The Glitched Mage

Work on the academy began at once. Builders were summoned—some arriving under the banner of the Deveroux Guild, others drawn from the kingdom's own ranks, both living and undead. Hammer and spell worked side by side, bound not by blood, but by purpose.

Trusted architects were brought in from across the realm, each one carefully vetted and bound by oath. By the day after Riven's meeting with Elara, the first schematics had already taken shape—rough sketches of towers, lecture halls, vaults, and skybridges inked across scrolls and thick parchment.

It would be a monumental undertaking—vast not only in physical scale, but in arcane intricacy. The academy would require layer upon layer of enchantments: wards etched into every wall, protection sigils carved into stone and steel, channels of elemental mana threaded through its foundations like veins. It had to be more than a place of learning. It had to endure.

Riven envisioned something greater than the academy in Solis—grander, yes, but also stronger. Every brick, every corridor, every vaulted spire had to be shielded. Not just from siege or spellfire, but from corruption, sabotage, and time itself. It would be a fortress of knowledge—unyielding, untouchable.

The prestige of the Solis Academy had long rested on one thing: its foundation. The academy was built atop a broken fragment of Varethun—a fallen shard of the ascended realm itself. That land had once been rich with ambient mana, saturated by the divine energies of its origin. It gave Solis its edge. Its power. Its pride.

But that power was fading.

Cut off from Varethun, the land's connection to its source had withered. The mana lingered, but it was no longer fed—no longer replenished. Like a river with no spring, it was drying up.

And that was where Riven's academy would differ.

His foundation would not be a dying relic—it would be alive. The altar beneath the eastern ridge would act as a conduit, drawing raw mana from the world itself and feeding it directly into the academy's core. Not only the academy, but the surrounding kingdom would pulse with elemental energy—fire, water, wind, earth, shadow, and divine, bound in balance.

And like the academy in Solis, Riven's would rise—literally.

Floating towers, suspended platforms, halls drifting like anchored moons above the ground. But where Solis had inherited its wonder, Riven intended to create his own.

"Is it possible?" Riven asked as he leaned over the long wooden table in Vera's tavern. The candlelight danced over the scattered blueprints, casting shadows across intricate diagrams, arcane sigils, and elevation sketches. His fingers pressed lightly into the thick parchment, eyes tracing every careful line—every bold ambition.

Damon leaned back with a sigh. "It's madness," he said. "But I expected nothing less from you, my king."

Mal stood nearby, one hand at his chin, his brows knit in thought. "In theory… it's impossible," he said. "The floating isles around Solis only exist because they were once part of Varethun. They weren't raised. They fell. And the wards keeping them aloft? They weren't made here. They were carried down with them."

"In theory," came a quiet voice from the side of the room, "but theory has always been the weakest wall between what is and what could be."

The others turned.

The priest stood at the edge of the lamplight, his gray robes faintly damp from the rain outside, his voice calm as ever. He stepped forward, hands folded behind his back.

"The ancients of Varethun did not build as we do," he said. "Their cities drifted above the world, tethered not by stone, but by ley-anchors—vast nails of mana bound deep into the threads of the sky. When parts of their cities fell, some of those anchors came with them. Scattered. Lost. Buried."

Krux raised an eyebrow. "So… you're saying we just dig around until we find one of these floating nails?"

"I'm saying," the priest replied, meeting Riven's gaze, "that over the centuries, some of those anchors have landed here. They've slumbered in the deep places of the world, beneath mountains, buried in ruins, hidden beneath the crust of unawakened ley-lines. Forgotten. But not dead."

Mal's eyes narrowed. "And if we find one?"

"If you find one," the priest said, "you can bind it to your altar. Not to raise a kingdom—but a single sanctum. A fortress of learning. A skybound academy."

Riven's eyes returned to the plans, the lines and contours suddenly taking on new weight. Not just stone halls and tower spires—but a citadel aloft.

"Do you believe it can be done?" he asked, still studying the parchment.

"I believe," the priest said, his voice low and certain, "the altar will be the heart—steady and eternal. The anchor will serve as the spine, grounding what should not be grounded. And the magic you weave between them… that will be the wings that lift it into the sky."

Krux let out a slow whistle. "Flying schools. What could possibly go wrong?"

Riven smiled faintly.

"The Solis academy sits on fading land," he said. "Mana seeps from it like a dying breath. But ours will rise from a source still alive—pure, potent, and growing. We won't just match them."

He looked up.

"We'll surpass them."

The others fell silent as the storm stirred softly beyond the tavern windows. For the first time, they could see it—not just the vision, but the shape it might one day take. A sanctuary above the clouds.

And far below, the world would watch it rise.

Riven looked over the plans one last time, then slowly rolled the scroll closed.

"Then we start tomorrow," he said.

Mal tilted his head. "With excavation?"

"With everything," Riven said. "We hunt for the anchor, we awaken the altar and we begin shaping the academy's foundation—not just as a stronghold of magic, but as a symbol. A beacon the world cannot ignore."

Krux leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "Floating academy in the sky, huh? Can't wait to see the look on their faces."

Damon chuckled low, the weight in his eyes replaced with something brighter. "Let's just hope the students don't mind heights."

—x—

At dawn, Riven stood atop the ridge overlooking the eastern quarter of the kingdom—the winds cool, the sky streaked in hues of pale copper and silver. Below him, the land stirred with movement. The sounds of construction echoed faintly—stone grinding, hammers striking, and voices calling in rhythm as the first scaffolds rose around the altar site.

Riven's thoughts had already turned ahead—though the altar would endure and the kingdom would continue to rise, lifting the academy into the sky would require more than stone and spell. It would require an anchor born from the heavens.

By midday, the war chamber had been cleared, the old map spread across the central table. Veins of gold and ink traced old ley-lines and shattered ruins, Varethun fragments noted in faded script across distant regions. The priest stood beside him, silent. Watching.

Krux leaned on the far side of the table, arms crossed. Nyx lounged nearby in the shadows, her legs kicked over the arm of a chair, blades glinting at her hip.

Riven looked at each of them in turn.

"I'm leaving," he said.

No one interrupted.

"We can't raise the academy until we find an anchor—one of the nails that fell from Varethun. If even one survived, it'll be buried somewhere deep. Lost. Forgotten. I'll need eyes that know how to move through the world without being seen." He nodded toward Nyx. "And someone who can break through whatever still guards it." His gaze shifted to Krux.

Krux grinned. "About time."

Nyx tilted her head. "So we're going anchor-hunting across ancient ruins, shadow-steeped wilderness, and possibly cursed temples?"

"More or less," Riven said.

"Good." She stood, stretching. "I was starting to get bored."

The priest stepped forward, voice steady. "There are places I can guide you to. Temples that never fell. Ley-caverns sealed in silence. Varethun left marks across the world—more than most dare to remember."

Riven gave a slow nod. "Then you're coming with me."

He turned to the others—Damon, Mal, and Aria, who stood quietly along the room's edge.

"I'm leaving the kingdom in your hands," Riven said. "Keep the work moving. Prioritize the altar—make it stable, make it strong. Get the foundation set. I want that academy rising the moment we return."

Damon inclined his head. "We'll hold the walls. And the plans."

"Mal," Riven added, "coordinate with the artificers. We'll need mana channels—dense, stable, and flexible enough to adapt to floating structures."

Mal's eyes were already calculating. "I've got ideas."

"Aria," Riven said, and her gaze snapped to him. "Deploy the Shadow Fangs. Have them spread through the borderlands and distant territories—temple ruins, leyline fractures, anywhere with strange mana pools. If they hear whispers of a place that doesn't follow the rules of this world, I want it reported. Fast."

Aria nodded once. "And how should I reach you?"

Riven's gaze flicked toward the silent, armored forms near the back of the room—three of his personal undead.

"Relay everything through the undead," Riven said. "I've bound their minds to mine—I can hear through them, speak through them. Wherever I am, they'll carry your words to me."

Aria didn't question it. Just bowed her head.

The decision was made.

By nightfall, Riven's traveling gear had been prepared—armored cloak fastened, weapons checked and supplies packed. Nyx traveled light. Krux bore his greatsword and a wide grin. The priest needed only his staff, etched in old sigils that shimmered faintly when the wind shifted.

They left just before the moon rose through the southern pass, where the land fell quiet and old trails vanished into wildwood and ruin.

They rode not in haste, but with purpose.

Because somewhere out there, buried beneath time and silence, was the key to lifting the academy above the clouds.

And Riven would find it.