The Glitched Mage

The clang of steel echoed through the northern barracks, ringing sharp and steady across the training yard. It was nearly dusk, the sky painted in fading violet and gold, but the drills hadn't stopped. Rows of Shadow Knights moved in precise formations, blades sweeping in rhythm, the sound of footfalls and armor syncopated like a war-drum beat.

Riven stood at the center of it all, his cloak shed, sleeves rolled, obsidian armor dulled by sweat and use. In his hands, the scimitar gleamed—a curved blade of blacksteel edged in red-veined runes, its surface rippling faintly with shadowfire. It moved with him like a living thing, cutting arcs through the dusk-lit yard with silent grace. His sparring partners came at him in tandem—staggered attacks, feints meant to disorient—but Riven danced through them like smoke through slats. Precise. Fluid. Unrelenting.

Then a voice broke the rhythm.

"Your timing's off, Barrin," Aria said flatly from the edge of the ring.

The knight in question hesitated mid-swing, and Riven ducked low, drove a sharp jab into his ribs with the hilt, then swept the other with a crack of his boot.

Both men hit the ground, groaning.

"Better," Riven murmured, lowering his blade. "But next time, don't get distracted."

He offered a nod of dismissal, and the knights rose with grins and groans, saluting before falling back into rank.

Aria waited until the last had cleared the yard before stepping closer. She was dressed in her usual leathers, though her cloak was lighter today—more fit for moving through crowds with swiftness. Her face was unreadable as always, but her eyes were sharp. Focused.

"I need a word," she said.

Riven nodded, wiping his forearm clean with a cloth as he pulled his coat back on. "Walk or privacy?"

"Privacy," she said. "Shadow Fang headquarters."

He didn't ask more. Just followed.

—x—

The path wound deeper into the Lower Ward—still rough in places, newly laid stone not yet worn smooth by foot traffic. Lanterns flickered to life as dusk thickened, casting long shadows against half-finished storefronts and scaffold-framed balconies. Riven moved without hurry, matching Aria's pace as they passed the weaver's hall, then the narrow bakery with its crooked chimney, and finally reached the quiet corner where Lira's Fine Stitchery sat.

The tailor's sign creaked faintly in the breeze. Inside, the shop was as they remembered—neatly arranged fabric bolts, new thread racks, and the sharp-eyed Lira, who didn't lift her gaze from her work as she muttered, "Welcome back."

Riven dipped his head slightly. Aria said nothing, pushing through the rear curtain without pause. Behind the wardrobe, they descended the same spiral staircase etched with familiar runes—wards that whispered at their passing but made no protest.

At the base of the staircase, the corridor narrowed into silence. Embedded into the far wall, the blacksteel door loomed—tall, seamless, and etched with faint runes that shimmered like dying embers. It bore no handle, no hinges. Just a single glyph carved into the center like a whisper of authority.

Aria stepped forward, her gloved palm pressing flat against the mark.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the runes pulsed—once, twice—and the metal flowed inward with a hiss of shifting stone, parting like silk drawn across a blade. The door didn't creak. It didn't grind. It simply… opened, revealing the cool, dim chamber beyond.

The headquarters remained as it had been—dim and clean, its air cool with stillness, smelling faintly of ink, old parchment, and the steel of a dozen well-used blades. A few new weapons had been added to the racks. The central war table bore a recent map marked with coded tags. Shadows drifted across the corners of the room like loyal dogs—agents posted in silence, nodding once at their entrance.

Riven stepped past them all and into the briefing room without a word. Aria followed and sealed the door behind her.

The moment it latched, her tone shifted.

"We've confirmed two major developments," she said, her voice even. "One spreading in hushed rumors. The other… coming with consequence."

Riven leaned against the edge of the map table, arms crossed, the low light catching along the edges of his armor. "Start with the rumors."

Aria didn't pace. She stood still, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp and unwavering.

"Rumors are spreading in the southern provinces of Solis. About the Countess Drakar."

Riven's brows rose a fraction.

"They say she's unraveling. Speaking to things that aren't there. Shouting at servants in the middle of the night. She accused a mirror of spying on her during a banquet and shattered it with a wine decanter."

Riven didn't smile—but the cold amusement in his gaze flickered like a blade catching light. "Fitting."

Aria continued. "At first, the Count tried to suppress it quietly. But now tavern gossip is spreading through trade caravans. He's started sending house guards to silence the more vocal sources. A few tavern owners have gone missing."

Riven's voice was dry. "And that will only make the whispers louder."

"She's become a liability," Aria said. "One with your name on her nightmares."

Riven tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "Good. Let her rot in fear. Let the Count spend every coin smothering shadows while we build the real ones."

Aria gave the faintest nod, but her tone sharpened. "The second matter is worse."

Riven straightened.

"The King of Solis has begun asking questions," Aria said. "He knows the Crown Prince of Danu was near our lands. No direct link yet—but he's gathered enough scraps to be suspicious."

Riven's expression shifted, lips pressing into a thin line. "What kind of scraps?"

"Danu-accented traders appearing in border towns," Aria began. "Too many to ignore. Combined with growing rumors—old voices claiming a kingdom beyond the Wastes, one that didn't stay buried."

Riven didn't speak, but his attention sharpened.

"The King hasn't made any public move," she continued. "But he's started rerouting assets. Three Seeker-ranked mages have been quietly reassigned—sent to monitor the southern ridgelands. Same path the paladin scouts took."

"The ones who saw nothing," Riven said softly.

Aria nodded. "The glamour held. They reported ruins, ash, a land beyond repair. But the King's not convinced. He's started questioning the silence."

"He doesn't know what he's looking for," Riven said. "But he knows something's wrong."

"He's circling now," she added. "Watching weather patterns. Mapping supply lines. Listening to gossip in the border cities. It's subtle. But it's a hunt."

Riven stepped closer to the map table, fingers trailing across its etched surface. "And when he finds the trail?"

"He won't come with scouts next time," Aria said. "He'll come with soldiers."

Riven's expression didn't change, but the stillness in him sharpened. "We can't stop him from looking. But we can keep him from finding."

"I've already doubled the patrols near the borders," Aria said. "Two Wraith guards have been assigned to track Seeker movement. No engagement. Eyes only."

"Good," Riven murmured.

The quiet that followed was thoughtful, heavy—but not hopeless.

"Anything else?" he asked.

Aria hesitated, just long enough to draw his attention.

"There's movement near the old Emberwatch pass," she said. "Not Solis. Not Danu. A third group."

Riven's brow furrowed. "Mercenaries?"

"No insignia. No colors. But they're organized—small bands cycling through the hills. Watching more than traveling. They haven't crossed into our lands, but they've been sighted too often to be coincidence."

"Scouting for someone," Riven murmured.

"Or waiting for a signal," Aria said.

He leaned over the table, tapping a point on the southern edge of the map with two fingers. "Emberwatch is too exposed. If they push any closer, I want them tracked."

"They already are," Aria said. "I've assigned a group of shadow knights and fangs. No contact unless ordered."

Riven nodded once, eyes lingering on the map. "Keep them in the dark. I want to know who they belong to before they even know we're watching."

"Understood."

The shadows around them flickered slightly as torchlight shifted, casting long spears of gold and gray across the stone floor. The stillness between them wasn't discomfort—it was awareness. Calculated. Coiled.

Riven straightened. "We continue building. But tighten our watch. I want no threat slipping through while our walls are still rising."

Aria stepped back, her figure dissolving into shadow with a nod. "Already done."

And then she was gone.

Riven lingered a moment longer in the dim glow of the war table, the pulse of his mana lightly stirring the edge of the carved map beneath his fingers. Beyond the walls of the Shadow Fang headquarters, the kingdom lived and breathed—expanding day by day, stone by stone. But so too did the threats around them.

He tapped the southern pass once more before stepping back, drawing in a breath through his nose.

The scent of ink, steel, and old parchment.

Then he turned and ascended the spiral stairs alone, boots echoing softly against rune-marked stone. By the time he emerged into the tailor's shop, the lamps had been lit, casting warm light across Lira's carefully folded fabrics. She didn't look up, didn't speak. Her hand stilled slightly as he passed, then continued its work.

Outside, the Lower Ward had quieted.

The streets glimmered with rune-lanterns casting faint violet light. Shopkeepers shuttered their stalls. A pair of undead laborers moved crates beside a merchant's cart. In the distance, a child laughed—high and unafraid.

Riven drew his cloak tighter, the weight of the scimitar familiar against his back, and turned toward the heart of the city.

He didn't need to walk far before he felt it—the faintest shift in the air. The sensation of being watched.

He stopped, half-turning.

A crow sat on the edge of a signpost, its eyes reflecting more than just the lanternlight.

Not a spy. Not this one.

A message.

And in the glint behind its gaze, Riven understood: someone else was moving. Not Solis. Not Danu.

Another piece had entered the game board.

He watched the bird for a moment longer, then whispered under his breath.

"So it begins."