The Glitched Mage

The wasteland stretched before them, the cracked and barren terrain slowly giving way to patches of green. The road, while still rough in places, had been improved enough for travel. Scattered shrubs and lone trees dotted the landscape, a quiet reminder that even in the harshest lands, life could still take root.

They moved at a steady pace, blending in with the occasional traders they passed on the road. Their carts bore no royal insignia, no markings of power—just the air of frontier merchants moving rare, valuable goods.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the land began to shift. The harsh wastelands softened into rolling fields. The road widened, well-trodden and maintained—a clear sign that they were nearing a settlement of importance.

By the time they crested the next ridge, Eldrin's Crossing sprawled before them.

The town was bustling with movement. It was a major trading hub, positioned at the crossroads of several key routes. Unlike the Shadow Kingdom's encampment, Eldrin's Crossing was well-established—fortified stone walls surrounded the settlement, watchtowers stationed at regular intervals. Within, the streets were lined with merchant stalls, vendors calling out their wares, and travelers passing through.

At the heart of it all, the auction hall stood like a beacon—three stories of polished stone, its banners bearing the symbol of the Eldrin Trade Syndicate, one of the largest independent auction houses in the region.

Mal let out a low whistle. "Looks busier than usual."

Riven adjusted the hood of his cloak, ensuring his features were obscured. "The auction must have drawn in more merchants than expected."

Mal nodded toward a few banners hanging along the streets. "Silver Veil Consortium is here. And the Deveroux Guild." His silver eyes flickered with something sharp. "Both high-profile groups."

Riven's fingers drummed lightly against the reins. "The Deveroux Guild might be a problem. Let's just hope the Duke didn't come here himself."

As they reached the town's entrance, a pair of guards stepped forward, stopping the carts.

"State your business," one of them said, his gaze flickering toward the sealed crates.

Mal spoke first, his voice smooth and businesslike. "We're traders from the wastes, here for the auction. Carrying rare medicinal herbs, verified and pre-approved for listing."

The guard frowned but nodded after a brief glance at the auction permits Mal had forged earlier. "Everything seems in order." He stepped back, motioning them through. "Welcome to Eldrin's Crossing."

The carts rolled forward, seamlessly blending into the stream of traders entering the town.

The streets of Eldrin's Crossing were alive with movement. The town, positioned at the heart of several major trade routes, pulsed with an energy distinct from the wastelands Riven had grown accustomed to. Traders called out their wares, hawking spices from the southern deserts, fabrics from the eastern isles, and weapons forged with rare enchantments. The scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and exotic perfumes mingled with the ever-present clatter of hooves and voices.

Riven's grip on the reins was loose but firm as he guided the lead cart through the crowd. Mal sat beside him, his silver eyes scanning every face, every flicker of interest their caravan received. The herbs were securely packed, their seals intact, but the mere presence of two carts laden with high-grade medicinal goods was enough to turn heads.

The Eldrin Trade Syndicate's auction house loomed ahead, a massive three-story structure of polished stone and reinforced steel. Banners bearing the syndicate's crest—a twin-headed serpent wrapped around a balance scale—hung from its balconies, fluttering in the warm autumn breeze.

As they neared the entrance, a group of uniformed Syndicate Assessors stood at the ready, their long robes marked with silver embroidery denoting their rank. One of them, an older man with sharp blue eyes and a calculating gaze, stepped forward to greet them.

"State your name and purpose," he said, his tone polite but firm.

Mal dismounted first, flashing a practiced merchant's smile. "We're independent traders from the wastes, here to register our goods for auction."

The assessor's gaze flicked to the carts, taking in the sealed crates. "Medicinal herbs?" He arched a brow. "Your kind rarely brings such refined stock."

Riven stepped down from the cart, keeping his hood low, though his abyss-blue eyes caught the assessor's attention for a brief second. "We represent a rising power in the wastes," he said evenly. "One that intends to leave its mark on the trade world."

The man studied him for a long moment before nodding. "Follow me." He motioned for two younger assistants to inspect the crates. "Your goods will need to be authenticated before they can be listed."

Mal's smirk never wavered. "Of course."

They followed the assessor inside, the doors of the auction house swinging open to reveal a grand hall lined with polished marble and obsidian pillars. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal cast a soft, golden glow over the room, where merchants and nobles milled about, discussing upcoming bids in hushed but excited tones.

At the far end of the hall, a large wooden counter served as the auction's registration and appraisal area. Several teams of Alchemical Appraisers were stationed there, each one surrounded by stacks of goods waiting to be authenticated—rare jewels, enchanted artifacts, bolts of mana-infused silk.

The assessor led them to an unoccupied station, where a woman in deep violet robes sat waiting. Her long fingers, adorned with rings that pulsed with faint magical energy, tapped against the table as she regarded them with curiosity.

"Another herb shipment?" she asked, her voice smooth but uninterested.

Mal lifted the first crate onto the counter with practiced ease. "Not just any herbs."

The woman raised a brow but said nothing as she unsealed the crate, activating the auction's verification array. A shimmering golden rune spread over the contents, scanning for impurities, forgeries, or cursed items.

As the lid came off, the faint glow of abyss-touched energy pulsed from within.

The room shifted.

The appraiser's casual demeanor stiffened, her hands pausing mid-motion as her gaze locked onto the contents of the crate. The nearby assessors turned their heads, some even stepping closer.

Mal smirked, crossing his arms. "Told you."

The woman exhaled sharply and reached for a pair of enchanted gloves, slipping them on before picking up the first bundle of Etherbloom. The petals, a delicate crystalline blue, shimmered faintly, saturated with purified mana.

She turned it in her hands, examining it under the light of a detection crystal. A faint hum filled the air.

"…This saturation level is unnatural," she murmured. She set the Etherbloom down and moved to the Nightshade Marrow, carefully peeling back a leaf and extracting a drop of its sap. She let it fall onto a test parchment, watching as the liquid absorbed, turning a deep silver rather than the expected dark green.

Her fingers twitched slightly.

Mal's grin widened. "You're starting to see it, aren't you?"

The appraiser exhaled slowly, her voice quieter now. "Where did you get these?"

Riven spoke before Mal could. "The Shadow Kingdom."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, the appraiser's head snapped up, her expression unreadable. "The Shadow Kingdom is destroyed — gone."

Mal leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to force her to listen. "Then how do you explain those herbs sitting in your hands?"

Her gaze flickered between the two of them, something wary creeping into her expression. She was a professional, but she wasn't foolish—she knew the weight of what was being presented.

"I will need to run a full verification process," she said after a pause. "The final appraisal results will be released before the auction begins. If everything checks out… your stock will be placed in the High-Tier Auction Lot."

Mal barely suppressed a triumphant grin. "Perfect."

The woman hesitated. "You realize what you're implying, don't you? If word spreads that the Shadow Kingdom is real—"

"Let it spread," Riven interrupted smoothly. His gaze burned with quiet certainty. "We're not here to hide."

The appraiser studied him, something like understanding passing through her features. Then, without another word, she sealed the first crate with an official auction mark.

One by one, the remaining crates were tested, their potency verified under layers of magical inspection. And each time, the result was the same—superior, untouched, undeniably rare.

By the time the last crate had been marked for auction, whispers had already begun spreading through the hall.

Not just about the herbs.

But about the traders who had brought them.

—x—

Riven sat in one of the auction house's private lounges, a glass of dark wine untouched in front of him. Mal, reclining comfortably in the chair across from him, swirled his own drink lazily, watching the room beyond the private window.

"They're talking about us already," Mal mused. "That appraiser wasted no time."

Riven wasn't surprised. The moment the auction's high-tier listings had been updated, the biggest players in Eldrin's Crossing had taken notice. The Silver Veil Consortium, the Drakos Guild, and now, the Deveroux Guild—each one had sent representatives to inquire about the origin of their goods.

"They won't act yet," Riven murmured, eyes cold. "But they're interested."

Mal set his glass down, his silver eyes gleaming. "And that's exactly what we wanted."

The private lounge provided a perfect vantage point over the bustling auction floor. Through the semi-tinted glass window, Riven could see the growing crowds, the way merchants whispered to one another, some already making inquiries with auction house officials.

Their plan was working.

Mal smirked as he leaned back in his chair, his silver eyes glinting with amusement. "They're scrambling. I caught a few of the Silver Veil Consortium's brokers trying to get a peek at our inventory list. The Deveroux Guild sent one of their analysts to 'casually' review the high-tier lot. And the Deveroux Guild…" He trailed off, swirling his wine. "They're the most interesting."

Riven's gaze darkened slightly. "How so?"

Mal set his glass down, eyes sharp. "They didn't just send a broker—they sent a handler. Someone with actual authority. Which means someone high up in the guild is paying attention."

That was expected. The Deveroux Guild was ruthless when it came to monopolizing trade routes. Their connections ran deep, spanning across multiple kingdoms, and their leader—Duke Lucien Deveroux—was notorious for acquiring, absorbing, or outright eliminating competition.

Riven wasn't naïve. If Lucien caught wind of the Shadow Kingdom's resurgence, he wouldn't just be curious.

He'd see it as a threat.

However, he and the Duke had a past—one that could be leveraged if necessary. If played right, Riven was confident he could turn the Duke into an ally.

And if not… he would handle it.

He exhaled, steepling his fingers in thought. "For now, let them observe. They'll gather what they can before deciding their next move."

Mal hummed. "And when they come knocking?"

Riven's smirk was cold. "We make them knock harder."

The door to the lounge creaked open, and a well-dressed auction official stepped inside. The man, a middle-aged bureaucrat with neatly combed graying hair, inclined his head respectfully.

"Gentlemen," he greeted smoothly, clasping his hands. "The preliminary appraisals have been completed, and I am pleased to inform you that your goods have been officially approved for the High-Tier Auction Lot."

Mal feigned surprise. "Oh? That's wonderful news."

The official gave a tight-lipped smile. "Yes. Your medicinal herbs were… highly unique. The Etherbloom's mana concentration alone caught the attention of several alchemists on our verification team. The Void Thistle and Bloodroot, however—" He hesitated, as if measuring his words. "—are considered volatile commodities. We had to run additional tests before confirming their inclusion."

Riven met the man's gaze. "And?"

The official exhaled. "All results came back clean. The properties of your herbs were authenticated as natural and untainted." A pause. "Which, frankly, makes them even more valuable."

That was the expected outcome. Riven had personally ensured that the herbs, though abyss-touched, retained no trace of corruption. He wanted them powerful, not cursed.

"The auction will begin tomorrow evening," the official continued. "Your items have been cataloged under a special 'Mystic Flora Lot' to distinguish them from standard medicinal goods."

Riven chuckled. "A fancy way of saying, 'we don't know where the hell these came from, but they're worth a fortune'."

The official coughed slightly but didn't deny it.

"There has also been significant interest in the origins of these goods," he admitted carefully. "Several merchants have already inquired about your trading company." His gaze flicked to Riven, his expression unreadable. "We understand if you prefer to keep that information private."

Mal grinned. "No need. You can let them know—we hail from the Shadow Kingdom."

The official stiffened, a flicker of something passing through his face. Shock? Caution? Interest?

He composed himself quickly. "The Shadow Kingdom, you say?" A carefully neutral tone.

Riven's gaze didn't waver. "Yes."

Silence stretched for a moment.

Then, the official nodded. "Understood." He reached into his coat, pulling out two auction registration badges and setting them on the table. "These will grant you access to all high-tier bidding events and private negotiations. As official consignors, you are free to observe the auction from any of the reserved lounges."

Mal picked up one of the badges, inspecting the intricate gold lettering. "And our cut?"

The official gave a thin smile. "The auction house takes a 12% commission on all sales." He folded his hands together. "Standard for high-tier consignors."

Mal shot Riven a glance. They both knew the real negotiations wouldn't happen at the auction itself—the moment buyers saw the value of their herbs, backdoor deals would be made before the first bids were even placed.

"We appreciate the hospitality," Riven said, slipping the badge into his pocket. "We'll see you tomorrow."

The official gave a short bow. "Good luck, gentlemen."

With that, he turned and left.

As soon as the door shut, Mal let out a low whistle. "Well, well… I think we just threw a whole nest of vultures into a frenzy."

Riven leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table. "Let them fight over the scraps first." His voice was calm. "Then we decide who gets the real feast."

—x—

The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of spiced wine, roasting meats, and expensive perfumes. The Merchant's Hall, an opulent gathering space reserved for high-profile traders and nobility, was bustling with activity.

Riven and Mal moved through the space like shadows, drawing eyes but never staying in one place too long.

Whispers followed them.

"Did you hear? Those merchants—they claim to be from the Shadow Kingdom."

"Impossible. That place is a graveyard."

"Then explain those herbs."

"If they're telling the truth… the implications are enormous."

Riven let them talk.

Let the rumors spread.

The more uncertain they were, the more power he held.

At one of the central lounge areas, a well-dressed man in a dark green silk coat caught Riven's eye. He was engaged in conversation with a few other high-ranking merchants, but his gaze kept flicking toward them.

Mal noticed too. "Deveroux's handler," he murmured under his breath.

Riven made a split-second decision.

They weren't going to wait for an approach.

They were going to make their first move.

With measured steps, Riven strode directly toward the man.

The merchant—clearly someone important—turned fully as they neared, his sharp gray eyes narrowing slightly in interest.

Riven stopped just short, his presence cool and commanding. "You've been watching us," he said smoothly. "Do you have something to ask?"

The man studied him for a long moment. Then, he offered a slow smile, tilting his wine glass slightly. "No need to be so direct. I was merely… intrigued."

Mal smirked. "By the herbs, or by the people selling them?"

The merchant chuckled. "Both." He set his glass down. "But I suppose proper introductions are in order." He placed a hand over his chest in a formal merchant's greeting.

"My name is Veylen Deveroux. I represent the Deveroux Guild's interests in Eldrin's Crossing." His expression was polite, but his gaze was sharp. "And you are…?"

Riven let the silence hang for just a moment.

Then, he gave a slow, deliberate smirk.

"We are merchants from the Shadow Kingdom."

Veylen's expression didn't change.

But Riven caught it.

The flicker of recognition. The hint of calculation. The weight of realization.

"Ah," Veylen murmured, voice smooth as silk. He picked up his wine glass again, swirling the deep red liquid. "Then I believe we have much to discuss."

Riven's eyes gleamed.

"Indeed, we do."