The Glitched Mage

Weeks passed.

The kingdom grew—stone by stone, field by field—but the unease lingered beneath the surface. Quiet. Watching.

The group near Emberwatch Pass remained, a constant presence on the edge of the kingdom's reach. They never crossed the border, never issued demands, but they lingered—shadows etched into the cliffs, distant silhouettes glimpsed by passing patrols. Some nights, a lone campfire would flicker where no merchant should be. Wards were disturbed but never shattered, their edges tested like a door gently pushed but never entered. Scouts moved through the hills in slow, practiced rotations, bearing no crest, no colors, no name. They left no tracks that weren't meant to be found—only questions.

They weren't Solis. They weren't Danu. They were something else.

And they were waiting.

Riven felt them like a thorn beneath his ribs—too shallow to bleed, too deep to ignore. The Wraithguard kept them tracked, the Shadow Fangs updated their movements daily, but they never came closer. Never left. Like players who hadn't yet rolled their dice.

It was a storm that hadn't broken.

Until, one morning, someone arrived.

No horn. No caravan. No escort.

Just a presence.

The outer wards pulsed once—subtle but sharp—sending a tremor through the mana anchor. Not hostile. Not forceful. But undeniable.

Krux was first to the wall, hand already on the alert crystal when he felt it. The others followed quickly—Aria's eyes narrowing, Damon striding up beside her, muttering something about pressure systems and leyline tension. Even Mal looked up from his schematics in the tower.

And then Riven arrived.

He didn't ask what had happened.

He felt it.

The air was thick. Dense with mana so refined it moved like a second atmosphere. All sound dimmed at the edges. Birds had stopped calling. The runes on the wall hummed like chimes caught in still water.

He looked south.

And saw him.

A lone figure, standing at the edge of the kingdom's wards, where the high road met the sloping cliffs. Cloaked in deep gray, his hood lowered, his silver hair catching the wind like strands of starlight. No weapons. No guards. Just robes that shifted faintly with every breath of mana. The earth didn't reject him. The wards didn't pulse with warning.

But every mage on the wall—those who could sense even a thread of mana pressure—stepped back.

Because they could feel it too.

This was no noble envoy. No wandering scholar with tales to trade.

This was power. Old, quiet, and immeasurable. The kind of presence that didn't demand attention, but erased all else around it.

Riven raised his voice, steady and sure. "Stand down."

The command echoed across the wall.

Damon turned to him. "Riven, that pressure—"

"I know," he said, already moving for the gate. "But if he meant to harm us… we wouldn't be here."

The southern gate creaked open with deliberate care, just a hand's width—enough for one man to pass through, and no more. Riven stepped beyond the threshold alone, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound. Ahead, the shrouded man stood in perfect stillness—not on the road, not within the kingdom's border, but precisely where the wards ended. Just outside the reach of the Shadow Kingdom's domain. A line drawn not in stone, but in intent.

He had chosen that place for a reason and waited there like he had always known Riven would come.

The two stood there—facing each other beneath the pale morning sun, as mist curled low around the stones and the silence deepened.

"You've built well, Shadow King," the man said, his voice calm and low, like wind moving through trees. "Stone upon stone. A kingdom risen where none should stand."

Riven's hand hovered near his scimitar, but didn't draw.

"You know who I am," he said.

"I do."

"And you're not here for trade."

"No."

Riven's gaze narrowed. "Then what?"

The man stepped forward once—only once—and with it came a wave of mana, ancient and vast.

"I've watched you for some time," he said. "Not as a threat. Not as a rival. But as a revelation."

Riven didn't speak.

"I come on behalf of something older than your kingdom," the man continued. "Older than Solis. Older than the shadows you now command."

He raised a hand—not threatening. Not challenging.

"I come in the name of the Mantle of Origin."

Riven frowned. "I've never heard of it."

The mans smile was patient, almost sorrowful. "Few remember what was buried. Fewer still recognize when it begins to rise."

And then, as the wind stirred faintly between them, he said:

"You are not of this world, Riven Drakar. Not truly. And the soul in your chest… was never meant to walk this world."

The world seemed to still.

And for the first time since he had taken the throne, something cracked beneath Riven's composure. Not fear. Not anger. But the sharp, sudden jolt of being seen. Truly seen.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. But inside him, silence roared. Because no one—no one—was supposed to know.

Yet this man had spoken the truth aloud, as if it were written in the stars, not buried in a forgotten void.

Riven didn't flinch. Didn't move. But the weight in his chest pulled inward like a closing gate.

"How long have you been watching me?" Riven asked at last.

The man tilted his head. "Since the moment the Abyss flinched. Since the moment a forgotten altar stirred in the deep and the mana of Varethun whispered truths of a kingdom once destroyed."

Riven said nothing, but the scimitar at his back pulsed faintly—responding not to threat, but to recognition.

"You sound like a priest," Riven said, his tone edged and wary. "If you came to preach, you've wasted your steps. I don't kneel to forgotten gods, and I want no part of any order that does."

The priest's gaze remained steady, calm as still water. He took a slow step forward, his voice low but unwavering.

"We do not worship forgotten gods," he said. "We revere mana—in all its forms. Fire, water, abyss, divine. The Mantle was never about faith. It was about truth. The origin beneath all things."

Riven studied him in silence. The man's voice didn't carry the sharp edge of a fanatic or the cloying fervor of zealots. It was something else—measured. Certain. Like stone that had weathered centuries and still stood unbroken.

Behind them, the mist continued to rise.

"And what do you want from me?" Riven asked, his voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "A throne endorsement? A temple plot in my city? I don't owe anyone faith."

The priest didn't flinch.

"We want nothing," he said. "We offer understanding. The world clings to power and kingdoms and names that rot in the mouths of dying kings. But beneath it all—beneath stone, beneath war—there is only mana. The first breath. The last truth."

He took a breath, eyes narrowing not in threat, but gravity.

"You are surrounded by shadows, Riven. But you were born in between. You command what no other dares, not because of the Abyss, but because your soul remembers what others have forgotten."

Riven didn't respond, but something in his stance shifted.

Behind him, Aria and Damon watched from the ramparts, tension radiating through the air. Krux stood with one hand on the hilt of his blade, molten eyes fixed on the stranger.

And then Mal spoke, barely above a whisper. "Velmorian believed in them."

Aria turned sharply.

Mal continued, gaze distant with memory. "The Mantle of Origin. He spoke of it in the old tower—said it was older than kingdoms and empires, older than flame. He was preparing something before Solis attacked."

Damon's brow furrowed. "I remember. He called it a beginning—not for temples, but for learning. Said it would outlast even the Shadow Crown."

"He never had the chance," Aria murmured. Her voice was hushed, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it. "Solis saw to that."

Krux didn't speak. But his grip on the hilt of his sword loosened slightly, tension shifting into something else—recognition, perhaps, or memory worn smooth by time.

Below, Riven stood utterly still, the weight of his generals' voices echoing through his mind—carried not by sound, but by the bond he shared with the undead who lingered close, ever watchful in the veil between.

The wind caught the edge of his cloak and tugged it gently toward the cliffs, but he didn't move. His expression was carved in stillness—not silence, but calculation. A mask of cold composure that only appeared when his thoughts outpaced the moment, spinning faster than any word could catch.

Velmorian had believed in this?

And if he had—what had he left behind that Riven had never uncovered?

The priest took another step, his robes silent on the stone, his presence unforced.

"The Mantle was not meant to conquer," he said. "It was meant to endure. To teach. To remember. And it was meant to awaken only when the world was ready to listen."

He paused, as if to let the words settle into the silence.

"You have raised the dead, shaped the land, and carved a kingdom from ash. But it is not the kingdom that draws the Mantle. It is you."

Riven's voice was low. "You speak like I'm a prophecy."

The priest tilted his head. "Not a prophecy. A consequence."

Another silence stretched.

Then Riven asked, more slowly this time, "If I opened this door you speak of—what would be on the other side?"

The priest didn't answer at once.

Then: "Not certainty. But revelation. A truth buried long before Solis or the Abyss ever rose. The soul in your chest already feels it. The mana you command already answers it."

Riven didn't move.

He stood still, the wind tugging at his cloak, drawing threads of shadow behind him like smoke unwinding from stone.

The priest's words echoed—but deeper still stirred a truth Riven already knew.

He didn't just draw from the Abyss.

He commanded it.

Where others bent or broke beneath its weight, he shaped it, willed it. Let it move through him not as a storm to endure, but as a current he could direct. The void didn't consume him.

It listened.

Even Velmorian—first of the Shadow Kings, master of darkness and death—had wielded the Abyss like fire held at a distance. But Riven had walked into it, bled into it, and emerged with it stitched into his soul.

The air between them shifted, subtle as a breath before speech.

Riven looked at the priest—not just seeing the man, but the weight behind him. The ancient stillness. The patience of something that had waited through centuries, through empires rising and falling, for a door to open again.

And now that door stood before him.

"Why now?" Riven asked at last.

The priest didn't blink. "Because the world is changing. And because the Mantle remembers what others fear to name. You are the first to make the old roots stir again. The first to wake the threads of origin."

A pause. Not hesitation—invitation.

"There are others. Scattered. Sleeping. Forgotten in their temples, their towers, their ruined sanctuaries. But if you wish it, the Mantle will rise again. Here. In the Shadow Kingdom."

A flicker passed through Riven's gaze—sharp and unreadable.

He wasn't one for fate. Not anymore. The world had taught him that fate was a lie told by those who already held the power. But this wasn't prophecy.

This was something older. Deeper.

A path not laid for him—but one he might choose to walk.

"I don't follow," he said at last.

The priest inclined his head. "Then lead."

He stepped back, placing a small, rune-marked object at the edge of the ward line—a smooth obsidian disc etched with flowing lines of fire, water, air, abyss, earth, and light. The six elements, bound together.

A symbol of balance. A seal of invitation.

Then the priest turned, cloak drifting behind him like shadow slipping from stone, and vanished down the road with no further word.

Riven stood alone at the threshold. Above, the mist began to part, slowly, like something ancient exhaling at last.

He did not pick up the disc.

Not yet.

But he did not turn away either.

Behind him, the kingdom pulsed with life—walls rising, mana flowing, breath returning to a land once forgotten.

And beneath it all, something older than stone began to stir.

The Mantle of Origin had returned.