The Glitched Mage-Chapter 64: It’s time

Silence followed Riven's words, stretching long and taut, a held breath across the throne room.

Then, murmurs rippled through the assembled nobility—hushed whispers laced with unease, curiosity, and barely veiled scorn.

Riven remained still, his hands folded neatly before him, his posture relaxed but deliberate. His simple black student robes, devoid of excessive embroidery or gold embellishments, contrasted starkly with the ostentatious finery of the court. It was not a display of humility, but of control. He had dressed as a student because that was what they had summoned.

Not a noble.

Not a threat.

The King observed him for a long, assessing moment, golden eyes like burning embers beneath the weight of his crown.

Then he spoke.

"You believe this is a matter of fear?" His tone was calm, but there was something simmering beneath it, something old and sharpened by experience. "That my court cowers simply because they do not understand?"

Riven smiled just enough to be polite. "It is the foundation of many rumors, Your Majesty. Fear thrives in ignorance, and the unknown is often mistaken for danger." His gaze flickered, sweeping the room, making sure every noble present knew he spoke of them. "It is easier to whisper of dark arts and forbidden power than to consider something new. Easier to fear than to question."

The murmurs rose again—more fervent this time.

Riven let them.

He needed them unsettled.

The King exhaled slowly, his fingers still tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his throne. "And what, then, do you claim your magic to be, Riven Drakar?"

Now, this was the true test.

Riven knew the King had already formed an opinion of him. Aldric was not a man who acted on impulse—he was a ruler shaped by war and politics, by the constant demand to balance power in a court filled with vipers. If the King believed, even for a second, that Riven's power could not be controlled, the summons would end with an execution.

Or worse.

Riven met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

"It's nothing more than fire magic," he said effortlessly. "As you know, I am the son of House Drakar, a lineage renowned for mastering pyro magic for generations. While it's true that my flames are an unusual color, there are documented cases of fire attuned to more than just heat—flames that burn blue, silver, even violet. The hue is merely a reflection of the caster's mana composition."

"Then tell me," the King said, leaning forward slightly, his golden eyes narrowing, "why is it that my court mages—scholars who have spent their entire lives studying elemental affinities—cannot name a single precedent for black fire except for a time when dark magic corrupted this continent?"

A well-laid trap.

A test of composure.

Riven did not take the bait.

"Because knowledge is limited to those willing to seek it, Your Majesty," he answered evenly. "There are lands beyond Solis where magic manifests differently, where fire takes on more than the hues of red and gold. There are tomes and scrolls—hidden, lost, or dismissed—that detail such variations. It is not a matter of impossibility, but of reluctance to look beyond what is already known."

He allowed the weight of his words to settle.

Then, for good measure, he added, "I would be happy to present such records to your court if given the opportunity."

A silence more dangerous than any outburst followed.

A calculated risk.

If he suggested that the King's scholars lacked knowledge, he risked offense.

But if he suggested the King's court had not properly investigated before summoning him… then suddenly, it was not his credibility on trial.

It was theirs.

King Aldric regarded him with the look of a man who was rarely challenged so delicately. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his throne.

"Interesting," he murmured.

The tension in the room remained thick, but now it was different. The focus had shifted—not away from Riven entirely, but toward the murmuring nobles. The scholars, the mages, the advisors—men and women who were now keenly aware that their King was considering Riven's words.

Riven almost smiled.

He wasn't out of danger.

"But is it not true that you have acquired a necromancy skill?" The king's words were slow and deliberate, each syllable carrying a weight that threatened to crush.

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The nobles held their breath, tension thick in the air as all eyes turned to Riven.

"Yes, I have learned a necromancy skill," Riven declared. The court teetered on the brink of an uproar, but before the chaos could break loose, he continued swiftly. "But is it not also true that I had no choice in the matter? The skill was assigned to me during the academy's third trial. Without accepting it, I would have never secured my place in the academy."

"I've never even used the skill—honestly, I'm still rather wounded by the fact that I was forced to learn it without any understanding of its consequences." Riven adopted a look of feigned sorrow as he spoke.

Before anyone else could speak, another voice sliced through the silence like tempered steel.

"Magic is not in question here," Duke Deveroux announced, stepping forward from where he had been standing amongst the nobility. His voice carried the confidence of a man who had already planned his words carefully. "The boy speaks well, but there is more to this matter than what his flames are."

Riven turned his head slightly, meeting the Duke's gaze.

The very same Duke who had woken in a cold sweat last night, the taste of desperation and poverty still lingering on his tongue.

The Duke hesitated, if only for a fraction of a second.

Then he recovered.

His expression was calm. His posture was perfect.

But Riven saw it.

The slight tension in his jaw.

The way his fingers curled subtly, as if remembering the feeling of frozen cobblestone beneath them.

A man who had once stood in his nightmare and feared it.

The Duke exhaled through his nose. "The concern, Your Majesty, is whether or not this flame—whatever its nature—poses a danger to the Kingdom."

Riven tilted his head, as if considering.

"Then perhaps we should clarify, Duke Deveroux," he said smoothly. "What exactly do you believe I have done that threatens the Kingdom?"

Deveroux's expression didn't shift. He was too experienced for that.

But there was a long pause.

Because there was no crime.

No evidence.

No dark rituals, no resurrected corpses, no sacrificial offerings laid bare before the court.

The silence stretched once more, thick with the weight of expectation. The nobles, the scholars, the mages—they all waited, some for the Duke to strike, others to see if Riven would falter.

But Duke Deveroux was a merchant before he was a noble, and a merchant knew when to cut losses and shift the game.

"I have traveled far beyond the borders of Solis," the Duke said at last, his voice measured, controlled. "I have seen flames that do not burn red. I have spoken to mages who wield fire in shades unseen in our kingdom. The boy is not lying."

A murmur rippled through the court, hushed but undeniable. Riven allowed himself the smallest flicker of amusement—Deveroux had chosen his words carefully. The boy is not lying, not the boy is innocent. A distinction that left the Duke room to maneuver should the tide turn against Riven.

The King's golden eyes sharpened, focusing on the Duke. "You swear this to be true?"

"I do," Deveroux affirmed, bowing his head just enough to show respect without subservience. "I have witnessed it myself. Different lands cultivate different magics. We would be fools to assume that what is unknown to us is unnatural."

Riven did not miss the way some nobles stiffened, their egos bristling at the implication.

The King studied Deveroux for a long moment before exhaling. He leaned back once more, fingers resuming their idle tapping against the gilded armrest. "Then the matter of his flames is settled. But the necromancy skill remains."

Another test. Another snare.

Riven met the King's gaze head-on. "I have never used it, nor have I had any intent to. As I said before, I was given no choice in acquiring it. I could have refused, certainly, but then I would not be standing here today, a student of the Academy. That was the nature of the trial."

"And yet," the King mused, "it is part of you now."

Riven did not flinch. "As many things are, Your Majesty. A man may wield a sword and never take a life. A scholar may learn of poisons and never brew a vial. A merchant may trade in knowledge of war without ever lifting a blade. Possession does not equal intent."

The murmurs returned—some intrigued, some doubtful. The nobles were split now, caught between reason and suspicion.

The King, however, was not so easily swayed. "But magic is not a sword. It is not a trade. It is an extension of the self. A man can put aside steel, but can you put aside this skill?"

A dangerous question.

Riven let a beat pass before answering. "Perhaps not, Your Majesty. But neither can I change the fact that it was forced upon me. Would you have me executed for something I have not done? Would you burn me for a crime I have yet to commit?"

The court bristled. The air tightened.

Riven had just turned the question on its head. If the King ruled against him now, it would not be for his actions—it would be for potential. A dangerous precedent to set.

A long silence followed.

Then the King did something unexpected.

He laughed.

A single exhale of amusement, quiet but unmistakable. "You argue well," he admitted. His gaze flickered across the court, noting the nobles who had begun to shift uncomfortably. "You have made a great many people think today, Riven Drakar."

A pause. Then—

"I will not punish a man for a crime not yet committed."

The words rang through the hall like a hammer striking an anvil.

Relief washed over some faces. Others darkened with frustration. But none dared to object.

The King's eyes settled back on Riven, unreadable. "You will remain under watch while you study at the Academy. Should you give me reason to doubt you, I will act. Is that understood?"

Riven bowed slightly. "Perfectly, Your Majesty."

The King regarded him for a moment longer, then waved a hand. "This court is adjourned."

The tension in the room broke like a snapped thread. Nobles turned to whisper amongst themselves, some already moving toward the exits.

Riven exhaled slowly, steadying himself. He had won—this battle, at least.

As he turned, he caught Duke Deveroux watching him, expression unreadable.

The Duke inclined his head ever so slightly.

An unspoken message.

'I have upheld my end of the deal, now you must uphold yours.'

—x—

The carriage ride back to Drakar Manor was silent.

Riven sat across from Ember, his hands folded neatly in his lap as the city streets blurred past the window. Their father, Count Drakar, sat beside him, his expression unreadable as ever.

Across from him, Lady Etna Drakar remained poised, her delicate fingers tracing the rim of a crystal goblet she had brought from the estate—an indulgence, as always, to remind those around her of her refinement.

Cole was brooding in his corner, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight Riven thought he'd crack a tooth.

The weight of the King's ruling still lingered.

He was not declared a heretic. Not a criminal.

But he was being watched.

That alone was enough to unsettle the balance within their house.

As they reached the manor, the servants were already prepared. The dining hall had been set with the finest silverware, the long wooden table adorned with dark red silks and candlelight. House Drakar did not host extravagant feasts—such displays were for lesser nobles who needed to prove their wealth. No, their power was in control, in precision, in the mere fact that everything was arranged exactly as it should be.

The meal was served swiftly. Roast venison seasoned with rare herbs, flame-seared salmon, and a selection of dark fruits native to the northern regions. The wine, deep and spiced, was poured into each goblet in measured amounts.

The Count did not speak until the first few bites had been taken.

Then, finally, he set his knife down and looked at Riven.

"You handled yourself well," he said, his tone as steady as ever. "The King did not execute you. That is an achievement."

Lady Etna inhaled sharply, but did not interrupt.

Riven, unfazed, wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin before answering. "I did what was necessary."

The Count studied him for a moment before giving a slow nod. "So you did."

Cole scoffed, stabbing his fork into his venison. "Is that all? He stood before the King accused of necromancy, and you reward him with praise?"

The Count's gaze flicked to his other son, unimpressed. "The King has spoken. He has not ruled Riven guilty, nor has he removed him from the Academy. That means he is still valuable."

Cole's scowl deepened, but he did not argue further.

Ember, for the first time that evening, spoke up. "Still, it was close," she murmured, swirling her goblet of wine. "The court will not forget. And neither will the other noble houses." Her crimson eyes met Riven's, keen with curiosity. "You know that, don't you?"

Riven inclined his head. "I would be a fool not to."

Ember smiled slightly and leaned back in her chair. "Which means you must tread carefully," she said, "No more reckless decisions, no more surprises."

Riven smiled slightly. "I would never be reckless."

She snorted, shaking her head. "Liar."

The Count tapped his fingers against the table, drawing attention back to him. "Regardless of what the court thinks, you are still my son," he said, his voice calm but firm. "House Drakar will stand by you. But do not mistake my support for complacency." He leaned forward slightly, his crimson eye glinting in the candlelight. "If your actions threaten this house, I will handle the matter myself."

A warning.

A promise.

Riven met his father's gaze evenly. "Understood."

A silence settled over the table, thick and deliberate.

Then, his stepmother, who had remained silent until now, set her goblet down with a soft clink. "Do you truly expect us to pretend this disgrace never happened?" Her voice was smooth, but beneath it lurked a sharp edge of barely veiled contempt. "Do you think the court will simply overlook what they witnessed today? We will be made a spectacle!"

The Count glanced at her briefly before returning to his meal. "The court will forget when something more interesting happens. That is the way of power."

Lady Etna's lips pressed into a thin line, but she did not argue further.

Riven resisted the urge to smile.

—x—

By nightfall, it was time to return to the Academy.

The carriage was readied once more, though this time, only Riven and Ember would be making the journey back. Cole—thankfully—refused to share the same space and opted for a separate carriage instead.

As they stood outside the grand entrance, the Count watched them with his usual calculating gaze. "You have bought yourself time," he said, his words directed at Riven. "Use it well."

Riven nodded once.

The Count exhaled, then turned without another word, disappearing back into the manor. Lady Etna had already retreated earlier, clearly unwilling to see them off.

Back in the dimly lit mausoleum, Riven was met with the eager gazes of his generals.

"That was exhausting," he sighed, sinking onto a crumbling stone bench. "It felt like being trapped in a den of vipers."

His generals crowded around him, their once-feared presence softened by unrestrained excitement like little puppies.

"But you did it!" Nyx beamed. "The King won't push any further—at least for now."

Riven chuckled, glancing at the shining, hopeful eyes of warriors meant to be feared, not wide-eyed with anticipation like eager apprentices. "Yes," he murmured. "We've bought ourselves some time."

Krux practically vibrated with excitement. "Which means…"

Riven exhaled, a rare, genuine smile curling his lips—one not born from strategy or calculation, but from something deeper. Something real.

"Yes," he said, voice steady with conviction. "It's time to rebuild our Shadow Kingdom—our home."