The Glitched Mage

Dawn came quiet and clear, the sky streaked with pale gold over the Shadow Kingdom's obsidian skyline. Fog clung to the lower streets, curling around rune-lit pillars and the polished edges of the palace like ghostly silk. Yet there was a stillness in the air—not of dread, but of pause. Like the world was holding its breath.

Riven waited in the high garden, a narrow courtyard enclosed by glass and dark steel. Here, the wind passed softly between blackthorn hedges and rare flowers harvested from the abyss-touched farmlands. Ethereal lights drifted among the branches, flickering gently with ambient mana. It was a space built for reflection, far above the noise of the city. And this morning, it had been reserved.

For a conversation.

He stood by the balcony's edge, watching the mist burn away below as footsteps approached from behind.

Kael Danu entered without an entourage.

No guards. No mage. No advisors.

Just a prince in traveling leathers and a short cloak clasped loosely at the throat. His blonde hair was brushed back, his boots clean but worn from yesterday's walk. He paused a few paces away, his gaze flicking over the garden, the trees, the distant rooftops—then settled on Riven.

"You chose an interesting place for a meeting," Kael said.

"It was built it for moments like this," Riven replied.

The prince walked forward and stopped beside him, resting a hand against the railing. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Below, the kingdom stirred—slowly, deliberately, as it always did. The silence between them wasn't tense. Just waiting.

"I've seen enough to know you aren't a myth," Kael said finally. "But you're not a merchant. You're not just a warlord who clawed a city from the ash."

"No," Riven said. "I'm not."

Kael turned to him. "Then what are you?"

Riven's gaze never left the horizon. "A mistake. A memory. A second chance. Take your pick."

The prince frowned. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'll give you today."

Kael studied him in silence. "You command with quiet. Lead with restraint. Your generals obey without hesitation, and your people follow with reverence—but no one speaks your name aloud. They call you him, or simply our king. You haven't erased your identity… but you've let it be forgotten."

Riven's voice was low. "It's not forgotten. Just buried. My name still means something in Solis—unfortunately, the wrong kind of something."

Kael tilted his head. "You fear what it would bring?"

"I fear nothing," Riven said. "But the kingdom I'm building doesn't need to wear the scars of the one I left behind. If Solis learns who I was… it won't be politics they send next. It'll be fire."

The prince was quiet a moment longer. Then, quietly: "So you are the Shadow King."

Riven met his gaze. "I am."

Kael nodded slowly, as if pieces of a long-held puzzle finally slid into place. "Solis will declare you a threat."

"They already have."

"And Danu?"

"That depends," Riven said, "on what your empire sees when it looks at mine. A rival? Or a potential ally."

Kael met his eyes. "You raised a kingdom from ruin. You walk with the dead and shape the land with your will. The Emperor was curious—but now he'll be cautious."

"I expect nothing less."

They stood in silence once more. Far below, the bells of the merchant district began to chime—three soft notes marking the beginning of trade.

Kael finally broke the quiet.

"We've spent centuries avoiding war. Danu doesn't move quickly—but when it does, it moves fully. If we align with you… we can't pretend neutrality anymore."

"And if you don't?" Riven asked.

Kael's expression didn't change. "Then we return home. We say you're strong. You're stable. But too volatile to invest in."

Riven tilted his head. "And what do you say?"

The prince looked back out at the kingdom. "I say… this place shouldn't exist. But it does. I say what you've built is terrifying. But beautiful. It's unlike anything I've seen." He paused, then added, "And I think the world will come for you eventually."

"They're already on the road."

Kael turned to him again. "Then let me help you stop them."

That made Riven pause. He studied the prince, truly studied him—no longer just a diplomatic envoy, but a man who had walked through ruins, seen death held in balance with life, and not once flinched.

"You'd tie your empire to mine?" Riven asked. "To a kingdom of ghosts?"

Kael's voice was quiet but sure. "I'd rather tie it to a kingdom of ghosts than be buried beside a kingdom of fools."

A soft wind stirred the edges of their cloaks, carrying the scent of ash-touched earth and early blossoms from the high garden. For a moment, neither man moved—two figures standing at the edge of a city that wasn't supposed to exist, looking toward a future that hadn't yet been written.

Then Riven extended his hand.

It wasn't a gesture of dominance, nor a demand for loyalty. There were no trumpets, no fanfare, no gold-threaded oaths spoken into waiting air. It was quiet. Measured. A simple offering made by one who had carved a kingdom from ruin, and another who had come seeking truth.

Kael looked at it only a second before reaching forward and clasping his hand in return.

There was no need for words.

No need for ceremony.

The moment spoke louder than either.

A beginning, not born from treaties or conquest—but from recognition.

The first true step toward something vast. Something dangerous. And something entirely new.

The handshake lingered for only a breath, but the weight of it echoed like a bell struck deep beneath the surface. It wasn't just an agreement. It was a reckoning—one that would send ripples through a kingdom, an empire, and eventually, far beyond them.

Kael released Riven's hand with a slight incline of his head, then turned back toward the garden path, motioning wordlessly for them to walk. Riven fell into step beside him.

"We'll need a framework," Kael said. "Something official, even if it begins in shadows."

"A treaty?" Riven asked.

"A foundation," Kael corrected. "Before the ministers and the armies get involved. Before the Emissaries of the Fold or the Grand Temple of Flame put names to alliances and start drawing borders in blood."

Riven glanced sideways at him. "You speak like someone used to wars."

Kael smiled faintly. "I'm trained for them. But I've only seen the edge of one. It's my father who's known too many."

"Then he'll ask what you saw here."

"And I'll tell him," Kael said. "But not just what I saw. What I felt. What this kingdom is—not the rumors. Not the ruins. The living proof."

They came to a halt at the garden's western arch, where the sunlight was beginning to filter through glass-paneled columns. Beyond, the palace loomed—dark and silent, its towers angled like spears pointed toward the horizon.

"I want to send emissaries," Kael said. "Permanent ones. Mages. Economists. Military observers. People we trust."

Riven didn't answer immediately. "And what would they observe?"

"Not you," Kael said. "Your kingdom. Your people. Your future. That's what I'll report back on. But they'll report to me."

Riven nodded slowly. "And in return?"

"We offer trade," Kael replied. "Real trade. Our networks, our ports, our seal on your goods. Access to Danu's arcane guilds and healing circles. Defense pacts, if needed."

"You'd defend the Shadow Kingdom with Danuan soldiers?"

Kael's tone was measured. "I'd defend our allies from slaughter. And I'd expect the same."

Riven considered that. He could feel the pull of consequence tightening around the moment—like one wrong move could tilt everything into a path he didn't choose. He was used to threats. Spies. Games played behind curtains and blades drawn beneath council tables.

But Kael had given none of that. Just clarity.

A man walking forward, not as a prince propped up by lineage, but as someone who had looked and understood what he was standing in the presence of.

"Then your emissaries may come," Riven said at last. "But under our terms. They stay where I permit, speak only to those I approve. No temples. No proselytizing. No scouting maps of terrain outside the city's bounds."

"Agreed."

"And if one of them oversteps…" Riven's voice dropped like steel onto stone, "I will remove them myself."

Kael's reply came without pause. "That, too, is understood."

They clasped forearms this time—firmer, tighter, the way warriors did.

Riven released him and stepped back. "Then your journey was not wasted."

Kael exhaled, a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "No. It wasn't."

—x—

By midday, the treaty was sealed—not on parchment, but in principle.

There would be drafts. Summits. Quiet gatherings behind veiled walls. But the foundation had been set.

The prince's retinue made their final rounds through the city, revisiting the docks, speaking with artisans and merchants, even observing a necromancer demonstration from one of Elara's pupils—an elegant showing of soul forging.

Kael did not tour.

While his advisors wandered the lower halls and made polite inquiries of scribes and officials, Kael remained in the high garden. He sat beneath one of the blackthorn trees, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a sealed letter in his lap and a glass of dark tea left untouched beside him.

He no longer watched like a diplomat cataloguing details. He observed like a man witnessing the return of something once thought lost to time—studying it not with suspicion, but with the quiet awe reserved for the impossible.

The Shadow Kingdom wasn't a showpiece, and Riven hadn't tried to make it one. There were cracks in the stone. Some buildings still stood half-finished, scaffolding wrapped around blacksteel frames. Not every rune was perfectly aligned. The people didn't bow. They didn't perform.

But they belonged.

That was the difference.

And Kael knew his father would ask—perhaps not in those words—but in the narrowed eyes of a man who had survived half a dozen political betrayals. And he would answer: This is real. This is alive.

In the late afternoon, as the wind shifted and the bells rang again—soft and even—Kael stood.

He found Riven once more in the upper levels of the palace, surrounded by scrolls and runes, a quiet conversation passing between him and Mal as they examined a mana conduit chart etched directly into the floor.

Kael waited at the edge until Riven looked up.

"I've written my first report," the prince said. "It will leave with me in the morning. Coded, sealed, and sent only to my father."

Riven stepped away from the diagram, brushing dust from his hands. "Will it speak well of us?"

Kael smiled faintly. "It will speak truth. That's more valuable than flattery."

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, just final.

"You'll return?" Riven asked.

"I'll need to," Kael said. "But not yet as an official ambassador. Not with my own guards. When I return next… I'd prefer it be as myself. No mask. No mission."

Riven inclined his head. "Then we'll have a place for you."

Kael nodded once. "Until then… watch the roads. Solis won't stay quiet for long."

"I never expected them to."

The prince turned, cloak trailing behind him, but paused at the door.

"You've built something impossible here," he said without looking back. "Don't let the world unmake it again."

And then he left—quiet as he'd come.

—x—

By nightfall, the Danu delegation prepared to depart. Their carriages were loaded, their documents sealed in wax bearing the raven crest of Kael's house. The Shadowguard escorted them not as wardens, but as couriers of a shared future.

Riven stood once more on the inner wall, watching the torches glint off the carriage roofs as they wound down the southern road. His generals stood beside him, each silent in their own way. Nyx, arms crossed and unreadable. Damon, posture relaxed but alert. Aria, watching the horizon with a tactician's eye. Krux, hands clasped behind his back like a commander awaiting the next call to war. And Mal, still muttering quietly about leyline intersections and Danuan sigil sequences.

"They'll return," Nyx said finally.

"They will," Riven agreed.

Danu had come not with war, but with curiosity.

And they had left with something more dangerous:

Hope.