The Glitched Mage-Chapter 131: The Foundation

Weeks passed, and with them, the hum of progress deepened into rhythm.

The southern gates had barely closed behind the Danu delegation before Riven turned his attention back to the heart of the kingdom. The diplomacy was done, the veil had lifted, and now—now it was time to build.

The eastern quarter had been a field of stone, scaffolding, and half-drawn runes for months. It was meant to be the first truly livable district—a blend of stability and style, where citizens would thrive rather than just survive. Riven didn't delegate the task. Not fully. He was there, sleeves rolled, sweat clinging to the edge of his collar, shadow mana fusing heavy beams of shadowsteel into place beside Damon and Krux.

The three of them worked with an unspoken unity: Krux, with his incredible strength, lifted materials that would've required cranes elsewhere. Damon marked foundations with earth-runes, ensuring stability in places the soil still remembered the Abyss. And Riven himself laid the final enchantments, feeding each stone with mana, setting protection and longevity into the walls.

The buildings rose from the ground like monoliths—tall, clean, and angular. Dark grey stone framed every structure, its surface smooth but veined faintly with obsidian. The edges of the apartment blocks were reinforced with shadowsteel braces, hammered into place like armor around a knight's spine. Subtle runes glowed faintly beneath the lintels, and every doorway was marked with a protective ward—simple, elegant, effective.

But it wasn't just stone and steel.

At Damon's suggestion—and to Riven's quiet approval—flowers from the abyss-touched farmlands were planted in raised beds and stone-basin planters. Vines of nightshade bloom climbed trellises in streaks of deep violet, while bloodroot added flickers of red like veins pulsing along the courtyard walls. Ethergrass swayed gently in breeze or silence alike, casting green light in the evenings.

By the time the final doorway had been warded and the last brick fitted flush into place, a quiet shift passed through the district—subtle at first, then building with excitement. The scaffolding was gone. The runes were lit. Doors opened without creaking. Windows gleamed with light from hearths within.

The eastern quarter no longer felt like a project or a promise.

It felt finished. Solid. Lived in.

And with that sense of permanence—of something no longer being built, but belonging—Riven allowed what came naturally.

A celebration.

It wasn't a royal decree, or a ceremonial ribbon cutting. It began with music—someone dragging out an old stringed instrument onto a stoop, another joining with a low drum. Then came the fire pits, the bread ovens, the tables dragged into the streets. Citizens poured from their homes in quiet waves, children racing between lantern poles, and merchants offering free bowls of stew in stoneware laced with mana-insulating etchings.

Riven stood near the center of it all, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Damon was already helping serve drinks. Krux had been pulled into a makeshift wrestling circle with two Shadowguard veterans and was laughing for the first time in days. Even Aria—stoic, composed Aria—was leaning against a pillar, sipping from a steaming bowl while her eyes watched the festivities with quiet approval.

It wasn't formal. It wasn't flawless.

But it was theirs.

And when the sun dipped low and the rune-lanterns began to shimmer across the street like starlight suspended in motion, Riven spoke just once, barely loud enough for those around him to hear.

"The first district is finished," Riven said, his voice low but clear beneath the lantern glow. "The beginning of a kingdom not just reborn—but made whole, one piece at a time."

People raised their cups and clay bowls.

"To the kingdom," someone shouted.

"No," Damon corrected with a grin. "To home."

And for a moment, the word carried more weight than any title.

Home.

The laughter rolled deeper as the music picked up. Someone coaxed Ember into playing a sharp, fast-paced rhythm on a hollow-bell lyre. She sat cross-legged on the edge of a table, hood pushed back, eyes alight in the glow of the lanterns. The tempo she played wasn't soft or elegant—it was fierce, wild, full of the pulse of life, and the square rose to meet it. Feet stomped. Hands clapped. The cobblestones shook with rhythm.

Riven moved among them—not as a ruler surveying subjects, but as a presence. Familiar. Seen.

He nodded to the necromancer baker who had reopened his stall with ash-flour loaves. Tipped his chin to the veteran from the western trench, now balancing his daughter on one broad shoulder. Spoke softly to a pair of older artisans who had been among the first to cross into the kingdom, now watching it unfold beneath strings of violet bloomlight.

And everywhere he walked, the people bowed—not deeply, but with quiet intent. A hand to the heart, a brief dip of the head. Not out of fear or obligation, but recognition.

Their gazes followed him, steady and unafraid. Some smiled. Others simply nodded.

No words were needed. Their gestures said everything.

We see you.

We follow you.

This is your kingdom—and ours.

Krux passed Riven a mug of mead as he stumbled from the wrestling circle, laughing, blood trickling from one knuckle. "Next time," he panted, "we finish building a proper bathhouse first."

Damon snorted from a nearby bench. "Only if it has reinforced floors. You nearly caved one in last time."

"I was drunk," Krux said proudly. "And carrying two oxen."

Riven shook his head, amused, and took a slow drink from the mug. The mead was sharp and warm, tinged with citrus. It burned in just the right way.

The moment was not eternal. But it was enough.

When the stars rose and the laughter softened, when children fell asleep curled on benches and the musicians finally rested their hands, Riven remained standing at the edge of the square.

The buildings stood tall behind him. Dark grey stone, glowing softly at their seams. Veins of abyssal flowers pulsing color across the edges like splotches of colour and life.

He could still feel the future stretching outward from this point like threads waiting to be woven.

The threat of war hadn't vanished.

Solis hadn't declared. Not openly. Not yet. But their silence wasn't peace—it was suspicion.

They'd sent scouts and seekers, expecting to find only ruins and restless ghosts. What they saw instead was a wasteland, veiled and lifeless—just as the Shadow Kingdom had intended. But the doubt remained, festering behind gilded doors and within council chambers. They felt something stirring. Magic older than their doctrine. Whispers that didn't die.

They didn't know for certain.

But they feared.

And fear, Riven knew, was just the first step towards war.

But tonight, the kingdom had danced.

Not for survival. Not for duty. But for joy.

Laughter had spilled through the streets like light through a broken door—unguarded, real. Children had chased shadows beneath rune-lit lanterns, and music had wound through the stone corridors like a heartbeat finally heard.

And as the final lantern swayed gently in the breeze, casting its glow over cobbled stone and smiling faces, Riven stood still and watched.

This, he thought, was something no enemy could predict. No conqueror could comprehend.

Not just hope.

But the quiet, unshakable weight of something far rarer—

Belonging.

—x—

The firepits burned down to embers, soft and glowing, as the street quieted into a gentle hum of night. Families drifted back toward the new apartments, voices hushed, arms full of leftover bread and half-finished bottles of mead. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed in their sleep. Another asked if they could plant nightshade vines along their windows too.

Riven lingered long after the last plate had been cleared.

He sat on the low stone steps leading to the central courtyard fountain, cloak pulled back, the polished edge of his armor catching only the faintest glint of lanternlight. The cool air wrapped around him, crisp and clean, carrying the scent of turned soil and flickering flame. The district felt different now. Settled. Claimed.

It was no longer scaffolding and blueprints—it was living stone.

"You should rest," came Damon's voice, approaching with a quiet tread and a bowl of stew in his hand. "You've done enough for one day."

Riven didn't answer right away. He watched the flamelight dance against the obsidian-braced walls across the square, how it flickered against the windows, casting long shadows that didn't feel ominous anymore. Just… familiar.

"Is it enough?" Riven asked, not as a man doubting his path, but as one weighing the shape of it—measuring what had been built against what still remained.

Damon eased down beside him and handed over the bowl. "You tell me."

Riven took a bite. The stew was simple—earthy vegetables, abyssal root, bone broth laced with mana-charcoal and crushed black pepper. It was hot, sharp, and grounding.

Not a king's feast.

But it tasted like a future.

Krux joined them a few minutes later, still laughing softly to himself as he limped from the courtyard, clutching a cloth-wrapped hand. "That little Shadowguard girl nearly broke my spine," he muttered, collapsing onto the edge of the fountain. "Remind me to never spar with someone half my weight again."

Riven let out a breath that might've been a laugh. Or something close to one.

The three of them sat there, not in silence, but in understanding. No strategy talk. No future battles. Just the kind of stillness that came from a shared storm passed through.

After a while, Krux leaned back, gazing up at the stars above the obsidian towers. "We should name this district," he said.

Damon quirked a brow. "You want to name it after yourself, don't you?"

"I was thinking about it," Krux admitted. "But no. Not this one."

Riven looked between them, amused. "Then what?"

Krux tapped a hand against the stone beneath them. "This is where it started. Where the real city took shape. The first stone, the first roof, the first roots. We built it together."

He paused. "Call it the Foundation."

Riven considered it, then nodded once. "The Foundation," he said aloud.

Damon raised his bowl. "To the Foundation, then."

Krux lifted his bruised hand. "To the first permanent piece of something real."

Riven didn't raise a toast.

He simply looked across the district one last time, where flowers swayed in nightwind, and children dreamed behind newly carved doors.

And knew that the next stone was already waiting.