"Our final lot for the Mystic Flora Collection—an exclusive batch of Void Thistle, Etherbloom, Nightshade Marrow, and Bloodroot, freshly harvested and unparalleled in purity." His hand swept over the shimmering verification array above the crate. "Each specimen has been authenticated as one of the most potent medicinal resources found in the last century."

A hush fell over the room.

Then—

"Starting bid: 3,000 gold."

The first bid came fast.

"3,500."

"4,000."

The numbers climbed with dizzying speed.

Mal leaned forward in his seat, watching the chaos unfold. "They're losing their damn minds."

Riven, however, wasn't watching the bidders. He was watching who wasn't bidding.

In the Deveroux Guild's private booth, Veylen sat in conversation with an older man—refined, composed, his posture exuding control. Even from a distance, Riven could recognize the quiet authority in him.

Lucien Deveroux, the Duke of Trade himself.

The one man in this auction hall who hadn't moved a muscle.

"7,000."

"7,500."

The Drakos Guild representative scowled. "8,000."

The Silver Veil Consortium's bidder responded almost instantly. "8,600."

The noble in blue hesitated, then lowered his token. The Drakos Guild did the same.

That left only the Silver Veil Consortium in the lead.

The auctioneer glanced around. "8,600 gold, going once—"

Then a voice, smooth and deliberate, cut through the hall.

"10,000."

A ripple of murmurs swept through the room.

Every head turned toward the Deveroux Guild's booth.

Veylen remained still, but it was Lucien Deveroux himself who had placed the bid.

The Silver Veil Consortium's representative hesitated. Then, slowly, she sat back in her chair, folding her hands.

The room waited, but no counter-bid came.

The auctioneer, visibly pleased by the dramatic turn, cleared his throat. "10,000 gold, going once—going twice—"

The gavel struck.

"Sold to the Deveroux Guild."

Mal let out a low whistle. "That's ten thousand gold. You know how many fully stocked caravans we could buy with that?"

Riven didn't answer.

His gaze was locked onto Lucien, who had finally lifted his glass in a silent toast toward their private balcony.

A message.

And an invitation.

—x—

The auction had barely concluded when the summons arrived.

A polite request, veiled as an invitation.

But Riven knew better.

This was a demand.

A meeting with the Deveroux Guild—immediate and private.

As he and Mal strode through the dim corridors of the auction house's upper levels, the air carried the weight of unseen eyes.

Mal adjusted the collar of his coat, his smirk sharp. "Think they'll play nice?"

Riven let out a quiet chuckle, dark and knowing. "No."

Mal grinned. "Good. Would've been boring otherwise."

They reached the negotiation chamber. The doors were heavy, reinforced with intricate carvings—gold for wealth, steel for power.

Inside, the room was controlled luxury. Muted gold accents, thick soundproofed walls, a heavy wooden table at its center.

Veylen was already seated, lounging with casual ease, but it was the man beside him who commanded the space.

Middle-aged, refined, dressed in a dark high-collared coat adorned with the insignias of the Deveroux Guild. His face was lean, aristocratic—his gray eyes cold and assessing.

Lucien Deveroux.

The Duke of Trade.

A man who could make or break nations—not with swords, but with gold.

With a subtle flick of his wrist, shadows coiled around Riven's face, shifting like living smoke. The contours of his features blurred, his blue eyes vanishing beneath the shifting veil of darkness.

A precaution.

He had met Lucien Deveroux before in the Solis Kingdom. The Duke was a man who remembered faces, and Riven had no interest in explaining himself. Not yet.

Not while the game was still unfolding.

His voice remained steady, unreadable beneath the veil of shadow.

"Duke Deveroux."

A pause. Calculated.

"You wished to meet with us?"

Lucien Deveroux's gaze flickered with interest, but he showed no surprise at the shadows that veiled Riven's face. If anything, his expression remained calm, composed—as if he had expected something like this.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and regarded Riven with quiet scrutiny. "It seems the rumors were true," he mused. "The Shadow Kingdom breathes again."

Riven tilted his head slightly. "Did you doubt it?"

Lucien chuckled, low and knowing. "I expected whispers, remnants, perhaps even ambitious scavengers hoping to revive old glories." His gray eyes sharpened. "What I did not expect was a power bold enough to announce itself in an auction hall."

Veylen smirked beside him, swirling his wine. "You've certainly stirred the market. Our associates were rather eager to learn where exactly these herbs of yours are being cultivated."

Mal stretched lazily in his chair, his grin edged with amusement. "And yet, here we are. Discussing business, not threats."

Lucien exhaled, studying Riven. "For now."

The words were light, but the meaning was clear.

This was not an alliance.

Not yet.

This was a weighing of scales.