The Glitched Mage

The southern plateau beyond the city shifted almost overnight from open ground into a living machine.

Stonecutters from the Deveroux Guild swung axes and chisels under the early light, carving the first of the support walls. Mages inked runic diagrams onto the earth, mapping out leyline threads and future mana channels, their robes whipping in the sharp morning wind.

Necromancers, marshaled by Elara's hand-picked acolytes, animated skeletal laborers reconstructed from ancient ossuaries—silent giants who moved with relentless, tireless purpose. Their cracked bones glowed faintly with the binding glyphs branded into their ribs and shoulders.

Artificers—drawn from the Guild, the Shadow Kingdom's own ranks, and a handful of daring freelancers—wove complex enchantments into every stone and beam.

Wards against flame.

Protections against corrosion.

Anchoring glyphs to stabilize the floating halls once the Academy was raised.

The Shadow Kingdom's people watched it all from the lower wards and farms, their eyes wary but bright. They could feel it—the shape of what was coming. They could hear it in the rhythm of hammer against stone, the crackle of mana sparking along new lines of power.

They could feel it in the ground itself.

The altar, buried deep beneath the foundation, stirred more with each passing hour. A low, steady pulse, like a second heartbeat threading through the kingdom's bones. Not fading or withering like the land beneath Solis, but gathering, sharpening.

Growing.

Riven stood atop the half-finished terrace most mornings, the anchor-staff resting loosely across his back. His cloak billowed against the rising winds, ash-black and sharp against the silver sky. He rarely spoke as he watched the work—but his presence alone drove the builders faster, harder, sharper.

The Academy wasn't simply being built.

It was being forged.

Every stone laid, every spell etched, was an act of defiance against the old powers that had once driven the Shadow Kingdom to ruin.

Solis had grown complacent—leaning on fading relics of Varethun's blessing, lording over a dwindling source of mana as if it were eternal.

They would choke on their arrogance.

Because here, beneath Riven's hand, a new power was rising.

Not borrowed from the past.

Not fading.

Alive.

And soon—visible to the world.

—x—

By the end of the first week, the outer sanctum walls stood—smooth blackstone reinforced with interlocking mana veins. Sigils of protection blazed faintly across their surfaces, some cast in firelight, others etched in shadow-magic drawn from the altar's slow awakening.

Krux oversaw the armory vaults personally, bellowing orders and hauling blocks larger than most men without pausing for breath. His molten eyes gleamed whenever he spoke of the defenses being woven into the Academy's heart.

"Gates that won't open without blood or oath," he said, grinning. "Wards that melt siege spells on contact. And corridors designed like a blade's edge—tight and brutal if anyone dares breach the outer walls."

Damon and Mal worked to perfect the mana-channel lattice—an invisible network that would thread the Academy's floors, ceilings, and foundations with living energy. Like veins under skin, they would pulse constantly, feeding the floating infrastructure once the skybound anchor was fully bound.

"The design's more complicated than anything Solis ever dared," Mal said, tracing one of the diagrams late into a sleepless night. "But it's clean. Elegant. Sustainable."

"And unbreakable?" Riven asked, voice low.

Mal smiled faintly, hollow-eyed with exhaustion. "As unbreakable as anything short of a god's hand."

"That'll do," Riven said, and moved on.

—x—

The heartstone ceremony came next.

The first heartstone—a shard of pure, stabilized mana mined from the deepest fault of the eastern ridges—was borne to the foundation's center.

It took six mages just to carry it. Not just because of its weight but because of its pressure. The energy radiating from the heartstone threatened to crush ordinary minds under its raw, elemental gravity.

Riven himself helped lay it into place, his hands steady, his glyphs pulsing faintly in resonance.

The moment the heartstone kissed the altar buried beneath, a shockwave rippled outward.

Every torch across the worksite guttered and flared. Mana-lines sparked, flickering. A low, seismic rumble cracked the air itself—pure soundless force vibrating through bone and blood.

The altar roared to life.

The very stone beneath their feet shifted, realigning itself with ancient, unseen geometries. Runes that had slumbered for centuries awoke—glowing softly along unseen fault lines—and the earth breathed.

When the rumbling faded, the builders were on their knees, stunned and trembling.

Only Riven remained standing, the anchor-staff burning cold against his back, his gaze fixed unblinking on the now-living foundation.

"It begins," the priest of the Mantle whispered, somewhere behind him.

—x—

The second week saw even greater progress.

The outer spires were raised next—thick, towering obelisks of abyss-forged stone threaded through with elemental mana. They would serve as the Academy's primary conduits, linking the floating core to the surrounding world even after it ascended.

Between the rising towers, bridges of reinforced blacksteel were woven, each one light enough to float once the spell-net activated, but strong enough to bear siege should Solis ever dare to assault the Academy's skies.

Sky-anchors—thin, rune-marked chains—were prepared at Mal's direction, ready to tether the Academy to fixed ley-nodes in the surrounding landscape. Not to hold it down—never that—but to keep it stable against storm and spellfire once it rose.

More mage-clans sent inquiries during those days.

Whispers came not just from Danu, but from distant places too: the broken remnants of the Northern Freeholds, mercenary companies from the Silver Coast, isolated scholars who had once fled Solis' reach and now heard the call of a kingdom being reborn.

Aria ran silent diplomatic channels through merchant networks, laying out promises: Sanctuary. Advancement. Freedom.

The offers were working.

Already, a trickle of powerful individuals was making their way toward the Shadow Kingdom.

Not armies.

Not yet.

But soon.

—x—

By the start of the third week, the southern plateau had transformed into something extraordinary.

Where once there had been soil and scattered ash, now stood the emerging crown of the Shadow Kingdom's future—a skeleton of obsidian, silversteel, and living mana. It stretched outward in layered terraces, each tier raised by careful construction and controlled magic.

The Academy was no longer a theory. It was being born—hour by hour, stone by stone.

The lower levels formed the physical root of the complex, anchored deep into the reinforced foundation fed by the altar's pulsing breath. These levels held the mundane necessities—the barracks for security forces, administrative wings for daily operations, and the large subterranean vaults intended to hold rare materials, magical artifacts, and emergency stores. They were connected by curved corridors lined with luminescent stone that drank ambient mana and exhaled a soft, ever-present glow—neither day nor night, but a perpetual calm.

Above them, the central campus rose.

The heart of the Academy was a sprawling, six-winged cruciform of blacksteel and abyss-glass. Each wing housed different disciplines, separated not by rank or caste, but by elemental affinity and arcane focus.

The eastern wing, Ignis, focused on fire, combustion, and transformation. Volcanic kilns stood alongside lava-fed forges. Reinforced glass lined every wall, forged to withstand the violence of firecraft. Flame-walk chambers, searing hot and pressure-sealed, allowed students to learn not just how to wield fire—but how to survive it.

To the west lay the Umbral wing, dedicated to shadow and necromancy. Its halls were lined with soulstone and memory-ink, its laboratories buried in darkness so deep it bent light. Spirit halls echoed with chanting, while boneforges shaped skeletal guardians under Elara's oversight. The dead did not rest here. They served.

Northward rose the Zephar wing, a marvel of weightlessness and wind. Its classrooms were suspended platforms orbiting a cyclonic core chamber, where illusionists and windwalkers trained under shifting skies. Here, students learned the art of misdirection, levitation, and movement faster than sight.

To the south, the Terran wing rooted itself in the pulse of the world. Earthshapers, alchemists, and healers walked corridors carved from living stone. Vines and moss grew up the walls, fed by the mana-rich soil. Herbariums and healing sanctuaries pulsed with gentle life, and every breath here felt deep and grounding.

The new Lumae wing shimmered with golden-white light, devoted to divination, celestial alignment, and purity magic. Glass domes and polished mirrors lined the halls, casting radiance even in moonlight. Oracles trained to read fate's weave, while glyphwrights etched symbols of clarity and foresight. The wing served both vision and judgment.

Opposite it, nestled beside the aqueducts, was the Thalor wing—an aquatic sanctum flowing with deep mana. Aquamancers trained in tide-controlled pools and water-breathing chambers. Moisture hung thick in the air, salt and mist mingling with spell-echoes. Hidden beneath its surface were rooms only accessible by submersion—cold, quiet, and ancient.

The central atrium where the wings met was a vaulted chamber of breathtaking size—open at the top, with a spire of blue-white mana spiraling upward like a constant flame. Beneath it sat the Archmage's Circle, an elevated dais where Riven and his chosen council could address the academy directly. From here, lectures could be given to hundreds. Debates held. Oaths sworn.

Even punishment rendered.

Surrounding the central atrium, the upper levels of the Academy had begun to take on their full shape. Towering platforms curved in a ring above the cruciform wings, connected by sleek bridges of blacksteel and rune-woven stone. These elevated structures—future dormitories, libraries, and study pavilions—would eventually hover once the final levitation arrays were activated. For now, they stood on scaffolds and suspended pillars, anchored by heavy bracing and elemental wards.

Each pavilion was designed with intention. Study chambers rimmed in soundproof crystal for advanced research. Open-air gardens infused with ambient mana for meditation and attunement. Multi-tiered libraries carved from hollowed obsidian, each chamber tuned to a specific school of magic. Some rooms would only be accessible through teleportation or flight sigils, their entrances sealed until the academy's skybound systems were fully engaged.

And above all of them, under construction at the peak of the scaffolding grid, stood the Eye of the Academy.

It was not yet floating—but its foundations trembled with waiting power.

The headmaster's tower would serve as a symbol more than a seat of rule. Forged from shadowglass and rimmed in dusksteel, it stood like a blade reaching for the clouds. Four massive arches supported its base, beneath which the Academy's future mana core would be mounted—the anchor-staff itself, once installed.

Etched into the highest arc was the sigil of the Shadow Kingdom: a silver crown cradled by skeletal arms, glinting faintly in the evening sun.

The tower would not just oversee the Academy.

It would crown it.