The Glitched Mage-Chapter 127: This whole place is cursed

He didn't turn. "You don't have to be here."

"I know," she said. Her voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual sarcasm and spark. Like the flicker of a candle in a quiet room. "But I want to be."

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of her intent to settle. "Besides," she added, stepping closer, "you look like you're about to fall over."

Riven exhaled, part laugh, part grunt. "Not yet," he muttered.

But even he could feel the truth in her words.

He hadn't realized how much mana the anchor required. The depth of it. The hunger. His reserves were immense—most Fourth Circle mages could go days without feeling a drain—but this? This felt like feeding a starved god.

Then, without a word, Ember stepped forward.

Her movements were deliberate, almost careful, like someone approaching a wild creature—respectful, yet unafraid. The flickering light of the anchor cast shifting shadows across her face, catching the faint sheen of violet beneath her ruby-like eyes. She came to stand beside him, close enough that he could hear the steady rhythm of her breath, and then—gently—she lifted her hand.

Her fingers hovered for a heartbeat over the surface of the anchor, as if feeling for something unseen. Then she pressed her palm to the stone, aligning it beside his.

The effect was instant.

The anchor flared—subtly at first, like a low breath sucked in too sharply. The runes carved into its surface lit from within, glowing brighter as new energy poured in. Not from him this time.

From her.

Riven felt it immediately—an entirely different current, sharp and cool, like moonlight poured into water. Her mana was not the burning tide of his own. It was leaner, stranger. Abyss-touched, yes, but laced with a signature that was uniquely hers. It didn't fight the anchor. It fed it. Willingly. Naturally.

Riven's head turned sharply. "You—"

"I'm useful sometimes it seems." she said simply.

The anchor pulsed deeper, brighter. Veins of light stretched through the runes like lightning beneath the surface, climbing the stone and twisting around the spire.

Riven watched her carefully now. She stood straight, unflinching, her eyes focused, her hand steady. The glow traced along her wrist and arm, wrapping her in wisps of abyssal energy.

She was channeling as though it were natural.

He hadn't meant to give her this much power.

But somewhere along the line—in that moment of death and resurrection, in the shaping of her spirit and binding her soul to his—something had stirred. Not equality. Not even balance. But depth. Potential. A thread that ran deeper than he'd thought.

Still, she wasn't him. Not yet. Not close. Her mana would flicker out long before his, and he could feel the slight tremor in her breath already.

"Enough," he said, pulling her hand gently away.

Ember frowned but obeyed. "I could've held longer."

"You did more than enough."

She crossed her arms, but a ghost of a smile pulled at her lips. "You're surprised."

Riven didn't deny it.

"I thought I made you into a shadow that would follow," he said quietly. "But it seems I made something else."

She gave a small shrug, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. "Whatever I've become… you're the one who brought me back. That means you're stuck with me."

The anchor shimmered, then settled into a steady, pulsing rhythm. The glamour spread outward, invisible to the naked eye—but he could feel it. The wards activating. The land distorting. A veil falling across the kingdom like a sheet of black silk.

The scouts would see ruins.

The walls would appear broken, the roads dust-choked and abandoned. The farmland would vanish beneath illusions of decay.

Riven stepped back from the anchor and took in the city from its high platform. His vision flickered once—then again—as he reached through the bonds he'd scattered across the outlands.

Undead eyes blinked open in shadowed ravines. In abandoned watchposts. Beneath false cairns and shallow graves. Each group of scouts—Aria's, Damon's, Krux's—was accompanied by one of his creations. Through their gaze, he could see every approach. Every bend of the road.

Now he just had to wait.

—x—

The morning came quiet.

Still.

The air over the wastelands had stilled to something weightless—no birds, no breeze, not even the whisper of stirred sand. Just silence, stretched taut as wire, humming with anticipation.

From the far perimeter, reports trickled in through the anchor bond. Aria's shadows saw movement first: five figures cresting the ridge, moving with practiced formation. Golden armor. White tabards. The insignia of Solis burned into their breastplates like a brand. At their center walked a Seeker, draped in gold-threaded robes, a blindfold drawn tight across his eyes. His steps were deliberate—measured—as though guided by something beyond sight.

"Paladins confirmed," Aria's voice murmured through his undead's bond. "They're coming in light. Just scouts, as expected."

"No heavy spellcasters?" Riven asked through the undead's mouthpiece.

"None that I can sense," Mal answered, his voice drifting in from the undead in the western ridge. "But the Seeker's drawing on something old. Not quite divine, not quite mortal."

"They're probing," Damon added from the south. "Not looking for a fight. Just proof."

"They won't find it," Krux rumbled. "Not unless we want them to."

Riven stood in the center of the anchor's chamber, eyes half-lidded, watching through half a dozen undead at once. His vision flickered in and out as he shifted from one scout's location to another. They moved carefully, noting landmarks, speaking in hushed tones as they compared what they saw to what they'd been told.

But they only saw what the glamour allowed: a forgotten and crumbling kingdom. Towering walls reduced to skeletal frames. Fields dry and withered. Markets abandoned. Roads choked with stone and sand.

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False.

Every inch of it.

Ember paced near the edge of the platform, arms folded. "They're not leaving yet."

"They won't," Riven said. "Not until they think they've seen something worth reporting."

The Seeker stopped once, midway up a slope that should have revealed the kingdom's edge. Instead, he stared into a vision of ruin. His blindfold tightened. His fingers twitched.

He knew something wasn't right.

"Aria," Riven murmured. "Start the drift."

"Already in motion."

At the northeastern ridge, faint illusions began to shimmer into place—flickers of movement. A blurred figure darting between stone. A voice, half-caught on the wind. A broken banner fluttering just out of reach.

The scouts tensed.

The Seeker raised a hand.

One paladin moved forward. Another circled the rise. They were suspicious now—edging toward confirmation.

And that, Riven decided, was enough.

He raised a hand above the anchor, channeled a burst of mana through the bond, and whispered into the dark:

"Now."

From beneath the earth, a group of his undead rose.

They stepped from behind rocks, from shallow trenches, from the mouths of forgotten wells. Not to attack—just to be seen. Glimpses. Silhouettes.

Beings that shouldn't exist.

The scouts froze. One shouted. Another stumbled back.

And the Seeker finally reacted.

He dropped to one knee, palm pressed to the ground, golden runes flaring to life around him. His voice rose in a chant, words old and biting, divine energy flooding outward in radiant pulses meant to burn away falsehood.

But the glamour held.

The wards bent, twisted, and swallowed the light.

Riven gritted his teeth, channeling harder through the anchor. Ember pressed her palm against the stone again, adding what she could, her breath ragged but steady. The anchor drank deep and pulsed outward in a fresh wave, reinforcing the illusion until the Seeker's light shattered like glass.

A moment later, the spell snapped.

The Seeker gasped and fell back, the divine backlash cracking the stones at his feet.

The paladins rushed to him, weapons half-drawn, eyes wild. One of them muttered, "It's cursed. This whole place is cursed."

The Seeker didn't speak for a moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Not cursed. Hollow."

He turned back to the path.

"There's nothing here. Just echoes and ruin."

Riven heard the words through the bond, the whisper of confirmation slipping through the web of undead eyes he'd scattered across the kingdom's edge. A slow smile curled at his lips as the vision shifted—scouts turning, cloaks billowing behind them, horses kicking up dust as they began their retreat.

Carefully. Quickly. Heads turning over shoulders, still watching the land behind them. Still half-expecting something to follow.

But nothing did.

No chase.

No attack.

Just the wasteland behind them—lifeless and unchanging.

Let them leave with their questions. Let them return to their holy halls and speak of silence. Let them wonder what was real.

By the time they realized the truth, the Shadow Kingdom would no longer be hiding.

And war would already be too late.