The Glitched Mage-Chapter 115: Losing Her Mind

Nyx slipped into Riven's shadow without a sound, her form vanishing in a swirl of darkness. With Ember close behind, the two Drakar siblings passed through the estate's outer wards undetected, the enchantments parting like mist around them.

The snoring guard near the gate didn't even stir.

They moved with the shadows, soundless and unseen, gliding along the worn cobblestone path that wound toward the grand estate. It loomed like a monument to pride and legacy, but Riven didn't spare it a second glance. He led them with certainty, cutting through the moonlit courtyard and toward the far side of the building where he knew a lesser-used servant's door waited.

Halting just beneath the stone arch, Riven paused.

From within his inventory, he activated the passive enhancement bound to his staff—Dragon Eyes—and at once, heat signatures bloomed into view behind the walls. Faint flickers moved through the structure: a handful of servants scattered through the lower halls, rushing to complete their duties before the night grew too deep.

The rest had already retired.

Perfect.

The door creaked open under Riven's hand, hinges softened with age and disuse. He motioned for Ember to follow, and the two slipped into the unlit servant corridor, their footsteps light against the stone floor.

The halls smelled of old polish and fading lavender—an echo of the estate's forced elegance. Ember moved just behind him, silent but alert, her crimson eyes scanning every shadow with quiet calculation. Despite her new nature, she moved with the same grace she once held in life—just sharpened now, like a blade drawn too long across whetstone.

They passed storerooms and linen closets, the narrow hallways familiar to Riven. At a split in the hall, he held up a hand, halting Ember.

Voices.

Muffled. Feminine. Sharp with anger.

He pressed his back to the wall, motioned Ember to do the same, and inched closer to the gilded archway that led to one of the manor's master bedchambers—Countess Drakar's.

The door was slightly ajar. Candlelight flickered through the crack.

Riven's hearing sharpened, the world narrowing to the voice within.

"…he won't even listen to me anymore," the Countess snapped. "I told him—warned him—that boy would become a stain on this family if we let him live. But no, he insisted that they couldn't break the law against harming blood relations! Said it would bring us favor. Favor!"

There was the soft rustle of fabric as she paced, he imagined—her voice rising and falling with long-ingrained theatrics.

"I tried again just last night. I told him we could stage something subtle. An accident. A duel gone wrong. But he waved me off like I was mad. Mad!" She let out a bitter laugh. "As if I haven't cleaned up his messes for decades."

A timid voice responded—likely one of her personal maids. "M-my Lady… the Count has grown more cautious since the war rumors began. He said the Drakar name should stay out of Academy business."

Another harsh sigh.

"He's become weak. And now that monster is top of the rankings. Do you understand what that means? It's too late. If we don't act soon, we'll lose everything."

Riven's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't move. Not yet.

The Countess began pacing again, her voice lowering but still laced with venom.

"I should've drowned him when I had the chance."

Riven's eyes darkened.

Ember remained silent, but a flicker of shadow coiled just beneath her skin, responding to her mother's words. Her expression was composed—but her eyes seethed.

Riven raised a hand. Not yet.

He leaned a fraction closer to the doorframe, waiting. Watching.

Letting her continue.

Inside the room, the Countess's voice dropped to a hiss, ragged and tired beneath its venom.

"That boy has changed," she muttered. "He was always strange—quiet, distant—but this… this is something else. That flame, the one they whisper about—it's not fire. It's not magic. It's wrong."

There was a pause, and the sound of a cup being slammed onto a table.

"I heard what they said about the duel. How he stood against Cassiel Vaigne without flinching—like the boy wasn't fighting for power, but reclaiming something already his."

The maid's voice trembled. "Perhaps… perhaps we should wait. See what happens before we—"

"No." The Countess cut her off. "Waiting is what got us here. I don't care what my husband says. I will not let that thing stain our name again. He is not a Drakar. He never was."

Her voice turned to steel, laced with the same cold resolve Riven remembered from the scattered memories of this body's childhood—the same tone she once used to order punishments or cast aside servants for speaking out of turn.

The same tone she used when deciding who was worth keeping alive.

"I will act with or without the Count's blessing," she finished. "Ive tried it once, I can do so again. If I must rid this world of him myself… so be it."

Silence followed.

The crackle of the fireplace. The quiet rustle of shifting linen as the maid bowed and backed away.

But Riven remained where he stood, eyes shadowed beneath the faint flicker of torchlight from the hall.

"She always liked to talk," he murmured, voice cold and quiet.

The door creaked open.

The Countess spun around, startled, her silk robe trailing behind her. "Who—?"

Her eyes landed on Riven first, and her face went white.

"You," she breathed, voice sharp with alarm. "What are you doing here? How dare you set foot—"

Then she saw Ember.

And for a moment, her fury faltered.

"Ember?" she said, blinking in disbelief. "You're here too?"

She straightened, smoothing her robe as a note of cautious relief slipped into her voice. "Thank the gods. I've been trying to reach you, but your attendants said you were resting."

Ember said nothing.

The Countess stepped toward her, casting a wary glance back at Riven. "You came with him? Why? What's going on?"

Still, Ember didn't speak. Her crimson eyes watched with quiet intensity, expression unreadable.

The Countess gave a tight smile, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. "You must be under some kind of spell. He's done something, hasn't he? I know how twisted his magic is. But it's alright. You're safe now."

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She reached for Ember's arm.

Ember didn't move.

"Darling, listen to me," the Countess continued, voice softening as she turned fully toward her daughter. "I know this boy has always brought… confusion. Chaos. He was never meant to be part of our family. You understand that, don't you? You always did."

Her fingers brushed Ember's sleeve, tentative.

"I know you'll protect me."

Ember tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp, strange, almost curious.

"I'm not here for you," she said at last.

The Countess froze.

"What… what did you say?"

Ember took a step back, slipping from her grasp. "You think I came to protect you? After everything you said? After everything you did to him? You're mistaken."

The blood drained from the Countess's face as she finally took a real look at her daughter. The faint flicker of black veining beneath her skin. The unnatural stillness. The way her presence no longer felt like light—but something colder… darker.

"Ember?" she whispered.

Riven stepped forward, shadows curling around his fingers.

"She's not yours anymore," Riven said, voice low. "She sees you for what you really are now."

The Countess backed away, stumbling slightly as she turned toward Riven with growing horror. "What have you done to her?"

"I've only ever been the dutiful little brother," Riven said softly. "And tonight, I thought it was time I returned the kindness you showed me all my life."

The Countess tried to scream, to summon help—but the shadows reached her first.

Dark tendrils surged forward—silent, swift—as if pulled by the weight of her own guilt. They coiled around the Countess like smoke laced with purpose, wrapping her limbs, her mouth, her eyes. She struggled, thrashed, but it was useless.

Riven raised a single hand and placed his palm flat against her forehead.

[[ Skill: Abyssal Nightmare ]]

A pulse of black energy surged from his fingers, vanishing into her skull with a soundless thrum. The Countess's body locked. Her eyes widened. And then she fell—boneless—crashing to her knees before slumping sideways to the floor.

Her gaze remained fixed, unblinking.

She had already fallen.

—x— Within the Nightmare —x—

The Countess stood at the grand banquet table of the Drakar estate, its surface lined with gilded silver, crystal goblets, and plates stacked high with delicacies.

Every seat was filled—lords and ladies of high birth, nobles from the capital, generals of the royal court.

And at the head of it all, seated on the Count's chair… was Riven.

Older. Regal. Clad in flowing black robes threaded with silver and priceless gems. A dark crown circled his brow, glowing faintly with runes no one else could see. The room bowed to him. Even the Count.

She turned, confused—panicked—but no one looked at her. No one acknowledged her. She reached for her husband, but he brushed her hand off like an annoyance.

"Not now," he whispered, eyes fixed on Riven with shining admiration. "We must not disrespect him."

"Disrespect who?" she asked, breath catching.

"The King," someone said from behind her. "Your son."

Laughter echoed—hers? Someone else's? It didn't matter.

The illusion fractured, crumbling at the edges—only to bleed seamlessly into the next. Shadows reformed, reshaped, and solidified around her, birthing a new nightmare from the ashes of the last.

The scent of roses hung heavy in the air.

Too sweet. Artificial.

The Countess stood at the top of the grand staircase of the Drakar estate—only it wasn't hers anymore. The portraits had changed. The walls gleamed with unfamiliar banners. The servants bowed to someone else.

She descended the stairs in silence, drawn by the sound of laughter from the great hall. Familiar. Intimate.

Her husband's.

She pushed open the gilded doors and froze.

The Count sat at the head of the table, smiling in a way she hadn't seen in years. Not at her—but at the woman beside him.

A younger noblewoman. Golden-haired. Flawless. Draped in sapphire silk and confidence.

The woman leaned in, whispered something, and the Count chuckled—his hand resting casually over hers.

"Darling," the Countess tried to say. But her voice came out hoarse. Small.

He didn't look at her.

Servants passed by her like she wasn't there, offering drinks to the new lady of the house. One of them placed a fresh bouquet of roses beside her plate—her favorite kind.

"He used to give me those," the Countess whispered.

"Oh, but they're mine now," the younger woman said, smiling without malice. "You had your time."

Another figure entered—Ember.

She walked right past the Countess, straight to the table, and greeted the new woman with a kiss to the cheek. "Mother."

No. No, that wasn't right.

And then the Count stood. His eyes finally met hers.

"I've already signed the divorce papers," he said calmly. "You'll be escorted from the estate in the morning."

"After everything I've done—after the sacrifices—"

"You've served your purpose."

Guards appeared. Real ones this time. Drakar house guards. But they wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Take her to the guest wing," the Count said, as if discussing a guest overstaying their welcome. "Make sure she doesn't cause a scene."

The Countess screamed, her voice raw with disbelief, and surged forward—arms outstretched, fingers curled like claws toward the woman who had taken her place.

But the moment she reached them, her hands sliced through empty air.

They passed through the Count, through Ember, through the golden-haired woman with the smile that didn't waver. Like they weren't real. Like she wasn't.

No one flinched. No one turned.

She tried again—grabbing at shoulders, shaking chairs, tearing at the tablecloth —but her limbs moved through the world like a ghost.

Invisible.

Unseen.

Her voice cracked as she shouted, begged, shrieked. Not a head turned.

Not even a blink.

She could feel herself fading. Not just from the room—but from their memories. From their lives.

She didn't exist here. Not anymore.

The new wife smiled again. The Count poured her another glass of wine.

And Ember sat beside them, as if she'd never belonged anywhere else.

Forgotten.

Replaced.

Alone.

"You can't do this to me!" she screamed, clawing at the walls. "I built this house! I carried this family!"

—x—

Riven withdrew his hand, the connection to the nightmare realm severing like a blade pulled from flesh.

His breathing came in shallow, ragged pulls—chest rising and falling as if the air around him had thickened. His pulse thudded slow and heavy beneath his skin, each beat echoing in his ears like a war drum dampened by distance.

A thin stream of blood traced from one nostril, curling down the edge of his lip. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing crimson across pale skin.

Then, with effort, he rose—shoulders tense, shadow trailing behind him like a living thing.

"She'll be locked in it for hours," he said quietly. "But it'll feel like centuries for her."

Nyx emerged from his shadow, arms folded and eyes gleaming. "Poetic."

"She deserves to feel those things," Riven replied. "To be erased. Replaced. Made… irrelevant."

Ember stepped forward and knelt beside the Countess's trembling form. "It definitely feels like a fitting punishment."

Riven glanced down at the Countess one last time—her body slack, eyes wide and unseeing as the nightmare consumed her mind from the inside out. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, cold and sharp.

"This isn't all I have planned for this family," he murmured. "But her losing her mind… is a good place to start."

He turned, shadows trailing in his wake like a living cloak.

"It's too soon to make a stronger move," he said, more to himself than the others. "Not yet. I still need to return. Regain my strength. And when I do…"

His gaze flicked back to the Countess one last time.

"I'll deal with the Count personally."

He looked to Ember. To Nyx.

"Let's go."

And the three of them vanished into the dark, leaving behind only silence—and the beginning of madness.