The Glitched Mage-Chapter 62: The Duke’s Nightmare Part 2

Aria stepped forward, her sharp gaze sweeping over the intricate runes woven into the iron gate. They had found a secluded section of the fence behind the Duke's estate, shrouded by towering trees and dense foliage.

Her fingers ghosted over the markings, tracing them with practiced ease, feeling the faint hum of magic beneath her touch.

"Same as the academy wall—old enchantments layered over new ones," she murmured. "Whoever maintains these defenses doesn't know what they're doing. They're overlapping conflicting sigils… which makes them weak."

She knelt, producing a small vial from the folds of her cloak. The liquid inside was a shimmering silver, thick and viscous.

Krux arched an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Solvent for weak magical bindings," she replied simply, dipping the tip of a thin dagger into the shimmering liquid. "The wards here may be weak, but they're still a step above the academy's."

The moment the blade made contact with the runes, they reacted violently—pulsing erratically, their golden glow flickering like a dying flame, struggling to hold form before beginning to unravel.

Riven watched with interest as the magic began to unravel before his eyes, like frayed threads coming undone.

Nyx smirked. "One of these days, you're going to have to teach me how to do that."

Aria didn't even glance up. "You don't have the patience."

Krux chuckled. "She's got a point."

The final rune sputtered and died, its golden light fading into nothing. The faintly glowing barrier that had traced the edges of the fence flickered unsteadily before vanishing entirely in this section, leaving the path unguarded.

Aria straightened, wiping the dagger clean against her glove. "We're in."

One by one, they vaulted over the now-unshielded section of the fence, landing soundlessly on the soft earth below. Moving with practiced ease, they slipped into the cover of the nearby trees, their forms blending seamlessly with the shadows.

Riven's dragon gaze swept over the estate grounds, sharp and calculating. A handful of guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements slow and unhurried. Complacency. That was the weakness of the powerful—the belief that their wealth and influence would shield them from all threats.

A fatal mistake.

He gestured to his generals, signaling for them to keep close as they navigated the sprawling estate. The path ahead was lined with perfectly manicured hedges and ornate statues, their shadowed forms offering natural cover. Aria moved ahead, a whisper of motion in the darkness, her every step measured, her senses stretched to detect any hidden traps or magical alarms.

Nyx closed her eyes, focusing. "Two guards at the east veranda, another three near the study's balcony. They're lightly armed—mercenaries, not elite knights."

Riven nodded. "Good. We'll go in quiet."

The group moved swiftly, slipping between patches of darkness, their presence a mere ripple in the still night. Aria led them toward a side entrance, her fingers tracing the edge of the doorframe.

"Enchanted," she muttered. "But they didn't account for someone like me."

She withdrew a set of thin metal tools, barely visible in the dim light, and set to work. The lock itself was mundane—ornate, but easily bypassed. It was the spell woven into it that posed the real challenge. A lesser thief would have triggered an alarm. Aria, however, was far from ordinary.

The air around the lock shimmered faintly as she worked, the runes resisting her intrusion. But she was patient, methodical. A minute passed, then another. Finally, with a muted click, the barrier spell collapsed.

Aria gave a satisfied nod. "We're in."

Riven pushed the door open, stepping into the lavish interior. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and aged parchment. Velvet drapes cascaded from the high ceilings, and a grand chandelier hung above them, its crystal ornaments gleaming in the dim candlelight.

Everywhere, excess and wealth.

Riven scoffed. The nobility always had a way of hoarding luxury while the rest of the kingdom struggled.

"The Duke is still in his study. The door is guarded, but no additional wards." Aria said softly.

Riven smirked. "Perfect."

They moved with precision, slipping through the grand hallways undetected. Servants were scarce at this hour, and the guards, while present, were positioned only at key points. The Duke's arrogance was evident—he relied more on reputation and fear than actual security.

A mistake that Riven would exploit.

As they approached the northern wing, the glow of candlelight seeped from beneath a heavy oak door—the Duke's study. Two guards flanked it, their posture straight, their expressions unreadable.

Riven exhaled softly. "Go."

Aria was already moving.

In a blur of motion, she emerged from the shadows, her daggers whispering through the air. A flick of her wrist, and the first guard collapsed, his throat slit before he even had a chance to cry out. The second turned, eyes widening—but before he could reach for his sword, Krux's massive hand clamped over his mouth, dragging him into the darkness. A sickening snap followed, and the body went limp.

Clean. Efficient.

Riven stepped forward, pressing his palm against the study door. A faint pulse of magic lingered, a detection spell meant to alert the Duke if forced entry was attempted.

How careless.

He let his abyssal energy seep into the door's enchantment, twisting it, consuming it like a slow-burning fire. The spell shuddered, then collapsed entirely.

He turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Duke Deveroux sat at his grand desk, a quill in hand, his brows furrowed in thought. He barely looked up, assuming it was one of his attendants.

"Get out," he muttered. "I said I didn't want to be disturbed—"

He froze mid-sentence.

Riven stepped inside, his presence like a shadow stretching across the room. His abyssal flames flickered at his fingertips, casting eerie patterns across the luxurious furnishings.

The Duke's hand tightened around his quill. "Who—"

"Let's not waste time," Riven interrupted smoothly. "You know who I am."

Deveroux's expression shifted, sharp calculation flickering behind his eyes. He wasn't a fool. The rumors had reached him—Riven's rapid ascent, his unsettling power, and, most importantly, the king's growing hostility toward him. Unlike most nobles, Deveroux understood the king's nature intimately. He knew the man's loathing for anything related to dark power ran deeper than mere politics—it was personal. The fact that Riven showcased his black flames for all to see and still walked free was like an insult to the throne itself.

"Interesting," the Duke murmured, leaning back in his chair. "And what, exactly, does the infamous illegitimate son of Count Drakar want with me?"

Riven's smirk was razor-sharp. "Your support."

Deveroux chuckled. "Support? You assume much, boy. I have nothing to gain from backing a wild card like you."

"I believe a mutually beneficial friendship is in order," Riven mused, exhaling softly as he strolled leisurely around the office. His fingers traced absentmindedly over the spines of the books lining the shelves, his tone casual yet deliberate. "I happen to have access to something you've been after for quite some time."

"Oh? And what is that?" The Duke asked crossing his arms.

"I can secure you a direct trade route to the Danu Empire," Riven said smoothly, a knowing smile playing on his lips. The Duke stiffened, his expression betraying a flicker of surprise. "With tensions rising between the Solis Kingdom and the Danu Empire, it's no secret that all trade between them has been severed."

Deveroux's fingers tightened subtly on the armrest of his chair. His expression remained composed, but Riven saw the flicker of temptation beneath his calculating gaze.

Trade with the Danu Empire was a prize beyond measure. Their rare minerals, enchanted textiles, and advanced alchemy techniques were all but lost to the Solis Kingdom after relations crumbled. Any merchant who could reestablish that link would secure wealth and influence that not even the royal family could ignore.

But the Duke was no fool. He leaned back, studying Riven with the shrewd gaze of a man who had spent decades navigating treacherous waters. "That's quite the claim, boy," he said slowly. "And yet, the last I checked, you hold no authority over international trade agreements. What exactly makes you think you can deliver on such a promise?"

Riven smirked, settling himself into the chair across from Deveroux as if he had all the time in the world. "Let's just say… I have connections in places most people can't reach. And I assure you, when the time comes, I'll be the only one capable of bridging that gap."

The Duke exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "Vague words and empty promises. You came all this way to tell me that?" He tapped his fingers against his desk, his voice growing colder. "You expect me to risk my standing, my resources, my reputation, for something that doesn't even exist yet?"

Riven's smirk didn't falter. "Not risk. Invest."

The Duke scoffed. "Invest in what?"

"In me." Riven leaned forward slightly, his abyssal energy flickering in the dim candlelight. "All I need from you is a simple favor at tomorrow's royal summons. The king will attempt to use my black flames as a means to label me a necromancer, to brand me as something dangerous. But you—" He tilted his head. "You, Duke Deveroux, can dismiss those claims entirely."

The Duke's eyes narrowed slightly. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you, of all people, know the truth," Riven said smoothly. "You spent years as a merchant before rising to nobility, traveling beyond this kingdom's borders. You've seen magic in all its forms—flames that burn blue, green, even silver. You know that black fire is just another variation of elemental magic." He leaned forward slightly, his smirk sharpening. "At least… that's the story you'll tell them."

His voice dipped into something almost conspiratorial. "With your reputation, your knowledge, no one will question you. You can dismantle the king's accusations in a single breath."

Silence stretched between them.

Riven could see the gears turning in Deveroux's mind. The man was considering it. He had no loyalty to the king—his true allegiance was to power and wealth.

But doubt still lingered in his eyes.

Riven sighed, shaking his head as he slowly stood. "You're hesitating. That's unfortunate." He raised a hand, fingers twitching as abyssal energy coiled around them. "Let's make this decision easier for you."

Before Deveroux could react, Riven snapped his fingers.

The shadows in the room lengthened unnaturally. The candlelight dimmed, the flickering flames seeming to distort, warping into something twisted and wrong.

The Duke's breath caught in his throat. The air grew heavy, oppressive. The walls of his grand study blurred at the edges, and then—

Everything shattered.

—x—

Deveroux's world twisted violently.

One moment, he was in his lavish study, the scent of parchment and aged whiskey lingering in the air. The next, he was somewhere else entirely.

The cold hit him first.

A harsh wind howled through the empty streets, biting through his fine robes as though they were nothing. His hands instinctively reached for the warmth of his robes, but all he felt was the rough, tattered fabric of something unfamiliar.

Rags.

His clothes had been reduced to filthy, threadbare layers. His once-pristine boots were gone, replaced by thin, worn-out soles barely keeping his feet from the frozen cobblestones beneath him. Panic flared in his chest as he stumbled forward, eyes darting around.

This was… the capital? No—some ruined, decayed version of it.

The grand noble district was gone, replaced by crumbling buildings and streets filled with filth. The scent of rot and desperation clung to the air, suffocating him. In the distance, the towering spires of his estate were nowhere to be seen.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with a figure—a beggar, hunched over, cloaked in tattered cloth, their skeletal fingers outstretched toward him.

"Please… spare a coin, my lord," the beggar croaked.

Deveroux recoiled in disgust—until he saw the man's face.

His own.

His breath caught, horror clawing at his throat as he stepped back, shaking his head. No. No, this wasn't real. This wasn't happening.

He turned, frantic, his feet slipping on the icy ground. More beggars lined the streets, but they weren't strangers.

They were him.

Dozens of versions of himself—hollow-eyed, gaunt, clothed in rags, crawling through the gutters like starving rats. Their voices overlapped, whispering, begging, pleading.

"Please, just a single gold coin—"

"Just one more deal, one more trade—"

"I used to be a Duke—don't you recognize me?"

Deveroux clutched his head, his heartbeat hammering against his skull. This was impossible. This was a trick.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it.

A procession of shadow-cloaked riders moved through the streets, their steeds silent, their presence suffocating. At their center, a grand carriage, its blackened metal frame adorned with twisting, abyssal runes, rolled forward with an eerie grace. The wheels did not grind against the cobblestone—they glided, untouched, as if the very ground bowed before them.

The crest emblazoned upon the side was unfamiliar to the common folk, but to Deveroux, it was unmistakable. He was one of the few that remembered.

The Shadow Kingdom.

The carriage door did not simply open—it dissolved into swirling shadows, parting like a veil of night itself. From within, a figure emerged, wrapped in an aura of seething darkness.

Riven stepped onto the streets, his presence eclipsing all else.

He was not dressed in gold or silk like mortal kings. No, his robes were woven from the void, shifting like living shadows against his form. A dark crown—an impossible, writhing thing—rested upon his brow, its edges flickering as though caught between reality and nightmare. The air around him warped, heavy with an unseen weight, an authority that needed no announcement.

The nobles who lined the streets fell to their knees without hesitation.

They did not bow in deference. They knelt in fear.

Abyssal flames coiled at his fingertips, a power restrained, yet undeniable. His gaze swept the street, cold and impassive, until it landed upon Deveroux.

He did not speak. He did not need to.

The weight of his gaze alone was enough to strip away Deveroux's breath, pressing upon him like an unseen force, suffocating and absolute.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, a single coin materialized from the shadows, gleaming in the unnatural dimness.

It tumbled through the air, slow, deliberate.

With a hollow clink, it landed at Deveroux's feet.

The streets fell into utter silence.

And in that moment, as the Dark King turned away, Deveroux understood—

This chapter is updated by freēwēbnovel.com.

This was not merely a nightmare.

This was inevitable.

His knees buckled.

The beggars around him reached for the coin scrambling, clawing at the frozen stone as if that single coin was salvation itself. Their wails filled the air, their hands grabbing at his robes, pulling him down into the filth.

He tried to scream, but the weight of his own failures crushed the air from his lungs.

Then—

Darkness.

—x—

The Duke gasped awake.

He was back.

His study was as it had been, the warmth of the fireplace crackling behind him. His hands flew to his chest, gripping at his fine robes, his breaths coming in ragged, panicked bursts.

It took him several moments to register Riven's presence.

The young man was still there, sitting across from him, his expression calm. Relaxed. His abyssal flames flickered softly at his fingertips as he observed the Duke's reaction with the faintest trace of amusement.

"What… what did you do to me?" Deveroux rasped, his throat dry.

Riven tilted his head slightly, his voice as smooth as silk. "I merely showed you a possibility. A future that could happen."

Deveroux swallowed thickly. He could still feel it—the biting cold, the desperation, the crushing weight of loss. He had lived years in that nightmare, clawing at the edges of his own failure, watching as everything he had built crumbled into nothing.

Yet, he had only been unconscious for mere seconds.

His fingers trembled as he rubbed at his temple. He couldn't afford to show weakness, but his body betrayed him.

Riven leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Now," he murmured, his voice dangerously quiet, "shall we reconsider our little arrangement?"

The Duke's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. The room felt unbearably small, suffocating.

He had no choice.

His pride screamed at him to resist, but the nightmare still clawed at the edges of his mind, reminding him of what would happen if he chose wrong.

His jaw clenched. "Fine," he ground out. "I will… support your claim. At tomorrow's summons, I will discredit the king's accusations."

Riven's smirk returned, slow and victorious. "Good," he murmured, standing to his full height. "I knew you were a reasonable man, Duke Deveroux."

The Duke exhaled shakily, his fingers tightening around the armrests of his chair. He would play along—for now.

But deep down, he knew.

Riven wasn't just another noble seeking favor.

He was something else entirely.

And the kingdom had no idea what was coming.