The Glitched Mage-Chapter 63: Royal Summons

The morning sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting long, hesitant shadows across the capital. The air was thick with the tension of the impending summons, but Riven moved through the city with an easy grace, dressed in simple black student robes. His presence alone was enough to attract whispers, but without the usual grandeur of noble attire, he was merely another figure in the crowd.

His generals, however, played their roles perfectly.

Krux, clad in worn mercenary gear, lingered near the academy gates like a common sellsword waiting for their employer. Nyx, draped in a traveler's cloak, remained perched on a rooftop nearby, her sharp eyes scanning the city streets for any sign of trouble. Aria, unseen but ever-present, walked in the shadows, her daggers concealed beneath the folds of her cloak.

The illusion was perfect.

To any observer, Riven was merely a noble student taking extra precautions, his 'hired guards' standing at a respectful distance.

It was all calculated.

And yet, as Riven approached the looming entrance of Drakar Estate, he knew this next act would require more than just strategy.

It required performance.

The estate was unchanged from his last visit—looming stone walls, banners of deep crimson fluttering in the wind. It was a fortress masquerading as a home, much like the man who ruled it.

As he entered the main hall, Count Drakar stood waiting.

The man was a relic of a bygone era—tall and broad-shouldered, his graying hair meticulously combed back, a testament to his unwavering discipline. His lone crimson eye, the other concealed beneath a sleek black eyepatch, fixed on Riven with quiet intensity. There was no outright hostility in his gaze, only sharp calculation, the measured scrutiny of a man who weighed everything by its worth. For now, Riven had proven himself useful, and so Count Drakar's regard held a rare, if fleeting, favor.

And beside him, like a poised dagger waiting to strike, stood Lady Etna Drakar.

The tension was immediate.

Riven strode forward with measured steps, his expression composed, unreadable. He had played this game before—stepping into the lion's den, maneuvering through veiled hostility, twisting the rules to suit him. Today would be no different.

Lady Etna Drakar's presence was as insufferable as ever. She stood at her husband's side, poised with the elegance of a viper, her fine crimson gown tailored to perfection. Every detail of her was carefully curated to exude power, but her eyes—those sharp, icy things—betrayed her displeasure at the sight of him.

Riven had long since learned not to rise to the bait.

"Father." He inclined his head respectfully, his tone carrying just the right amount of deference. "I trust the preparations for today's summons have been smooth."

Count Drakar regarded him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. "Everything is in place." His voice was as steady as ever—calm, measured. "We will be traveling to the palace together. A show of unity."

A show of power, more like. Riven knew the Count well enough to understand his every move served a purpose. Presenting himself as a father willing to stand behind all his sons—legitimate or otherwise—was a calculated display. It gave the impression that Drakar blood was worth something, that even an outcast could be reclaimed should they prove themselves.

"Of course," Riven replied smoothly. "It would be an honor."

A scoff came from the side.

Cole Drakar.

Riven's half-brother leaned against the marble railing of the staircase, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. The arrogance in his posture was unmistakable. He was dressed in fine noble attire, crimson and black, a deliberate contrast to Riven's humble student robes.

"And here I thought you'd be groveling at the King's feet by now," Cole mused, his voice dripping with condescension. "You do realize this summons isn't a reward, don't you? The King isn't calling you to congratulate you."

Riven barely glanced at him, instead turning his gaze back to Count Drakar. "Cole seems rather concerned for my well-being. How thoughtful."

Cole's smirk faltered.

Count Drakar's gaze flicked toward his eldest son, unimpressed. "Enough, Cole."

"But—"

Drakar cut him off with a sharp look. "I will not have petty squabbles before the royal summons. You will hold your tongue."

Cole's expression darkened, but he bit back his words. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, barely restrained, and Riven relished the subtle victory.

Still, he wasn't done.

Riven allowed a slow, almost amused smile to curl at the corner of his lips. "My brother is right, of course. The King is not calling me for praise." He turned his gaze back to Cole, watching as his brother straightened at the shift in his tone. "That is why I must be prepared—to ensure our family's name is not tarnished by baseless accusations."

Cole's jaw clenched, realizing too late that Riven had twisted his words into something that made him seem both dutiful and responsible. Lady Etna, standing ever so still, exhaled sharply through her nose, clearly displeased by how easily Riven had maneuvered the conversation.

Count Drakar studied him for a beat longer, then gave a slight nod. "Good. Then let us not waste time."

He turned on his heel, leading them toward the waiting carriages. Riven followed with the same measured grace, his mind already a step ahead, already prepared for whatever lay beyond the palace gates.

—x—

The streets of the capital were alive with murmurs as the Drakar carriage rolled steadily toward the palace. Heavy banners of deep crimson, emblazoned with the sigil of House Drakar, rippled in the wind—a silent proclamation of their power. Onlookers watched, some whispering in hushed tones, others daring to stare openly at the noble house known for its ruthless ambition.

Inside the carriage, the tension was almost suffocating.

Riven sat beside Count Drakar, his posture poised, his expression carefully neutral. Across from him sat Lady Etna and Cole, their presence as stifling as ever. But this time, there was another figure sitting beside Cole—his half-sister, Ember Drakar.

Unlike her younger brother, Ember's expression wasn't marred by arrogance or disdain. Unlike Cole, she had actually spent time with Riven, growing familiar with him as he joined the second year. There was an understanding between them, one built not on blood, but on something quieter—acknowledgment. As their father and stepmother remained impassive, and Cole stewed in his usual irritation, Ember allowed herself the smallest of smiles. Subtle, fleeting—just enough for Riven to catch, yet not enough to draw their family's attention. A silent show of support.

The Count, as always, was the first to break the silence.

"Tell me, Riven," he said, his voice low yet firm. "How do you intend to handle today's accusations?"

There was no question of if accusations would come. It was an inevitability.

Riven met his father's gaze steadily. "I already have something in place."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through the Count's single crimson eye, his other still hidden beneath his sleek black eyepatch. After a brief pause, he gave a small nod. "You've grown." The words were simple, but they carried weight. It was not mere observation—it was an acknowledgment, a subtle recognition that Riven had changed since first leaving for the academy.

Cole scoffed, shifting irritably in his seat. "Empty words," he muttered, his arms crossing over his chest. "The King doesn't play games. He will make an example of you for whatever you've done."

Riven tilted his head ever so slightly, his expression calm, composed. "An example?" he echoed, as if turning the thought over in his mind. Then, with a measured ease, he smiled. "Curious. I was under the impression that the King values strength above all else. And yet, you speak as though he is eager to cast aside those who prove themselves capable."

Cole's scowl deepened. "Your flames are unnatural," he spat. "You flaunt them as if they are something to be proud of, but everyone knows what black fire truly is."

"Oh?" Riven hummed, resting his hands lightly on his lap. "And what would that be, brother? Enlighten me."

Cole's jaw clenched, the words unspoken but thick in the air.

New novel 𝓬hapters are published on freёwebnoѵel.com.

Necromancy.

It was what the King suspected. What the court whispered. What every noble sought to confirm. Black fire was rare—feared—associated with abyssal arts, death, and ruin. It was not something tolerated within Solis, not when the King himself had spent years ensuring that such magic remained a myth of the past.

And yet, here Riven was.

Ember's gaze flickered between them, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but Riven did not miss the tension in her shoulders. Unlike Cole, she wasn't looking at him with fear or disgust. If anything, there was a quiet curiosity, a subtle concern buried beneath the surface.

Lady Etna, however, had no such reservations. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and though she remained silent, the barely concealed contempt in her eyes spoke volumes.

Count Drakar exhaled through his nose, his single crimson eye sharp with consideration. Then, he turned his gaze toward Cole, his tone clipped. "Enough."

Cole's fingers curled into fists, his frustration barely restrained, but he obeyed. He always obeyed.

Drakar shifted his focus back to Riven. "You understand the weight of today's audience," he said, his voice measured. "If the King deems you a threat, you will not walk away unscathed."

Riven met his father's gaze evenly. "Then I suppose I must give him no reason to."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through the Count's expression—approval, perhaps. Or interest.

"You truly have grown," Drakar murmured, more to himself than to Riven. Then, after a pause, he leaned back against the carriage seat. "See that you do not waste the opportunity."

Riven inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment.

The carriage rolled to a slow stop.

Outside, the towering gates of the royal palace loomed, their gold and obsidian filigree glinting under the mid-morning sun. The capital's nobility had already begun to gather in the vast courtyard, their fine silks and embroidered robes a striking contrast to the armed guards stationed at every corner.

The moment Riven stepped out of the carriage, whispers began.

He did not flinch under the weight of the stares. He did not acknowledge the hushed voices that carried his name, nor the sideways glances filled with suspicion and curiosity alike.

Instead, he merely exhaled, adjusting his black student robes.

The King was waiting.

—x—

The throne room was a vast chamber of white marble and gilded columns, its high ceilings adorned with banners displaying the crest of Solis—the radiant sun wreathed in gold and crimson. Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering with an eerie steadiness, casting long shadows across the room.

At the far end of the chamber, seated upon his throne of white and gold, was King Aldric of Solis.

His presence was commanding, his golden eyes sharp beneath the weight of his crown. His golden hair, a stark contrast to the dark red of his attire, framed a face carved by time and war. Though his posture was regal, there was an unmistakable tension in the way he rested one hand against the armrest of his throne—fingers tapping idly against the gilded surface.

He was waiting.

For Riven.

As the murmurs faded, one of the royal attendants stepped forward.

"Riven Drakar," the man announced, his voice carrying through the chamber. "You stand before His Majesty, King Aldric of Solis. Speak your name and station."

Riven took a slow step forward, the weight of the court's gaze pressing down on him.

"Riven Drakar," he said smoothly. "Second-year student of the Academy."

Not a noble. Not an heir. Not a son of Drakar.

A student.

A deliberate choice.

The King regarded him in silence. Then, with a slow, measured breath, he leaned forward, his gaze piercing.

"Tell me," Aldric said, his voice deceptively calm, "why does my court speak of a student wielding flames that should not exist?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Riven did not falter.

He smiled.

"Because fear is a powerful thing, Your Majesty," he said. "And people fear what they do not understand."