The Glitched Mage

The halls of the palace were quiet that evening. Too quiet.

Most of the kingdom had settled into its rhythm—builders working by lamplight, necromancers walking the border wards, market traders packing their stalls. But Riven had left the upper keep behind. He walked the eastern hallways alone, his boots making no sound on the polished blackstone floors.

Except he wasn't alone.

"You look like you have a lot on your mind," Ember said, appearing at the end of the corridor as if she'd been waiting.

She leaned against the stone wall beside a high, narrow window, the violet glow of rune-lanterns washing across her pale features. Her arms were crossed. One foot tapped, ever so slightly, against the floor.

Riven didn't stop. But he did slow.

"Is that so?" he asked.

Ember arched a brow. "Yes, I can tell because you're much more gloomier than usual."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked past her, down the curved stair to the lower solar where the fire always burned low—just enough warmth to ease the chill of obsidian walls. Ember followed, wordless, and took the seat across from him when he finally sat near the hearth.

The firelight shimmered against the runes etched in the stone. Silence pulsed between them for a moment.

Then Ember finally spoke.

"Is this about the guy who appeared earlier?" She asked, her crimson eyes searching his face.

Riven nodded slowly, his thoughts still tangled. "He said things," he murmured. "Things no one should know."

Ember blinked once. "The priest?"

Riven gave another slow nod, and though his expression remained composed, something in his eyes must have shifted—just enough for Ember to notice. She leaned forward, folding her legs beneath her, the firelight catching on her pale features as her gaze turned careful.

"And this Mantle of Origin thing?" she asked. "What's that supposed to be?"

"A religion," he said quietly. "But not like the ones we know. No gods. No holy text. Just… mana itself. Every form—fire, water, abyss, divine. To them, mana isn't a tool. It's the origin. The end. Everything in between."

Ember tilted her head, watching him more closely. "And you think it's real?"

"I think…" Riven exhaled, the breath slow and measured. "It's ancient. And it's been watching. It waited for Velmorian—he believed in it, was establishing something here in the kingdom before its fall. Now, it's turned its eyes to me."

She was quiet for a time, eyes fixed on the fire. Then, "You command the Abyss."

"I do."

"No one else does that," Ember said. "You don't just draw it—you shape it. You bend it around stone, stretch it into fields, breathe it into the dead and make them whole."

His gaze flicked to hers.

"I remember dying," Ember said, her voice low. "And I remember what you did to bring me back. You changed something when you did that—something deep. Maybe this Mantle thing… maybe it's not here because of who you were. Maybe it's here because of what you became."

The fire crackled.

"Do you want it?" Ember asked. "To follow it?"

"I don't know," Riven admitted, the words slow, like stone shifting beneath pressure.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the low-burning hearth. The fire cast strange patterns on the obsidian walls—twisting shapes that danced like thoughts refusing to settle.

"It's not like the others," he said at last. "There's no scripture, no pantheon, no commandments carved into stone. Just… mana. As if the elements themselves are divine. As if the world began and will end with it."

"And that bothers you?" Ember asked.

"No," he said quietly. "It tempts me."

He exhaled through his nose, the sound steady but tight. "But I didn't build this kingdom to become a prophet. I don't want to waste time chasing old myths while the world sharpens its knives. I didn't claw my way through the Abyss to start preaching."

Ember stayed quiet for a moment, her gaze steady and unblinking as she watched him wrestle with thoughts he hadn't yet named.

Then, with a slight shrug and a tilt of her head, she said, "Then don't follow it."

He glanced at her.

"Decide if you want to lead it."

Riven's brow rose.

She gave him that half-smirk she always wore when she knew she'd landed the sharper blade.

"Velmorian believed in it, right? And he never got the chance to finish it. But maybe it doesn't need a priest. Maybe it needs a foundation. A place to grow. A reason to rise again."

Her voice softened. "You don't have to carry their faith, Riven. Just give it room to stand."

Riven didn't answer.

Not yet.

But something in his expression shifted—just slightly.

As if, somewhere behind the quiet, a decision had begun to take shape.

—x—

The rain had come quietly.

Not a storm, not a downpour—just a soft curtain of mist that rolled across the kingdom, laying thin silver over stone and steel. The kind of rain that dampened sound, softened breath, and turned firelight to embers.

Riven stood beneath the overhang of the western rampart, where the stone met one of the oldest towers still standing from the ruins. A single lantern flickered beside him, its violet flame steady against the mist. His cloak was damp at the shoulders. He hadn't moved in some time.

He was waiting.

A low creak of boots on wet stone signaled the approach he'd been expecting.

Mal stepped into view—quiet as always, his presence muted, his cloak drawn tightly across his chest. He said nothing at first, simply stood beside Riven, hands folded in the sleeves of his cloak. The silence between them wasn't heavy.

Just natural.

"Do you remember what Velmorian was building?" Riven asked at last, his voice low.

Mal didn't turn to him. "He built many things."

"The Mantle of Origin," Riven said quietly, casting a glance toward the firelight. "What was he trying to build?"

"I didn't pay it much mind when I first heard it," Mal said. "I was too focused on the collapse. On the blood. But… yes. I remember fragments. He called it a new beginning."

"Did he ever show you where?" Riven asked. "A place? Notes? Anything?"

Mal was quiet for a moment, then slowly shook his head. "No. But he asked me to help reinforce the old cathedral wing once. Not the public one. The one beneath the citadel's eastern ridge."

Riven's brow furrowed. "Tunnels?"

Mal nodded. "It was sealed before the end. He told me it had to sleep until it was ready to be woken. Said he'd know when. But then the siege came. And the kingdom fell."

Riven didn't answer.

He stared out into the rain, watching it bead and run along the stone ledge.

"It's still there," Mal said quietly. "If you're asking."

"I am."

Mal turned to leave, but paused just once more.

"Be careful down there," he said. "Whatever Velmorian has sealed down there has long since been forgotten."

Riven didn't respond.

He simply stepped out from under the overhang and into the mist, the rain soaking into his cloak, his boots silent on the wet stone as he turned eastward—toward the forgotten ridge beneath the citadel.

Toward whatever Velmorian had left behind.

—x—

The rain followed him as he crossed the upper court, whispering across rooftops and awnings, its soft patter barely audible on the dark, slick stones.

Ahead, the eastern ridge loomed—partially shrouded by scaffolding and the uneven rise of stone supports still under construction. Lanterns swayed gently from iron brackets, their violet glow stretching long shadows over the cliff's edge. Below, a narrow path wound its way among the oldest bones of the Shadow Kingdom—into ruins few dared to speak of, and fewer yet dared to tread.

At last, he reached a low archway of weathered stone. There, etched faintly into the rock, was a sealed mark—no sigil nor name remained, only the ghost of an inscription long chiseled away. Dust clung stubbornly to its corners, and moss curled along its base like tender scars.

When Riven laid his palm flat against the arch, the ancient runes shuddered to life—dim and quiet, like the soft exhalation of a sleeping giant.

The stone shifted.

He stepped through, leaving behind the modern world above and entering into a tunnel that was narrow at first, then gradually widened into a slow, measured descent. The walls here were lined with ancient masonry, so worn and softened by the passage of time that they appeared almost melted. The air was parched, as if untouched by rain for centuries. Each footfall echoed off the stone—not loudly, but with a deep, lingering note.

The deeper he ventured, the denser the silence became. It wasn't empty—rather, it was as if the walls were listening, absorbing every whispered thought, every uncertain step.

Eventually, the corridor curved and opened into a tall chamber. The high, arched ceiling formed a natural dome, and in its center a faded mural emerged—its swirling elements now barely discernible. Lines hinting at fire, water, air, earth, shadow, and light circled a hollow space where an emblem had once shone proudly, now gouged out by time.

Beneath the mural, stone steps descended to a sunken floor, bordered on all sides by six monoliths. Each bore a unique sigil—none of which Riven recognized, all half-forgotten by the passage of ages.

And in the very center of the floor stood a altar—smooth, unadorned, and empty.

Riven stepped down slowly, each cautious footfall measured as he examined the chamber. His eyes scanned every detail: here, in this hidden sanctuary beneath the crumbling world above, lay the remnants of something lost.

Then he noticed a small collection of parchments, carefully tucked away near the altar. He knelt and unrolled one, its faded ink and intricate symbols nearly unreadable. The scrolls spoke of an altar—a conduit of pure mana built to harness the primal energies of the world. They detailed Velmorian's vision: to channel the raw essence of fire, water, air, earth, abyss, and even divine mana into a single, potent nexus. This altar, he read, was meant to saturate the surrounding lands with mana, transforming the barren into a sanctuary for mages and heralding a new age of power and understanding.

Riven's heart pounded—not with fear, but with excitement . Velmorian had believed in this. He had labored in secret, crafting relics of power that would one day take his kingdom to the next level of power.

For a long moment, Riven stood motionless in the center of the chamber. The silence was thick—laden not with dread, but with memory. The mana pulsed steadily, as if the chamber itself remembered every lost promise, every dream Velmorian had dared to build.

"What were you building, Velmorian?" Riven asked softly, his voice echoing in the chamber.

The stones offered no answer. Yet the air pulsed and the runes on the floor shimmered with quiet power, as if recalling a long-dormant memory.

In that moment, surrounded by the weight of stone and the quiet breath of ancient scrolls, something shifted within Riven. A revelation—a thread pulling taut from a past buried in dust and silence. The legacy he'd inherited was no longer just a crown or a kingdom. It was a calling. One that had waited in the dark, patient and unspoken, ready to rise—and reshape not just his realm, but the world beyond.