The Glitched Mage

The land lay still, waiting.

Riven adjusted the staff across his back, feeling its weight settle like a second spine. Mana hummed quietly beneath his skin, more potent than before, braided together with the glyphs that still pulsed faintly against his chest. Nyx and Krux fell into step beside him without a word, the priest trailing slightly behind.

They began the slow walk back toward the outer ridges of Emberwatch, leaving the smoking heart of the ruins behind. Their goal was clear now: return to the Shadow Kingdom, raise the anchor, and forge the foundation of something new.

The mist clung low to the broken ground, curling around their boots like ghostly fingers. Riven didn't speak. Neither did the others. The weight of what they had done—and what was still left to do—hung thick in the cooling air.

The ruins faded into the distance, swallowed by the early light of a bleak dawn.

Then, just as they reached the ridge, Riven's entire body jolted—an urgent pulse threading through the bond he shared with his undead warriors.

He stopped immediately, one hand rising instinctively.

Nyx caught it at once, slipping into a crouch, her eyes narrowing. Krux grunted low in his throat, reaching for his sword.

The connection tightened, and a voice filled Riven's mind—sharp, tense, urgent.

Aria.

Her voice cut through the haze like a blade.

"My King—"

At first, Riven thought she was reaching out to deliver news about the other skybound anchors they had been scouting. He cut across her urgently, thinking to save time.

"We've already secured the anchor," he said aloud, his voice steady. "You can recall the Fangs. Stand by for—"

"No—!" Aria's voice snapped like a whip. "It's not that. Listen to me—"

The urgency in her tone made his stomach tighten.

"The Shadow Kingdom is under attack."

The words hung for a moment in the brittle air, colder than the mist, sharper than any blade.

Nyx's head snapped toward him immediately. Krux's hand tightened into a fist.

Riven's jaw locked. "Details. Now."

Aria's voice came fast, clipped with urgency.

"We don't know who they are yet. They entered under trader's colors—small caravan, no banners, no signals. They breached the southern gates and struck without warning. Light weapons. No siege equipment."

Riven's mind sharpened instantly.

"Casualties?" he demanded.

"A few of the outer patrols," she answered, tight and grim. "Civilians were evacuated to the inner wards. Damon's already moved to reinforce the market square. Mal's shoring up the farmland defenses. We're holding for now, but—"

Her voice hitched slightly, frustration leaking through her usual control.

"They're coordinated, Riven. Not raiders. Not brigands. Whoever sent them knew exactly where to strike to cause the most disruption."

Riven's breath was a low growl. His hand clenched into a fist at his side.

Nyx shifted closer, catching the unspoken fury in his posture. "Orders?" she asked, her voice cool and lethal.

"We return," Riven said, low and firm. "Now."

He severed the connection to Aria with a pulse of thought, already moving.

They sprinted across the rocky ridges without hesitation—Nyx silent as shadow, Krux pounding the ground with heavy, brutal strides. The priest trailed behind, robes whipping in the wind, his expression unreadable beneath the cowl.

The air thickened as they descended the outer paths, the mist curling heavier around them, until the first broken signs of the outer farmlands came into view—charred patches of soil, scattered tools, and the thin black plumes of smoke rising toward the bruised sky.

The Shadow Kingdom was under siege.

And Riven's rage simmered cold beneath his skin.

—x—

The ruined farmlands raced past in a blur, but Riven's focus was already elsewhere—threading deeper into the bonds he shared with his forces. His mind stretched outward, like fingers running along taut wires strung across the kingdom's bones. Each bond vibrated with tension, urgency, life—or, in the case of his undead, the cold sharpness of will bound to his command.

He closed his eyes briefly and sent a pulse through the network.

First, he reached Ember.

She responded instantly, her presence flashing bright and fierce across the link. Not just awareness, but eagerness. Even miles away, Riven could feel the thrum of her will—the undead girl he had bound to him, once broken, now a weapon honed to a lethal edge.

"Ember," Riven sent through the bond, "activate the inner defenses. Keep the civilians contained in the palace wards. No one gets past you. No one."

The link pulsed with her fierce agreement.

"I'll burn anyone who tries."

A grim smile touched Riven's lips for the barest moment.

Next, he sought out Seraphis—the Divine Serpentine.

The great serpent's mind answered slowly, like the rumble of distant thunder. Cold, ancient, precise.

"Seraphis," Riven commanded, "coil through the merchant district. Cut off their retreat paths. Crush anything that flees toward the river side."

A ripple of satisfaction bled through the connection, and Seraphis moved. Riven could feel it through the bond—the grinding motion of scaled armor against stone, the hiss of cold breath stirring the city's dust.

Finally, Riven addressed the rest of his undead warriors—a wave of cold certainty unfurling through the bonds.

"Defensive perimeter at the inner wall," he ordered, voice clear and ironclad across the mental link. "Hold the southern quarter. Push any survivors into the market square where Damon can handle them. No pursuit beyond the city boundaries."

The answer came in a ripple of intent—silent, unwavering.

His forces moved with terrifying precision.

Satisfied, Riven severed the outward pulses of command, drawing his focus sharply inward once more.

They reached the outskirts of the Shadow Kingdom in minutes—far faster than any caravan, far faster than the pitiful invaders who still thought to break his domain.

Smoke curled higher now over the southern edge of the city, black banners staining the bruised dawn sky. Beyond the thick outer walls, he could hear faint shouts—steel against steel, the clash of magic in the air.

Nyx drew up alongside him, her expression a mask of cold focus. Krux's molten eyes burned beneath his helm, his fingers flexing restlessly against his sword hilt.

They were close.

Too close.

Riven gave a short, sharp nod.

They moved.

—x—

They passed through the gates and the Shadow Kingdom stretched out before them.

Smoke clung to the broken streets. Fires guttered along the battered edges of the merchant district. The southern gate lay partially open, one side splintered inward where the attackers had forced entry.

Figures moved through the wreckage—armed invaders, still fighting through the outer wards. They wore dark leathers and rough cloaks, faces obscured, weapons sharp and bloodied.

But there were fewer than Riven expected.

Their numbers had already been culled.

The outer patrols—undead knights, shadowforged guards, and a scattering of Shadow Fangs—still held the main avenues. Fighting raged in narrow corridors, in alleyways choked with rubble and smoke.

The invaders had come expecting a quick raid.

Instead, they had found a kingdom that fought back like a wounded beast—silent, relentless, merciless.

And now, they would find something worse.

Riven's steps never slowed.

He lifted his hand, the glyphs beneath his skin flaring as his voice, low and commanding, ripped through the bond connecting him to his undead warriors.

"Close the net. Drive them into the square."

A pulse of acknowledgment came instantly from the bonds—Ember, Seraphis, and the other undead captains moving to obey.

Without a word, Riven broke into a run, Nyx and Krux surging forward with him, the Priest following like a dark tide.

The first invaders spotted them too late.

One, raising a battered blade, managed a hoarse cry before Nyx blurred through the smoke and buried her dagger beneath his ribs. Another turned, swinging wildly—only for Krux's fist to crash into his side, sending him pinwheeling through a crumbling wall in a shower of stone and blood.

Riven moved like a storm.

Dark flame rippled from his palms, coiling along his arms in writhing arcs. His staff burned with gathered mana, the anchor's strength throbbing against his spine.

He unleashed it with ruthless precision.

A wave of abyssal fire surged ahead of him, swallowing a knot of invaders in a rolling tide of blackened heat. Their screams barely rose before the flames silenced them.

The enemy formation collapsed instantly.

Those who remained tried to scatter, but they were herded by the undead—relentless knights in rune-inscribed armor, closing from every street and alley. Seraphis's massive form loomed behind them, its scaled coils wrapping through the narrow corridors, cutting off any retreat toward the river.

The Priest advanced at Riven's side, hands weaving sigils in the air, each motion calling forth chains of light that lashed out and shackled limbs, dragged weapons from desperate hands, or ignited robes into pillars of fire.

A squad of three attackers broke toward the far wall—desperate to escape.

Aria was there first.

She struck from the shadows, her twin blades flashing in silent arcs. One man crumpled without a sound. Another stumbled, clutching his throat. The last managed to scream—only to be cut down by a blow from Krux's foot that caved in his chest with a wet crunch.

The invaders' discipline broke.

They turned not to fight, but to flee.

But there was nowhere left to run.

Riven wove through the chaos with lethal purpose, striking down another two before they could reach the ruined gates. Flames wrapped the edges of his vision, the ground beneath his boots blackened and smoking.

One final attacker—a man taller and broader than the rest, wielding a two-handed blade—charged him with a roar.

Riven didn't even slow.

He caught the blow on the shaft of his staff, twisted with brutal speed, and slammed the other end into the man's ribs. Bone cracked audibly. Before the man could fall, Riven caught him by the throat, abyssal fire pouring from his hand—and in seconds, the attacker was reduced to charred bone and ash, crumbling away between his fingers.

And then—

Silence.

The last of the enemy fell, a broken heap at the center of the square.

The smoke curled lazily through the ruined air. The flames guttered low. Only the living and the dead remained standing—victorious.

The battle was over.

Amidst the smoldering wreckage and broken bodies, something caught Riven's eye—a faint glint of gold half-buried beneath soot-stained cloth. He moved without hesitation, crossing the cracked stones with steady steps, each bootfall measured and deliberate.

Kneeling beside one of the fallen invaders, he peeled the scorched robe aside, revealing the rough leather armor hidden beneath. At first, it seemed ordinary, the kind of equipment any caravan guard might wear. But nestled beneath the folds of a torn tunic, pressed against the body's belt, was a flash of something different.

Riven pulled it free.

It was a small crest, etched into a thin plate of reinforced leather, its edges frayed from travel, but the insignia unmistakable—a crowned sunburst, surrounded by twelve thorned arcs.

The mark of Solis.

The symbol pulsed against the weak morning light, its meaning as clear as a blade pressed to the throat.

For a moment, Riven said nothing. He simply turned the crest slowly between his fingers, feeling the worn leather creak against his grip, feeling the sharp weight of the realization settling in his gut.

Nyx appeared silently at his side, her sharp gaze narrowing as she caught sight of the emblem. Krux came next, a low, dangerous rumble building in his chest as molten light flickered behind his eyes. Behind them, Damon appeared and swore under his breath, a vicious, cutting sound that broke the heavy silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.

There could be no mistaking it.

These were not brigands, not mercenaries acting alone.

Solis had sent them.

Not proudly. Not openly. But in secret—hiding their hand behind merchant robes and forged documents. It was not an assault meant to conquer. It was a whisper in the dark, a blade slipped between ribs without warning.

It was a message.

We see you.

We know.

And we are coming.

Riven's fingers tightened slowly around the crest until the leather cracked and split beneath the force. The wind caught the rising smoke from the burning ruins and whipped it into wild, restless shapes, spiraling into the sky as if mourning—or warning.

He rose slowly, the broken crest still in his grasp, and turned his gaze back across the bloodied square—toward the battered southern gates, toward the still-standing walls of his kingdom, toward the future that Solis had just chosen to hasten.

A slow breath escaped him, steady and sharp.

They had tried to send a warning in secret.

But he would answer it in full daylight.

His voice, when it came, was low and calm, carrying through the smoky air with the weight of a command that would hear no argument.

"Secure the bodies. Strip them of everything they carry. I want nothing left behind that could be turned against us."

Aria dipped her head once, silent as a blade unsheathed. Her shadow darted away across the battlefield, pulling her Shadow Fangs from the mist to carry out the order. Krux barked sharp commands at the nearest squad of undead knights and the clearing was set into an efficient, grim motion.

Damon lingered a moment longer beside Riven, his jaw working tightly.

"You want them buried?" he asked, voice rough from smoke and fury.

Riven shook his head once, slow and final. "No."

His eyes, cold and steady, dropped once more to the crumpled crest in his hand before flicking back to the broken attackers strewn across the square.

"Burn them," he said. "Let their ashes feed the soil they came to poison."

Damon said nothing more. He only nodded, sharp and grim, before striding away into the ruins to oversee the work.

—x—

The fires were kindled quickly, devouring the bodies in great roaring waves. Smoke rose heavy and black into the bruised sky, blotting out the dawn with its bitterness.

Riven watched it in silence, his arms folded loosely, the anchor-staff still slung across his back. The glyphs beneath his skin pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat, a deep, resonant reminder that this was only the beginning.

Today had not been an invasion.

It had been an announcement.

The Kingdom of Solis had cast aside doubt and suspicion and moved into certainty. Whether by the will of their king or the scheming of their courts, they had finally confirmed the Shadow Kingdom's existence—and challenged it.

But Riven knew they would not stop with hidden blades and hired men.

The next time Solis came, it would not be quietly. It would be with banners and knights, with armies arrayed in gold and fire. They would come to raze, to crush, to silence once and for all what they had failed to destroy a few centuries ago.

Riven watched the first body collapse into ash, watched the embers swirl upward into the clouded sky.

Let them come.

Let them bring their banners, their armies, their prayers to false gods.

The fire had reforged him.

The darkness had crowned him.

And this time—when Solis marched to his gates—they would not find a ruined kingdom clinging to life.

They would find a king.

And a kingdom stronger than anything their golden halls had ever dared imagine.