The Glitched Mage-Chapter 50: A Conversation of Fire and Shadows

"Let's have a chat, Riven." Elder Thorne flicked his wrist, summoning a swirling portal of violet and blue mana. The air crackled around it, the arcane energy humming softly. Without turning, he called over his shoulder, "The rest of you, continue training."

Riven cast a quick glance at Jerrik, Lucenya, and even Valis before stepping forward. With a lazy wave of his fingers, he disappeared into the gate.

The moment they emerged, Riven immediately recognized the room.

Elder Thorne's office.

The same place he had been brought to after his fight with Cole. The scent of aged parchment and mana-infused incense lingered in the air, a familiar weight settling over the space. The bookshelves stood tall, each filled with tomes on magic, history, and war. The grand wooden desk was polished as ever, a testament to Thorne's meticulous nature.

Riven's gaze flicked to the chair across from the desk, expecting Thorne to take his usual seat. Instead, the elder pulled a different chair beside it and sat down next to him.

"Sit."

Riven didn't need to be told twice. He plopped down, crossing one leg over the other, his chin resting on his fist as he studied Thorne. The man's posture was different—more relaxed than usual. It put Riven slightly on edge.

Then came the inevitable question.

"Well?" Thorne leaned back, his golden gaze sharp yet unreadable. "Are you going to tell me how you got those flames of yours?"

Riven smirked. "What, so curious about a black-colored flame?" He shrugged, keeping his tone deliberately casual. "I've been refining my fire techniques, and my mana… evolved, I suppose. Not sure how to explain it."

Not a lie. But far from the full truth.

Thorne didn't respond immediately. Instead, he simply watched him.

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Then, with a quiet sigh, Thorne lifted his hand.

A faint shimmer expanded outward, forming an invisible dome around the room. The air grew still, as if the outside world had been completely sealed off.

"I've placed a silence spell," Thorne said, his voice lower now, almost measured. He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze never leaving Riven's. "So why don't you tell me where you really got those… Abyssal Flames?"

Riven froze.

For just a fraction of a second, his carefully crafted mask cracked.

He hadn't expected Thorne to recognize them. Not so easily. Not so definitively.

Elder Thorne chuckled at the look on his face. "Hah… did you really think no one would know?" His expression shifted, something distant flickering behind his eyes. "Well, perhaps not many would. But I was there."

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His gaze drifted, as if looking past Riven—through him—into something far beyond the confines of this room.

"I fought in the war," Thorne murmured, his voice quieter now. "Against Velmorian and his Shadow Kingdom."

Riven was caught completely off guard.

For the first time in a long while, he had no immediate response. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

He even knew of Velmorian?

He forced himself to regain composure, masking his curiosity with feigned ignorance. "Velmorian?" he echoed, his brow furrowing just enough to look convincingly puzzled.

Thorne exhaled, shaking his head. "I suppose you wouldn't know," he said, almost to himself. Then, his gaze refocused, sharp once more. "Velmorian was the King of the Shadow Kingdom. He was the strongest Necromancer in the continent — no, the strongest Necromancer in the world."

Riven's pulse quickened—but he kept his face neutral.

He wanted to ask what more Elder Thorne knew, but he knew better. If he seemed too interested, it would only draw suspicion.

So instead, he leaned back in his chair, keeping his tone even. "And what does he have to do with me?"

Elder Thorne studied him, silent for a long moment. Then, he gave a slow, almost knowing smile.

"I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "But your flames… they remind me of his shadows."

Riven forced a casual shrug. "Shadows? But I wield fire. Sure it's colour is slightly unusual — but it's just fire at the end of the day."

Thorne's eyes glinted. "No," he said. "Not this fire."

Riven said nothing.

He wasn't going to confirm. He wasn't going to deny. He was just going to let the silence do the work for him.

And Thorne, perceptive as ever, didn't press further.

At least not yet.

Instead, Elder Thorne leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Regardless, you need to be careful," he said, his voice measured. "Not everyone here is an old man like myself who remembers the war. But some of the Elders here were there. And they fear necromantic power more than anything."

Riven tilted his head slightly. "And you?" he asked, his voice deceptively light. But his eyes—his eyes told a different story. A quiet, unsettling intensity simmered beneath the surface. "Are you afraid of the Abyss?"

For a fraction of a second, Elder Thorne froze.

The color drained from his face as something shifted in the air.

Riven wasn't smiling anymore. He wasn't smirking, wasn't wearing his usual mask of amusement or calculated indifference.

No.

What stared back at Elder Thorne now was something entirely different.

Cold. Unfeeling. Vast.

A presence that was not meant to exist within a mere student.

For the first time, Elder Thorne felt something foreign—something he had not felt since the war.

A pressure.

No… not just pressure. Authority.

It wasn't magic, not exactly. It was deeper than that. It was the kind of weight that pressed into the soul itself, the kind that demanded submission without a single word being spoken.

For the briefest moment, his breath caught in his throat, and his instincts screamed at him to bow.

Just… just who was this boy?

Then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished.

Riven blinked, and the mask was back. His usual smirk returned, his posture relaxed, his tone gentle. "Elder? You alright?" he asked, feigning concern like a perfect student.

Thorne exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? He wasn't sure anymore.

"I…" He swallowed, forcing himself to settle. "I'm fine."

Riven simply nodded, as if nothing had happened at all.

Elder Thorne studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now. "Just remember—keep your guard up. Keep suspicion away."

Riven gave a small, knowing smile. "Of course."

"Give me your talisman," Elder Thorne said, his voice steady, though his hands trembled ever so slightly as he took the cool stone from Riven's outstretched palm.

A faint hum filled the air as Thorne pressed his own plaque against the talisman, mana flickering between them. The runes on the stone glowed briefly before dimming.

"I've added enough merits to grant you a full day on the mana-dense island," Thorne said, handing it back.

Riven took it, running his fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the subtle shift in energy. He smirked. "Much appreciated, Elder Thorne." With a small, almost playful bow, he added, "I'll see myself out."

And with that, the conversation was over.

As Riven turned to leave, Elder Thorne remained seated, his hands tightening slightly into fists.

He had seen something… something impossible.

And for the first time in decades… he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the truth.

—x—

The door to Elder Thorne's office shut behind Riven with a soft click, sealing away the tension that had thickened the air inside. He exhaled slowly, rolling the talisman between his fingers as he walked down the dimly lit corridor.

That conversation had been… enlightening.

Velmorian. The Shadow Kingdom. Abyssal Flames.

Thorne had come dangerously close to connecting the dots, yet he hadn't pushed. Riven wasn't sure if that was because the old man was truly uncertain, or if he was simply waiting—watching—to see if Riven would slip up later.

It doesn't matter.

Riven had danced along the knife's edge before. He would do it again.

As for now, he still had work to do.

The quiet night air settled over the mausoleum as Riven and Nyx walked side by side, their footsteps barely making a sound against the ancient stone. The tension from his conversation with Elder Thorne still clung to him like a second skin, thoughts spiraling in different directions.

Nyx broke the silence first, her voice low but laced with amusement. "That conversation was… intense." She exhaled as they stepped into the main chamber. "Who would have thought there were still stubborn old mages lurking around from the war."

Her obsidian eyes gleamed dangerously as her fingers curled slightly. "Maybe I should pay him a visit. Finish what was started over two hundred years ago."

Riven smirked at her audacity but his mind was already elsewhere.

"How is it that he's still alive?" He asked, voicing the question that had been gnawing at him. "He barely looks over fifty, yet he fought in a war that ended centuries ago?"

Nyx came to a sudden stop, blinking as she turned to look at him. "Riven…" A flicker of confusion crossed her features. "Did you not know? Once a mage reaches their sixth circle, aging slows significantly. As long as they continue absorbing mana, they remain at that age indefinitely."

Riven raised a brow. "Huh. Immortality as a side effect of raw power. Not surprising, but…" He crossed his arms, mulling it over. "I am a little surprised that the old man's a sixth-circle mage."

Nyx's lips curled slightly. "He hides it well, but he's strong." There was an odd note in her voice—something almost like respect. "Strong enough that it makes me want to fight him."

Riven chuckled. "Is that so?" Then, as an idea formed, he tilted his head. "What circle does one need to reach to ascend to Varethun?"

Nyx's expression shifted, her gaze turning distant.

"The tenth." Her voice softened, something reverent in her tone. "Velmorian reached it. I remember the exact moment because the ripple of his ascension was felt not only in this world but in the Abyss itself."

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if recalling something vivid, something untouchable. "He shed his mortal shackles. It was the most glorious sight."

Then her fingers clenched into fists.

"But they cast him down," she spat, her voice trembling with something between sorrow and fury. "They rejected him. And though I grieve for what he suffered, is it… is it wrong that I'm also glad? That from that pain, the Shadow Kingdom was born?"

She turned to Riven then, her expression strangely human—raw, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. "That I was born?"

Riven exhaled through his nose, his smirk turning wry. "Of course it's wrong."

Nyx flinched slightly, but he continued before she could respond.

"But greed is natural. It drives us, shapes us. And I've learned firsthand how dangerous it is to trust someone consumed by it."

His voice dipped into something colder, something distant.

Nyx stilled.

She had never heard him speak like that.

Not ever.

For the first time, true fear edged into her mind—not fear of him, but fear of whatever past he was remembering.

And then she saw it.

The way his jaw clenched. The way his fingers twitched ever so slightly, as if suppressing something dark, something twisting.

A flicker of a frenzied expression crossed his face, like a memory clawing at the surface of his mind.

Nyx's throat tightened.

What happened to him?

But before she could ask, Riven suddenly exhaled sharply, as if shaking off a phantom grip. He threw his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment before murmuring, "I must be more exhausted than I thought."

He inhaled deeply.

Abyssal flames erupted around him.

The dark fire coiled against his skin, pulsing, alive. His gaze flickered open—deep, black voids swallowing any trace of warmth.

Nyx's breath hitched.

That presence.

It was unmistakable.

He's changing.

Riven's voice was low, commanding. "Fight me."

She didn't hesitate.

The first strike came fast—Nyx lunged, sword drawn, but Riven moved just as quickly. His flames surged in response, intercepting her attack mid-motion. A shockwave burst between them as steel met abyssal fire, the sheer force of the collision rattling the stone beneath them.

Nyx grinned, exhilarated.

She weaved through the flickering fire, dancing between the inferno as if it were second nature. But Riven anticipated every step, every maneuver, forcing her into a relentless exchange. His flames singed her skin, but she barely felt the pain.

She thrived in this.

Because in this moment, she could see it—feel it.

Her King was becoming something more — something greater, and she couldn't wait to see what he would become.