The Glitched Mage

Lucien leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly. "Tell me, merchants of the Shadow Kingdom, what exactly do you want?"

Riven's eyes gleamed beneath the shifting veil of darkness. "The same thing you do," he said smoothly. "Power. Control. Stability."

Lucien arched a brow. "And you believe the Deveroux Guild can help you achieve that?"

Riven's smile was razor-sharp. "I believe we can help each other."

Lucien studied him for a moment, then gestured lightly. "Go on."

Riven didn't hesitate. "I'm offering you an exclusive contract," he said smoothly. "For one year, the Deveroux Guild will have sole distribution rights to our herbs. No other merchant factions, no outside brokers—just you."

Lucien remained impassive. "And in exchange?"

"Seventy percent of the profits come to us," Riven stated, his voice calm, measured. "And you supply us with what we need—skilled workers. Builders, carpenters, blacksmiths, seamstresses. The Shadow Kingdom is growing, but to accelerate that growth, we require infrastructure."

For the first time, Lucien let out a short, quiet laugh. "That's a terrible deal."

Mal smirked, tilting his head. "Is it?"

Lucien leaned back, expression unreadable. "Seventy percent? You may have rare herbs, but that's an absurd margin for a merchant partnership. The Deveroux Guild takes risks facilitating trade, ensuring supply lines, and securing transport routes. We have influence, connections, and reach far beyond a single kingdom. What you're offering is, at best, an unbalanced agreement." His eyes glinted with amusement. "Or do you believe your herbs alone are worth that price?"

Riven's smirk was slow, deliberate. "I believe you're making an assumption."

Lucien arched a brow. "Oh?"

"You think we're offering you a one-time luxury product," Riven said, his voice like silk. "A rare, exclusive herb that would sell for a fortune—but only in limited supply."

Lucien's fingers drummed lightly against the table, waiting.

Riven leaned forward slightly. "But what if I told you that what you saw at the auction was only the beginning?"

Silence stretched between them.

Lucien watched him carefully, expression unreadable. "Go on."

Riven exhaled, slow and calculated. "We can provide a range of herbs—more than just Etherbloom, Bloodroot, Nightshade Marrow, or Void Thistle. We have access to high-grade medicinal plants unlike anything on the market. Some that enhance mana regeneration. Others that quicken physical recovery. Poisons that are undetectable. Antidotes that can counter afflictions no current alchemist can cure." His voice lowered slightly, the weight of his words deliberate. "A steady supply of premium, top-tier goods. The kind that will ensure your guild controls the highest-value trade across multiple kingdoms."

Lucien's fingers stopped tapping.

Veylen, silent until now, let out a low whistle. "That's a bold claim."

Riven's smile was steady, unwavering. "You saw the proof for yourself at the auction. Every herb we sold today speaks for itself."

Lucien studied him for a long, heavy moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp. "You're asking for a great deal of trust."

Riven met Lucien's gaze head-on, his expression unreadable beneath the shifting veil of shadow. "Trust?" His smirk was razor-sharp. "I'm offering certainty."

Lucien leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied Riven in silence. The weight of the room had shifted—the air thick with something unspoken, a careful balance of risk and opportunity.

"You claim certainty," the Duke mused, his voice smooth, deliberate. "But certainty requires proof. A single auction, no matter how lucrative, is not proof of sustainability. I deal in long-term investments, not gambles."

Mal let out a low chuckle, lounging back lazily. "Then let's stop pretending, shall we? You wouldn't have bid ten thousand gold if you thought we were a gamble."

Lucien's lips curled faintly, but he didn't deny it.

Riven took the opening. "You don't need to trust me, Duke Deveroux. You only need to trust the results. I can guarantee a year's worth of exclusive, high-tier supply—consistent, untampered, and unrivaled. No fluctuations, no missing shipments, no surprises. Your guild would hold a monopoly over the most potent medicinal goods on the market."

Veylen exhaled, shaking his head in amusement. "You make it sound so easy."

Riven's voice was cool, certain. "That's because it is. For you, at least. My people are the ones taking the risks, cultivating, refining, securing the supply. All you need to do is distribute."

Lucien remained silent for a moment longer before finally speaking. "Seventy percent is too steep."

Riven tilted his head. "No, it's fair."

Lucien arched a brow. "Is that so?"

"We both know how this works," Riven continued smoothly. "It's not about what's fair—it's about what's worth it." He gestured vaguely with one hand. "You think seventy percent is unreasonable because you're comparing this deal to others. But you've never had a product like this. If you control the sole distribution of the rarest, most potent herbs in the continent, do you truly believe you won't make more profit than any of your previous trades combined?"

Lucien's fingers drummed against the table again—light, thoughtful.

Riven pressed on. "And let's not forget what you gain in return. You don't just get the product. You get an expansion of your own influence. If the Shadow Kingdom flourishes, your guild has first access to new resources, new trade routes, and—most importantly—new markets."

A pause.

Lucien tapped his finger against the table once. Twice. Then, with an exhale, he leaned forward slightly. "Let's say I accept your terms." His voice was quiet, unreadable. "What guarantees do I have that you'll uphold your end? You're an unknown entity, operating from a kingdom that, until yesterday, was nothing more than a graveyard. You expect me to commit my resources, my reputation, my workforce, based on words alone?"

Riven voice was steady. "I expect you to commit based on results."

Lucien gave a small, measured smile. "Then give me something tangible."

Riven nodded slightly. He had anticipated this.

Slowly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small, dark glass vial. Inside, a swirling, deep-violet liquid pulsed faintly with an eerie luminescence.

Lucien's gaze sharpened.

Riven held up the vial, tilting it just enough for the liquid inside to catch the dim candlelight. The thick, violet fluid shimmered unnaturally, shifting between deep indigo and an almost spectral silver, as if it refused to settle on a single form.

Mal's voice was quiet, reverent, as he watched the liquid swirl. "Ashen Sage is said to be a miracle," he murmured. "A herb capable of purging afflictions beyond the reach of any alchemist. Curses, toxins, even the lingering touch of death itself." He exhaled slowly. "But this? This isn't purification." He hesitated, then met Riven's gaze. "It doesn't cleanse. It devours."

Lucien Deveroux, ever composed, leaned forward slightly. "Devours?"

Riven's grip on the vial tightened. "Explain."

Mal nodded, his silver eyes gleaming with something akin to unease. "Ashen Sage has always been rare—impossible to cultivate in the light. It requires absolute darkness, deep underground, in places where mana stagnates and decays. Most believed it was a myth because no one could control its growth." He tapped the glass lightly. "But this? This is beyond what was thought possible."

He turned the vial slowly, watching the liquid react, as if sensing his words. "It doesn't just neutralize poisons. It feeds on them. It doesn't just remove curses—it absorbs them." He exhaled. "If refined properly, it could be revolutionary—capable of extracting disease at its root, of erasing afflictions no healer has ever managed to cure."

Mal let the weight of his words settle before adding, almost reluctantly, "But if misused… it wouldn't just cleanse the affliction. It would consume everything." He set the vial down carefully, his tone grim. "This could strip the very essence from a body. Not just life force, but mana itself. If pushed too far… it could devour a person's mana heart entirely."

A cold silence followed.

Lucien studied the vial with newfound intensity, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of the table. "And how much of this do you have?"

Riven let the silence stretch before answering, his voice smooth, assured.

"Enough," he murmured, "to make sure the Deveroux Guild holds a power no one else can touch."

Veylen's brows rose. "You had this the whole time and didn't put it up for auction?"

Riven's smirk widened. "We're not fools, Veylen. The herbs we sold tonight were the invitation. This—" He twirled the vial between his fingers, watching the liquid swirl. "—is the leverage."

Lucien's expression didn't change, but there was a new weight in his gaze. Interest. Calculation.

The Duke of Trade had seen many deals in his lifetime.

But this?

This was different.

After a long silence, Lucien exhaled through his nose and gave a single, slow nod.

"Sixty percent," he countered smoothly. "And the workers you require will be supplied on a rolling basis. Builders, blacksmiths, artisans—we will integrate them discreetly to avoid drawing attention." His gaze flicked to Riven. "Final offer."

Mal shot Riven a glance, but Riven had already decided.

He extended his hand.

Lucien clasped it.

The deal was struck.

—x—

As they stepped out of the negotiation chamber, the weight of the agreement settled over them.

Mal let out a low whistle. "Well. That's one way to tie the Deveroux Guild to us."

Riven didn't respond immediately. The night air was crisp as they exited the auction house, the streets of Eldrin's Crossing alive with muted conversations and the distant clatter of carriages on cobblestone. The world carried on, unaware that a trade agreement had just been forged that would shift the balance of power.

Mal tucked his hands into his coat pockets, his silver eyes flicking toward Riven. "What's next?" he asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.

Riven's gaze flickered with amusement beneath the veil of shadows still obscuring his face. "Now?" His tone was light, but the weight of certainty lay beneath it. "Now, we see if the Deveroux Guild can keep up."

Mal let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Sixty percent. You really made him think he was negotiating."

Riven's smirk was subtle. "Lucien Deveroux doesn't take bad deals. He takes the ones that give him the illusion of control." He paused, watching the flickering glow of the streetlamps reflecting off the damp cobblestones. "We gave him what he needed—something no other guild can claim. He'll play along because he knows what's at stake."

Mal tilted his head, considering. "And what if he tries to take more?"

Riven's smirk darkened. "Then he learns why the Shadow Kingdom was feared."

A breeze stirred through the streets, carrying with it the distant scent of burning cedar and lantern oil. The city was alive, but for the first time in a long while, Riven felt something deeper moving beneath the surface—momentum. The first piece of a much larger game had been set.

They turned a corner, slipping into the quieter district where their temporary residence was housed. The guards stationed outside straightened at their approach, giving curt nods before stepping aside. The building was modest by noble standards, but well-secured—high walls, reinforced windows, and a discreet escape route built into the structure. It was functional, not ostentatious.

Inside, the flickering glow of candlelight greeted them, casting long shadows against the stone walls. Mal sank into a chair, stretching out with a sigh. "So, do we drink to celebrate or plot our next move?"

Riven moved toward the table, pouring himself a glass of dark wine. He swirled it idly before answering. "Both."

Mal grinned, reaching for his own glass. "I like the way you think."

Riven leaned against the table, expression contemplative. "The Deveroux Guild will move quickly, but we can't afford to sit idle while we wait for them to send workers. The moment they realize just how much leverage we have, they'll look for ways to shift the balance in their favor."

Mal took a sip of his drink, eyes half-lidded with amusement. "You expecting sabotage?"

"I expect strategy," Riven corrected smoothly. "Lucien will honor the deal—for now. But once the first shipments start moving and the profits roll in, he'll start testing the waters. He'll look for weaknesses. Ways to renegotiate."

Mal hummed. "And if he finds any?"

"He won't," Riven said simply. "Because we won't give him any."

Silence settled between them, broken only by the quiet crackle of the fireplace. The weight of the night, of what they had just set into motion, settled over them.

Mal let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. "Alright. So what's the next move?"

Riven's gaze was steady. "We return to the Shadow Kingdom."

Mal arched a brow. "Already?"

"We don't have the luxury of time," Riven said. "The Deveroux Guild will send the first wave of workers within the next few weeks. We need to prepare the infrastructure before they arrive. Clear the ruins. Secure the borders. Strengthen our defenses."

Mal exhaled, shaking his head. "You really don't stop, do you?"

Riven smirked. "Would you, if you were me?"

Mal snorted. "Not a chance."

Riven finished his drink, setting the glass down with finality. "Then let's not waste time."

Mal sighed, but there was no real protest in his tone as he stood. "Fine. But at least let me enjoy the comfort of a real bed before we head back."

Riven chuckled, the rare sound low and knowing. "Enjoy it while you can."