The Glitched Mage

The fires had burned low by the time the council gathered.

Smoke hung over the southern square like a mourning shroud. The scent of scorched flesh and iron filled the air, thick enough to taste. Blackened bones and ruined weapons littered the stones—the remnants of a warning delivered in blood.

But the kingdom still stood.

And Riven stood with it.

He leaned against the broken base of the old watchtower, the anchor-staff propped beside him. His armor was still scorched, the ash of battle clinging to the folds of his cloak, but his eyes were sharp. Unyielding.

One by one, his closest commanders arrived.

Damon came first, heavy-booted, a streak of blood across his gauntlet, his face grim. Mal followed, pale and quiet, a ledger tucked beneath one arm. Aria slipped into the gathering next, her hair half-tied, her knives still stained, her gaze sharp as a blade's edge. Krux lumbered in last, rolling his shoulder with a low growl, golden eyes scanning the wounded city like a wolf daring anyone to strike again.

Nyx dropped down from a crumbled balcony above, landing in a soft crouch beside Riven. She didn't bother hiding the exhaustion in her posture, nor the dangerous gleam still burning in her eyes.

The priest of the Mantle stood apart, robes fluttering in the faint breeze, silent and watchful.

When they were all assembled, Riven straightened.

He let the silence hold a moment longer, letting them feel it—the cost of what had happened, and the promise of what would follow.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but carrying across the broken square.

"Status."

Damon answered first. "Outer patrols are secured. Casualties—minor. Two dead, seven wounded. No civilians lost. The inner wards held."

Riven nodded once. "The bodies?"

"Burned," Damon said, glancing toward the smoldering pyres. "As you ordered."

"Good."

Mal stepped forward next, unrolling a thin parchment.

"We've assessed the damage," he said. "The market's outer stalls were hit hardest. Farmland near the southern gate was torched, but the crops survived. Structural damage to the southern gate—nothing that can't be repaired within a few weeks."

"And the people?" Riven asked quietly.

Mal's mouth tightened. "Angry. Fearful. But they stand with us."

Aria crossed her arms. "Whoever sent those soldiers knew where to strike to cause panic. But they underestimated the kind of people who live here now."

A faint, grim smile touched Riven's lips.

"They'll learn," he said.

Krux rumbled low in agreement. "They sent ants to test a forge. They'll regret it."

The words settled among them, heavy and true.

Riven's gaze swept the circle—Damon, Mal, Aria, Nyx, Krux—the core of his growing kingdom. The ones who had chosen to rebuild when others would have fled. The ones who understood that survival was not enough.

Victory was required.

He straightened fully, his voice sharpening.

"This wasn't a raid," he said. "It was a message. Solis knows we've risen. They're watching. Testing."

His hand tightened around the anchor-staff.

"And we can't afford to give them time."

Riven let the silence stretch, letting the weight of it settle into every bone.

"We don't wait," he said at last. "We don't hide. We build."

He turned toward the blackened horizon, where the faint outlines of scaffolds and construction grounds already marred the mist. "The Academy was always our next move. Now it's our shield. Our sword."

"And our declaration," Nyx murmured, straightening from her crouch. Her voice carried, sharp as the edge of a drawn blade. "Let them see it. Let them choke on it."

Riven's mouth twisted into something that was almost a smile—cold and hollow. "Exactly."

He pushed off the watchtower's broken wall and moved toward the center of the council circle. The others naturally shifted with him, a tightening ring of loyalty forged not by law, but by blood and battle.

"We escalate," he continued. "The Academy will rise—and faster than we ever intended. Damon, double the labor crews. Pull every builder from the southern farms if you have to. Rotate the militia into defensive shifts. No one works unprotected."

Damon grunted and nodded, already reaching for the worn leather notebook at his belt.

"Mal," Riven said, without looking, "expand the foundation spells. I want the altar fully integrated into the design by week's end."

Mal's pale fingers twitched slightly on the parchment he held, the excitement in him warring with his exhaustion. "I'll need more raw mana. More stone etched with elemental veins."

"You'll have it," Riven said. "Take whatever you need from the eastern ridges. If it bleeds power, claim it."

Mal's sharp nod was immediate, his mind already racing ahead.

Riven turned next to Aria. "Deploy the Shadow Fangs into the nearby trade cities. Quietly. Spread word through merchants and travelers. There's a new academy rising—a place free of Solis' corruption. A place where magic is respected. Not hoarded."

Aria's smile was razor thin. "A thousand whispers will reach faster than a thousand messengers."

Krux cracked his knuckles, stepping closer. "And the defenses?"

Riven's gaze darkened. "Layered. Warded. Armored from foundation to peak. I want walls within walls—seals even the Paladins of Solis would hesitate to breach."

Krux grinned wide. "Then we build it like a fortress. And if they come knocking…" His voice rumbled with pleasure. "We bury them beneath it."

The priest of the Mantle finally stepped forward, voice low and measured. "The land still remembers, your majesty. The veins beneath the altar stir. Bind them properly, and the very ground will rise to defend your sanctum."

Riven nodded once, accepting the priest's words without flourish. They were not hollow promises—they were possibilities. Tools.

"We aren't just raising an academy," Riven said quietly. "We're raising a beacon."

He swept his gaze across his commanders again.

"One that will outshine Solis. One that will draw every outcast, every scholar, every soul weary of the old powers."

"And one," Nyx said, her voice a low purr, "that will make it impossible for Solis to strike without igniting the whole continent."

"Good," Riven said. "Let them hesitate. Let them fester. Let them rot while we rise."

—x—

Work began before the blood had dried.

The square where the invaders had fallen was cleared by mid-morning. Fresh wards, layered in quick succession by Mal and his apprentices, wove a thick weave of elemental protections around the southern gate.

The builders from the Deveroux Guild arrived by nightfall, their caravan rumbling across the bridge under heavy guard. Among them came artificers, stone-shapers, rune-forgers—each one carefully chosen, each one bound to the guild's pact with Riven's kingdom.

Camps sprang up overnight—rough tents pinned against the walls, cauldrons boiling over open fires, scrolls and schematics unfurled across makeshift tables. The wounded rested in the triage wards, watched over by apprentice healers pulled from Elara's necromancer corps.

Even the undead worked without pause. Laborers made of bone and spell lifted stones twice their size, hauled timbers, dug trenches with methodical precision. They did not tire. They did not question. They simply obeyed.

And deep beneath the eastern ridge, hidden under layers of rock and ancient soil, the altar stirred—its pulse faint, growing stronger with every stone laid above it, with every spell woven into the rising Academy.

Riven stood there often in the days that followed, the anchor-staff gripped tightly in his hand, overlooking the fledgling foundations spreading across the wounded earth.

There was no time for rest.

No time for anything but motion—orders given, spells cast, walls rising, mana channels etched and sealed before the mortar could even dry.

More stone.

More wards.

More speed.

The Academy had to rise—and it had to rise fast enough to outpace the gathering storm already darkening the horizon.

—x—

Three days after the attack, a council was called.

This time, they gathered properly—in the war chamber of the palace.

The great obsidian table gleamed under rune-lit chandeliers, the scent of old parchment and fresh ink filling the vaulted room. Thick maps were spread across the polished surface, weighed down with iron markers and mana-forged nails.

The air was tight with tension, but not fear.

Determination.

Damon stood at the head of the table, unfurling the latest construction schematics. "The core foundation is set," he said, voice low and rough. "We'll have the outer sanctum walls raised within the week. The inner structures will take longer."

Mal leaned in, his gloved fingers tracing along the layered diagrams. "We can begin threading the mana channels tomorrow. If we sequence them properly, the entire structure will float once the anchor is installed."

Riven stood at the far side of the table, braced against the obsidian surface, his eyes hard.

"And the altar?" he asked.

The priest of the Mantle stepped forward from the shadows, his voice solemn. "It breathes, my king. When the Academy's first heartstone is placed, the altar will bind fully—to the land, to the sky, to the anchor you reclaimed."

A subtle ripple moved through the room—excitement, tempered by urgency.

Riven gave a sharp nod. "Good."

His gaze flicked to Aria.

"Any word from the Fangs?"

Aria opened a slim ledger, thin black marks slashing across its pages. "Word is spreading faster than we projected. Three mage clans have sent discreet feelers. Two northern merchant houses. Even whispers from the Danu Empire itself."

Nyx whistled low under her breath. "Solis is going to choke when they hear."

"They already know," Riven said flatly. "They're watching. And they're waiting."

Krux crossed his arms, gold-flecked eyes burning. "I say we visit them ourselves — return the gift they sent us."

Riven's lips curled, not quite into a smile. "Tempting."

He let the idea hang there a moment, feeling the hungry tension rise among his council—then cut it clean with a shake of his head.

"But not yet. Let them wonder. Let them stew. Our weapon is not the sword right now. It's the Academy."

Krux's growl rumbled in his chest, but he dipped his chin in reluctant agreement.

Riven pushed away from the table, circling the maps like a wolf marking territory.

"They expect us to retreat. To fortify. To turtle behind our walls like cowards waiting for the axe. Instead—" His hand slammed down onto the central schematic, a sharp crack of flesh against stone. "—we make ourselves impossible to ignore."

Nyx shifted to lean against the far wall, her blades glinting as she crossed her arms. "By rising where they can't reach."

"Exactly." Riven's voice was low, fervent. "Once the Academy stands, once it floats above the kingdom like a second sun—they'll have no easy way to strike. Every attack they plan will cost them politically. Every delay they suffer will draw more eyes to us."

"And more students," Mal added, nodding, the glint of calculation in his eye. "Power draws power."

Riven met his gaze squarely. "Then we give them something they can't resist."

He turned back to the group, his cloak sweeping behind him like the shadow of a blade.

"We escalate," Riven said again. "Double the calls to the merchant houses. To the mage clans. To the wandering scholars still loyal to Varethun's dream. Promise them sanctuary, knowledge, power—whatever they need to walk through our gates."

Aria closed her ledger, her smile thin and sharp. "The northern freeholds will answer. Maybe even some old Solis families."

Damon exhaled heavily, his arms crossed. "And the Danu?"

Riven's mouth tightened. "They'll hesitate, but the prince is watching. If we give him something too valuable to ignore, he'll come."

"And when he does," Nyx murmured, her voice like velvet over steel, "he'll tie Danu's name to ours. Even if he doesn't realize it yet."

"Good," Riven said simply.

He looked once more around the room—at the weary, blood-smeared faces of his council, at the fire still burning behind every pair of eyes.

Not beaten.

Forged.

He lifted the anchor-staff slightly, the runes etched into its length flickering faintly with chained power.

"This is the path forward," he said. "Not just survival. Not just defiance."

"Ascendancy."

The word rolled through the chamber like a vow.

Krux pounded a fist against his chest in answer. Nyx's smirk sharpened to a grin. Mal's expression hardened into grim resolve. Damon simply nodded once, slow and sure.

Only the priest remained silent—but the faint flicker of satisfaction in his gaze spoke volumes.