The Glitched Mage

Riven stood where the stone met the mist.

Just beyond the kingdom's southern wards, at the place where the high road met the cliffs, the land fell silent again—just as it had the day the priest first appeared. The same low wind drifted across the path. The same quiet tension lingered in the air like something unspoken.

And the obsidian disc still rested there.

He hadn't touched it that day. Hadn't moved it. But the rain hadn't worn it down, and time hadn't claimed it. It looked exactly as it had before—smooth, dark, etched with the six elemental sigils, untouched by weather or decay.

It was waiting.

Riven stepped across the threshold and knelt.

He didn't speak. Just pressed his palm to the disc.

The disc pulsed once beneath Riven's palm—calm, steady, alive.

Riven understood, even before the mana stirred, that the disc had always been more than a token—it was a tether. A quiet invitation. The priest had left it here for a reason, not as a demand, but as a door. A way for Riven to return when—and only when—he was ready.

Time to consider. Time to decide.

Now, the moment had come.

The air shifted. A faint, whispering crackle rippled through the space around him. Then a voice emerged—clear, calm, and steady—carried not by sound, but by presence. As if the priest now stood beside him once more, just beyond sight.

"You've returned."

Riven didn't react.

"I found the altar," he said simply. "Velmorian carved it beneath the eastern ridge. It's dormant, but not dead. He built it with intent—your intent. Or something close to it."

There was a pause before the priest answered, his voice soft with the weight of memory. "He was the first to hear the Mantle's call in centuries. But the time wasn't right. The world still belonged to empires and kingdoms that feared what could not be ruled."

Riven rose to his feet, hand falling away from the disc. The mist curled around his boots, slow and deliberate, as if listening.

"I don't want to build a temple," he said. "Not like the ones that rot beneath cities. Not one for worship or blind tradition."

Another silence. Not disapproval. Waiting.

"I want to build an academy," Riven continued, his voice steady. "One that will rival Solis. A place where fire and water, earth and wind, shadow and divine aren't feared—but studied. A sanctuary for all forms of mana. Where the elements don't war or cower from each other… but stand in balance. In respect. Not a prison of doctrine, but a crucible of understanding."

The wind shifted, light but steady, brushing past as the priest seemed to think deeply on Rivens words.

"A place of learning," the priest murmured, as though tasting the weight of the words. "Where knowledge isn't hoarded, but shaped. Where the threads of fire, water, earth, wind, shadow, and divinity are braided into something greater. From such halls, a new age could rise—an era not ruled by fear, but forged by understanding. A generation unbound."

Riven nodded. "The altar will serve as its heart. Its source. A fountain of raw mana to empower every student—not hidden, not hoarded. Shared."

"You would awaken the altar," the priest murmured. "And give its gift to the world."

"To those strong enough to wield it. Wise enough to understand it," Riven said. "That's how we change things. That's how the Mantle lives on."

A long breath seemed to move through the mist.

"I will guide its awakening," the priest's voice said at last, calm and resonant, carried through the air like an echo. "And I will help you lay the first stones—not of faith, but of a beginning. A foundation for learning, for power tempered by understanding."

The air around the disc shimmered faintly, as if the voice alone stirred the surrounding mana.

"But I ask one thing, Shadow King. When your academy rises, allow the Mantle to exist within it—not as rulers, not as preachers, but as stewards of the altar. Let us tend to its rhythm, maintain its balance. We would never force our path on any who do not seek it. Those who wish to learn will find us and we will be accepting."

There was a pause—a breath of stillness between one truth and the next.

"We have walked this world long and far, gathered knowledge where others found only ruin. If you will permit it, we will offer that knowledge freely… to those ready to listen."

Riven stood in the stillness, the priest's voice dissolving into the mist like the final note of a long-forgotten song. The weight of what had been offered lingered—not as command or plea, but as something older. Something rooted. Not just in power, but in kinship.

An alliance once held in grasp of Velmorian—now extended to him. Not through obligation… but recognition.

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the horizon beyond the southern cliffs, where the sky bruised with gathering clouds and the wind stirred with the taste of rain. Somewhere in the distance, lightning flickered—silent and distant.

The light caught faintly on the edge of his armor, reflecting off the carved sigils of his bracers—one of which pulsed subtly in response to the mana that still lingered in the air. The storm wasn't close, not yet, but it was coming. Just like everything else.

Riven's fingers curled slightly at his side.

Velmorian had once envisioned something different—a quiet revival of the Mantle of Origin. He hadn't dreamed of academies or towers filled with scholars. He had dreamed of reverence for mana itself. A foundation built not on rule, but on respect for what shaped the world.

Now that vision stood before Riven transformed. Not a continuation, but an evolution. Not legacy… but choice.

"I'll allow it," he said quietly. "The Mantle may walk within the academy—not above it, not behind it, but alongside it. If your purpose is knowledge, then you'll find no resistance here."

A faint hum stirred through the air—soft, like approval felt rather than spoken.

Riven's voice stayed low, but resolute. "But know this: I won't let the altar become a cage. Not for my people, not for the students. It will be a source—not a leash. If any part of your order tries to turn it into something else, I'll tear it down stone by stone."

The wind shifted again, curling around him in a slow spiral. The mist thickened for a breath, then began to pull away, as though satisfied.

"Then we are in agreement," the priest's voice said. "Let the academy rise."

Riven said nothing else. He stepped back from the disc, the pulse of mana beneath it dimming once more to stillness. The sigils glowed briefly—one after another—then faded into the stone.

Rain began to fall.

Soft at first. Then steadier.

Riven turned, cloak billowing behind him, and walked back toward the kingdom—toward the tower, the ridge, the altar, and the future he now intended to shape.

Behind him, the mist swallowed the disc once more.

—x—

The path back into the heart of the kingdom was slick with rain, but Riven moved without pause. Each step echoed with quiet certainty—measured, decisive, and unshaken. The southern gate rose in silence at his approach, the Shadowguard bowing without a word. They could feel it too—something had shifted.

By the time he reached the central ward, night had fully fallen. The lanterns burned violet along the stone walkways, casting strange shadows across the buildings still under construction. The streets had quieted. Only a few late-working artificers and undead sentries remained.

Riven passed them all, silent, and headed straight for the northeast wing—where the necromancers had made their home.

Elara looked up the moment he stepped into the inner hall of the acolyte wing, her expression sharpening. The soft blue flame above her palm flickered in response, casting dancing shadows across her pale features. Her robes were loosely fastened, as if she'd been called from rest, and her dark hair was braided back with purple thread. Varian, Haleth, and Alric stood nearby, silent and observant, their gazes drawn to Riven like iron to a lodestone.

"You're here," Elara said, her voice neither surprised nor stern—just quiet. Curious. The kind of tone reserved for omens. "Something's changed. I can feel it."

Riven stepped farther into the room, rain still clinging to his shoulders. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

"There's an altar beneath the eastern ridge," he said. "Old. Hidden. Buried in the bones of the kingdom."

Elara's eyes narrowed, the flame in her hand shifting slightly.

"An altar," she repeated.

Riven nodded once. "Velmorian built it. Or tried to. It was left unfinished. Abandoned when the kingdom fell."

Silence followed.

Then, Haleth stepped forward a fraction. "What kind of altar? A relic? A tomb? Some weapon buried in the stone?"

"No," Riven said. "It's not meant to destroy. It's a conduit."

He let the word settle.

"For mana," he added. "It draws from the world directly—from the six elements: fire, water, wind, earth, divine… and shadow. It's meant to fill the land with pure energy. To saturate the ground. Feed it. Wake it."

Varian looked toward Elara, then back at Riven. "That kind of power would have reshaped the kingdom."

"It would have," Riven said. "But it never had the chance. Velmorian began the work and then Solis came."

Elara's flame dimmed, hovering lower. "How do you know all of this?"

Riven's eyes met hers. Unblinking. Steady.

"Because I found it," he said. "And I wasn't alone."

That drew tension across the room. Even Alric, who hadn't spoken yet, lifted his head slightly.

"I spoke with someone," Riven continued. "The one who helped Velmorian design it. A priest. Not of Solis. Not of any known kingdom."

He paused. Then:

"The Mantle of Origin."

It was Elara who reacted first.

She didn't flinch, but something in her expression sharpened—recognition threading through thought. Her voice, when it came, was softer.

"I've heard that name," she said. "Old fragments. Mentions in scrolls Solis kept buried under false catalogs. They weren't studied—just locked away. The name showed up beside ancient rites… always half-erased, half-cursed. As if even knowledge of them was dangerous."

"It wasn't a cult," Riven said. "It wasn't dogma. It was older than that. Older than any organized belief. They don't worship gods. They don't kneel to kings. They remember mana and its will."

Alric's brow furrowed. "And what do they want now?"

Riven folded his arms, his voice calm but resolute.

"They want to help us build."

That landed heavier than the rest.

"Build what?" Haleth asked, a note of wariness creeping in. "Another temple?"

Riven shook his head. "An academy."

Even the blue flame paused in the air.

"I want a place where we study the full truth of mana," Riven said. "Not just fire, or necromancy, or the divine. All of it. In balance. Without fear. Without hierarchy. I want it to rival Solis—but not in politics. In purpose."

Elara's gaze held his, steady as ever. "So you've decided," she said, quieter now. "The academy."

Riven gave a small nod. "We spoke of it before briefly. But this… this is the path. The altar beneath the ridge—Velmorian's foundation—it changes everything. It can be the heart of something lasting. Not just a school for our own, but for any who seek to understand mana as it truly is."

She said nothing at first, just listened as the words settled between them like stones placed with care.

"To anyone?" she asked after a moment. "Truly?"

"Anyone with the strength to learn and the wisdom to ask," Riven said. "No banners. No bloodlines. Only will. The Mantle will help keep the altar stable—but they won't rule."

Haleth crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. "And if they try?"

Riven's voice didn't waver. "Then they answer to me."

The room was quiet again, the weight of the future pulling against the flicker of old loyalties and deeper questions.

Varian leaned slightly forward. "Why now?"

Riven glanced toward the tall windows where the last of the rain trailed down the glass, moonlight breaking through in shafts of silver.

"Because we finally have room to breathe," he said. "Because Solis will come—and not with questions, but with fire. And when they do, I want to stand behind more than steel. I want to stand behind minds sharp with understanding. I want something that will last beyond wars and kings. Something none of them can burn."

Elara slowly lowered her hand, the flame dimming until it vanished completely. She stepped closer, her expression unreadable—but her voice was low and certain.

"You're not just building an academy," she said. "If it becomes what you envision, people from across the world will come—mages, scholars, even those who've never felt safe to study before. Solis will see that. And while it'll put them on edge… it'll also force them to tread carefully. One wrong move, and they risk provoking more than just you."

"Exactly." Riven smirked. "This academy will not only benefit the kingdom but also add another layer of defence."

Elara gave a slow, thoughtful nod, arms folding across her chest. "It's bold," she said quietly. "And risky."

Riven met her gaze. "Most things worth building are."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in doubt, but in thought. "It could draw enemies. Attention we're not ready for."

"It will," Riven said. "But it'll also draw allies. Ideas. Change."

He let that hang for a beat before adding, "Not because it's easy… but because it matters."

He turned slightly, casting his gaze over the quiet acolyte hall, to the necromancers who had once fled their own lands to seek shelter here. Now, they stood at the edge of shaping something greater—not just a sanctuary, but a future.

Elara looked to the acolytes—Haleth, Varian, Alric—and then back to Riven. "You'll need help."

"I know."

"Curriculums. Protection. Mana warding. Scholars from outside the kingdom, vetted and brought under careful watch."

"All of it," Riven said. "And I'll leave the shaping of the arcane wings to you and Mal. I trust no one more with knowledge than the two of you."

A silence stretched between them—this time not of uncertainty, but of understanding.

Finally, Elara gave a single, decisive nod.

"Then we begin," she said.

Behind her, the necromancers bowed—not in submission, but in solidarity as Riven stepped from the chamber, cloak trailing behind him like shadow against stone.

Above, the rain had passed. The clouds had broken open.

And as moonlight spilled across the ridge where the altar slept beneath the earth, the first stirrings of something ancient turned quietly beneath the surface.

A kingdom had risen from ash.

Now… an academy would rise with it.

Not just to challenge the world—

But to change it.