The Glitched Mage

Morning unfurled across the Shadow Kingdom in slow, silken ribbons of silver, casting soft light across the high-vaulted chamber where Riven stood. The pale sky stretched wide beyond the arched windows of his quarters, streaked with early clouds that glowed like forged steel. The wind outside murmured against the glass, distant and calm, for once without urgency.

He stood still, silent, watching as dawn illuminated the floating colossus that hovered far above the southern ridge—the Academy. A monolith of blackstone and runes, suspended in the sky like the blade of a god held forever in poise. It cast its shadow over the land below, vast and deliberate, a mark not just of power—but of permanence.

Riven's shoulders rose and fell as he let out a long, slow breath. The stiffness in his spine, the subtle ache in his hands—these were the remnants of sleepless months. Endless planning. Relentless discipline. The weight of responsibility borne across every waking hour.

But now, at last, something inside him had begun to loosen.

They had done it.

The Academy, once a vision scrawled in secrecy, now stood completed—alive with mana and motion. Its elemental wings spun slowly in the sky's upper winds, glowing softly with power. Its heartstone pulsed with rhythm, tethered to the altar far below like a second heartbeat in the body of the kingdom.

It wasn't just built—it was running. Functional. Breathing. Becoming.

Within its halls, the first cohort of students had already begun to settle, chosen not for name or lineage but for potential. The Academy was not yet open to the world, but it had opened its doors to a few—those who had sworn themselves to something greater. The foundations of its legacy were being laid not by nobles, but by the willing.

Among them walked the newly selected Elders—seasoned mages drawn from every edge of the continent. Not all came without risk. Some bore scars of scandal or exile. But Riven had sifted through them with care, weighing power against loyalty, knowledge against pride. Those who remained were bound by oath, overseen for now by the High Priest of the Mantle. The priest, with his calm manner and depthless insight, had brought structure where ambition might have frayed. Under his guidance, the wings of the Academy moved in rhythm.

It was strange, almost—how quiet it had become.

No emergency. No sudden fire to put out. No emissary pounding at the gate demanding answers. For the first time in months, the kingdom was not bracing for another weight to fall.

And in that quiet, Riven felt it: the shift.

The Academy had worked.

It had drawn eyes and awe in equal measure. The Ascension had sent ripples across the continent, shaking courts and conclaves, unsettling empires. No longer was the Shadow Kingdom dismissed as a hidden ruin. No longer was its king whispered of only in fear or myth.

They had been seen.

And the Solis Kingdom—once loud in its condemnation, firm in its threats—had stepped back.

They hadn't retaliated. Not yet. They hadn't responded to the rebuke of their envoy, nor pressed to renew failed diplomacy. Instead, they had gone quiet.

That silence said everything.

They were calculating now. Watching. Redrawing their lines, their strategies, waiting for an opportunity to strike cleanly.

Let them.

Riven welcomed it.

They would find no easy prey.

They would not return to find a fractured upstart kingdom held together by shadow and desperate faith. They would find an empire reforged. A citadel in the sky. Students learning spells once thought forbidden. Warriors trained not just for war, but for legacy. Scholars shaping theory into weapons.

They would find a king who no longer knelt before power—but wielded it.

Riven's fingers flexed at his side. The mana beneath his skin responded—slow, simmering. Shadow curled faintly at the edge of his vision, familiar and constant. Flame coiled in his chest, not destructive, but waiting.

Solis would come again. He was certain of it.

And when they did, he wouldn't meet them at the border with terms.

He'd meet them with fire.

And he would erase them.

Not just from the map.

But from memory.

He turned from the window at last. The silver sky still shone across the panes, tracing light across the stone floor, gilding the edges of the chamber in the color of sharpened steel. The Academy stood in the distance—high, eternal, silent.

It would be ready.

And so would he.

A gentle knock at the door broke the quiet. Riven opened his eyes, stepping away from the wall where he'd been leaning in thought.

"My liege?" came Aria's voice—cool, composed, but edged with the faint crispness of readiness.

He reached for the door and pulled it open.

Aria stood just beyond the threshold, already dressed in her formal robes. The new Academy uniform suited her with dangerous elegance—long black fabric that flowed like smoke, stitched with fine silver thread enchanted to repel elemental magic. Beneath the ceremonial layers, the distinct outline of her assassin's armor remained visible at her shoulders and hips—sleek, functional, and never far from reach.

"Everything is ready," she said simply, meeting his eyes.

Riven nodded, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Excellent."

He turned, fastening the clasp of his cloak as he moved toward her. His own Academy robes swept behind him—tailored from deep black fabric that shimmered subtly in the light, woven with thread that caught like raven feathers in flight. The border was etched with intricate runework, each symbol a quiet hum of magic—woven to bolster his power and shield him from lesser spells.

On both of their chests gleamed the newly forged crest of the Shadow Academy: a stylized tower rising from a ring of six elemental sigils, crowned by a silver flame and wreathed in shadow. A mark not just of belonging—but of defiance.

Together, they turned down the hall, shadows at their heels, robes whispering across stone as the weight of what they'd built moved forward—alive, adorned, and undeniable.

—x—

A grand, colosseum-like structure had risen just beyond the Academy's anchor—its construction still incomplete, but already commanding. Though scaffolding clung to its upper tiers and several archways remained bare of polish, the foundation was solid, the walls thick with intent. Each stone slab had been inscribed with layered runes—protection wards, mana dampeners, force-displacement glyphs—strong enough to absorb a thousand firebursts or weather a conjured storm.

The benches, though rough-hewn and unadorned, were packed to capacity. Mages filled every row, a sea of shifting robes and restless mana. Voices overlapped in eager chatter, anticipation crackling in the air like a waiting spark.

"Can you believe it?" one young mage whispered, nearly vibrating with excitement. "We actually made it. First official batch to take the entrance trial for the Shadow Academy."

Another, seated beside him, let out a smug laugh. "Did you see the looks on the faces of the ones who didn't get picked? Pure envy. They looked like they'd swallowed spoiled mana."

The first grinned. "I don't even care if I pass. Just being here? It's history."

All around them, murmurs echoed similar thoughts—some excited, others anxious, and a few hushed and reverent. Overhead, the sky loomed wide and open, the shadow of the floating Academy visible like a crown etched against the clouds.

Something was about to begin. And everyone felt it.

A sudden weight fell over the colosseum, thick and suffocating. The crowd stilled at once—no murmur, no movement, just a collective, instinctive hush. The air grew heavier with each breath, pressing down like unseen hands curling slowly around every throat. A cold instinct prickled at their spines, a silent truth passed between them all:

Something dangerous was coming.

From the archway at the center of the arena, shadows began to spill outward—slow at first, like ink poured across stone, then faster, hungrier, stretching and curling as if tasting the air. The temperature dropped. Mana thickened. And then—

He stepped through.

Riven emerged in silence, framed by darkness that flickered and recoiled like it feared to stray too far from him. His robes billowed behind him, shaped from black silk that drank the light, stitched with runes that shimmered faintly with restrained power. The air bent to him. The shadows obeyed.

He ran a hand through his long crimson hair, the motion slow, precise—deliberate. His eyes, cold and clear as winter glass, swept across the crowd with quiet judgment.

And one by one, they dropped to their knees.

Those closest to him bowed first—those who knew his power, who had seen what he could do. But even those who had not—those yet to swear fealty to the Shadow Kingdom, still outsiders to its rule—found themselves bowing too. Not by command. By instinct. Under the pressure of something greater.

Something undeniable.

Riven came to a halt at the center of the arena. When he spoke, his voice didn't need volume. It rolled through the colosseum like thunder behind stone—cold, composed, and commanding.

"Welcome," he said, his gaze sharp. "All of you gathered here today."

The silence remained unbroken.

"We have opened our gates to you. You stand here not as citizens, not yet—but as hopefuls. Aspirants. You come seeking knowledge. Power. Purpose." He paused, letting the words settle like frost. "But understand this: your presence here is not permanent. This is not a gift freely given."

He raised a hand, shadows curling upward like serpents tasting the air.

"Today, you will be tested. Those who endure will be welcomed into the Academy." His voice hardened. "But only under one condition."

The air tightened.

"You will swear fealty to the Shadow Kingdom. You will live under my rule. My law. My name."

His gaze swept across the sea of bowed heads, and his next words sliced through the silence like a blade:

"If that is something you cannot accept… leave now. I will not waste my time on cowards who wear robes they haven't earned."

He waited.

No one moved.

And in that silence, the shadows around him pulsed once—like a heartbeat deep beneath the world.

"Then let's begin."

Riven's smile curved—not gentle, but cold and certain, edged with the promise of challenge.

Behind him, Mal stepped into view, ever precise, ever calm. With a simple snap of his fingers, a portal shimmered into existence, swirling with layered glyphs and threads of silver-blue mana.

"The first test is about to begin," Mal announced, his voice carrying clearly through the gathering crowd. "Form a uniform line. Any disruption will result in immediate dismissal. There are no second chances."

A hush fell—sharp, reverent, charged with nerves.

Riven didn't wait. He stepped through the portal without hesitation, his cloak trailing like smoke behind him. As he vanished into the glowing threshold, the pressure that had gripped the crowd—his presence, his weight—lifted in an instant, as if the very air could finally breathe again.

The silence didn't last.

"Holy shit," someone whispered, barely able to steady their voice. "Did you feel that mana?"

"He looked our age," another murmured, still shaken. "How can anyone that young feel that powerful?"

"I wasn't sure about applying before," a third voice breathed, eyes wide, "but now? Now I have to get in."

The portal flared around them, its glow intensifying until their vision blurred, warping around the edges. Heat bloomed in the air—thick, damp—and the ground beneath their feet turned soft and loamy.

"What the…" someone breathed, trailing off as dozens of hopeful students materialized one by one in the heart of a vast, ancient forest.

Sunlight spilled in scattered beams through the high canopy, casting golden shafts across mossy roots and tangled underbrush.

Then came a voice—deep, calm, unmistakable.

"The first test will challenge both your strength and your instincts," Riven's voice echoed across the clearing, though he was nowhere to be seen. "You will have seven days in this forest, which is brimming with mana beasts. The objective is simple: survive, and collect as many mana beast cores as you can."

A stunned silence followed.

"Should you die…" Riven continued, his tone laced with dark amusement, "…you fail."

"What do you mean, 'if we die, we fail'?! If we die, we're dead!" someone shouted in disbelief. "What kind of test is this?!"

Behind them, the portal snapped shut with a final crack, sealing them in. The forest's silence settled like a weight, broken only by the distant cry of something wild.

Those with sharp instincts didn't hesitate. They scattered—some sprinting into the trees alone, others quickly banding together in tense, makeshift groups.

But many stood frozen, eyes wide, trying to process the new reality.

"They're afraid," Aria observed quietly. She stood under a veil of invisibility alongside Riven, Krux, and Nyx, watching the chaos unfold.

"Of course they are," Riven said with a snort. "They've only ever known tests taken with quills and mana-measuring crystals. This? This is real."

He folded his arms, voice sharp with resolve. "This is how we separate the weak from the strong. We need to know how they handle fear—pain. If they want to stand among the halls of the Shadow Academy, they must first prove they can survive the battlefield."

"Ruthless as ever," Nyx murmured, a grin curling her lips. "I adore it."

Krux rolled his eyes. "Alright. Let's spread out. Remember the command to eject them to the exit barrier if things go too far."

They all nodded, then dissolved into motion—shadowed watchers drifting through the forest to observe the ones who would rise… or fall.