Yellow Jacket

The night was alive with celebration. Fires burned high across the ridgelines and central gathering grounds, casting golden light against the darkness above. Stars blinked down like silent witnesses to the impossible: the rise of a Tidelord. Not in myth. Not in ceremony. In flesh.

The members of the expedition moved among the locals like kin reborn. Jurpat was already drunk beyond comprehension, staring up at Calra like she hung the stars herself. Batu, typically granite-faced and unreadable, sat cross-legged near the main firepit, telling old battle stories to wide-eyed children, his voice deep and calm, hands shaping the air with memory. Anza, for once, didn't look like she would break at the slightest touch. She sat quietly, sipping spiced root-brew, watching the sky with something like peace on her face.

Grix and Calra were halfway through a song and fully through several skins of fermented bloodwine. Their voices, surprisingly strong and well-matched, cut through the night with harmonies that shouldn't have worked, but did. Arms slung over each other's shoulders, they swayed in rhythm, too drunk to stand still but too joyful to care. Deana and Nanuk stood near a wrestling ring where tribesmen hurled each other into mud with loud laughter and louder grunts. Deana was keeping score. Nanuk was pretending to not want to join in poorly.

Wren sat apart, but not isolated. The Mothers had dressed her in bridal silks, bright, bone-stitched, heavy with tradition and implication. Strands of black glass beads were woven into her bright red hair, each one clicking softly when she moved. She hadn't agreed. Not really. But she hadn't stopped it either. The older women had whispered about saving face, about this being the only way, and if the world now called him Tidelord, then she must sit beside him as the shores of his heart.

Wren wasn't angry anymore. Just tired. The fire still flickered in her chest, what they had tried to take from her, but she knew what mattered. She looked up across the gathering, through the dancing smoke and scattered torches, and saw Warren in the distance, speaking with Muk-Tah and several elders. And she knew: she would be by his side. Come what may.

She put a hand over her stomach. The thoughts still tangled her gut. But Warren had made his choice. And she would not forget it.

Elsewhere, the great signal pyres burned higher. Eight towers of fire, one for each great tribe. Their light clawed upward, summoning branchlines and minor clans from across the fractured wilds. Some had already arrived. Others still marched.

Cassian was failing, spectacularly, to flirt with Senn by a row of clay ovens when Grix crashed into the moment like thunder. Her words came with a sharp edge softened only slightly by the wine on her breath. "It's cute," she slurred, "that you think she doesn't already know who's claimed you."

She slapped Cassian's ass with a grin that should've come with a warning.

"Mine," she declared to Senn, almost daring her to contest it.

Cassian's face froze in a complicated mess of shock, mild horror, and the faintest flicker of something he wouldn't name aloud, excitement. Grix was chaos in boots, and he knew it. The real question was whether he'd survive the ride, or if he should even try. Only the gods knew the answer to that one.

Yeri and several guards from the Bazaar stood nearby, representing the tribe Car would have led had he remained. Their presence was respected. No one questioned it. Car was blood to the Spine. That was enough.

Zal-Raan lingered behind the main fire, speaking little but smiling faintly. He knew the rites, every carved word and spoken vow, but he'd never thought to see them, Once a challenger by blood and blade, now standing as Tidelord. Zal-Raan had not chosen him. But now, now he accepted him as his Brother.

Cu-Tal danced near the stone ridge, twirling with a pretty young woman from one of the coastal tribes. Laughter followed him like perfume. Even Mabok, the last of the Son's of Muk-Tah, sat drinking with Tarric, both men quiet, watching, maybe waiting.

And above it all, the fire danced. The night bloomed wide.

But the real ceremony, the feast, had yet to begin.

Soon, the last of the tribes would arrive. And when they did, the world would decide what it meant to name a Tidelord.

As the last of the tribes arrived, the chiefs of the seven great branches, plus Muk-Tah, gathered in a broad half-circle near the central pyres. Their voices were loud with pride and amazement.

"Truly, Muk-Tah," one said, clasping his arm with both hands, "your heir a Tidelord. Our father would be proud. The blood runs deep and strong."

Another laughed. "Let us not linger, brother. This is a momentous occasion."

Grix joined them, swaggering in like a storm had loosed her. She wore her weapons like jewelry and her confidence like flame. The tribesmen greeted her with nods and clasped forearms, some bowing lightly. They called her Grixalia, with the reverence due to a chieftain's daughter, second to Car, but never lesser. She grinned at the formality, only half-mocking it.

Cassian was left behind in a wine-hazed stupor, blinking after her as if he'd just been caught in a tornado of teeth, hair, and implication. Horror danced with something sharper behind his eyes.

Meanwhile, Warren was being positioned atop the hide of the slain broodmother in the center of the tribal grounds. The peak loomed behind him like a god's shadow, and the ancestral totems rose around him in silent witness. The skin was laid out flat, cleaned and stretched, edges marked in ochre and glass-thread. It shone faintly beneath the pyrefire.

He sat barechested, scars pale against fresh markings, flames crashing like waves across his collarbone and shoulders, spiraling down his arms. Beads adorned him: black glass and scales from the slain broodmother, woven in deliberate patterns. His body was small, just five feet of lean, honed control, but his presence was undeniable. A storm contained in skin. A blade that did not rust.

Wren was placed beside him, radiant in her bridal silks. Her hair shone with black-glass beads woven into fire-red strands, and though she still carried the weight of what had happened, tonight she glowed. Not with false joy, but with certainty.

Styll was already in Warren's lap, curled and chirruping softly, her little snorts and sneezes barely muffled as she nested deeper into him. Two tribal cats circled, noses twitching, testing the edge of his space.

Wren leaned in, voice low. "Really? This isn't the time for your cat powers."

Warren, watching flickers in the dark, more cats, too many, shuddered. "I really need help with this."

"I finds thems goodest spots," Styll said, eyes half-lidded with lazy mischief.

He stared at her, betrayed. Wren snorted.

One of the Mothers, focused on marking Warren's face with ceremonial pigment, frowned. "Hold still. You've made me give you a unibrow." She muttered and started over.

Then the oldest elder approached, bearing the mantle, woven black hide, stiff with tradition.

Warren looked at it. He did not move to take it.

"You must wear it," the elder said. "It is the mark of the Tidelord."

"I don't want it," Warren said flatly.

"You must," the elder pressed.

"I won't," Warren replied.

The tension snapped. Before the elder could bark again, Ernala stepped between them.

"That's enough," she said gently. "I believe he's made his choice."

She turned to Warren. "I owe you both an apology. My husband has told me what you've done. And I've listened to the ones you came with. Your tribe. They speak of you like myth. Yellow Jacket. Ghost in the Mist."

Wren's brow furrowed. "We don't have a tribe, do we?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," Warren answered.

Ernala smiled softly. "And yet, you do. They've formed around you. They follow you. They speak your names like the old stories. Tidelord is just one title. And you, shoreheart," she looked at Wren with something close to respect, "you're called something, too."

Wren's voice was quiet. "The Last Kindness."

Warren laughed under his breath. "At least Calra's nickname for you didn't catch on. Or would you rather be remembered as the Sleeping Lion with a Really Big Stick?"

Ernala chuckled. "I heard that one. Thought it was a joke."

Wren laughed, despite herself. She didn't want to like Ernala. But this wasn't the same woman who had tried to steal Warren from her. This one… this one seemed like someone else.

Ernala stepped forward. "The Ghost in the Mist doesn't wear a mantle made for others. He wears a warning made real."

She unfolded something bright.

His jacket. Yellow. Sleek. Reforged.

She presented it to Warren.

He rose. The mother painting his face groaned. "Now he has mustaches. Fantastic."

Wren snorted.

Warren ignored both. He took the jacket in both hands and focused.

[Examine]

Material: Synthfiber shell layered with riot-grade composite mesh, stealth foil, and internal organo-ceramic membrane
Durability: Extreme
Structural Stability: Highly stable
Grip/Surface Texture: Matte exterior, internal mesh grips under seal
Weight: Light-moderate
Balance Rating: Centered
Fatigue Resistance: Exceptional

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Sound Signature: Suppressed
Modification History: Mod Installed: Ghost Veil, Mod Installed: Light Armor Reinforcement, Mod Installed: Heatproof Membrane
Origin: Unknown
Notes: Unknown

"Fireproof," Warren muttered.

Ernala nodded. "A gift from this Brood Mother," she said with a hint of dry humor.

Warren sat again, slow and deliberate. Bare-chested, the tribal markings flared across his skin like waves of flame, crashing and curling over scars carved by survival. She laid the yellow coat on him like a mantle: not to clothe, but to crown. He remained small, five feet of lean muscle, but in that moment, with his shoulders straight and the Brood Mother's scales glinting across his chest, he looked less like a boy and more like a war-born king.

The marking mother clicked her tongue. "Hold still, I still have to fix your face before the chiefs arrive."

And all around them, the tribes began to gather.

As the drums fell silent, the eight chieftains stepped forward. Beyond them, a panoramic sight stole the breath from the gathered tribes: Warren seated at the center of the grounds, silhouetted against the looming peak behind him. The ancestral totems stood like monoliths at his back, casting long shadows in the firelight. He sat bare-chested upon the hide of the slain Broodmother, his face and torso marked in tribal ink. The yellow jacket draped over his shoulders like a mantle, the bright symbol of his defiance and claim. Beside him, Wren sat adorned in ceremonial bridal garb, her red hair woven with black glass beads and scaled remnants of the fallen beast. In that moment, they looked less like wanderers and more like royalty made from fire.

The first to speak was Chief Kor–Ven of the Saltcloaks. Broad-chested, sand-blond, and scarred deep at the neck, his voice carried amusement laced with something colder.

"What is this?" he asked, laughing as he gestured toward Warren. "Who is this boy who takes your son's place, Brother Muk–Tah?"

Warren didn't move. Didn't blink.

Kor–Ven stepped closer. "Boy," he said, voice hardening, "do you know it is a crime in our lands to sit in that spot of honor if you did not earn it?"

Another voice answered him. Chief Sey–Ra of the Blackmane, her silver hair braided in cords of bone and dusk-hide, added coolly, "A crime punishable by death."

Kor–Ven turned on the guards flanking the circle. "Why are you allowing this dishonor? Muk–Tah, you should have him burned alive for this."

The guards didn't move.

Muk–Tah took one step forward, voice unshaken. "Brothers. Sisters. This is no crime. The man you see before you is the new Tidelord."

A hush swept the space.

But skepticism crept in like fog. Chief Ha–Lek of the Flintbone tribe narrowed his eyes. "Tidelord? That word carries blood and fire. Where is his tale? Where is his flame?"

Chief Del–Noh of the Bramblemarch spat to the side. "He was not a Son of Muk–Tah last season. What changed? Do we crown strangers now?"

"This man is no kin to us," said Chief Ur–Kul of the Stormbinders, his voice low and hard. "We do not know his legend. We have never heard his deeds."

Even Chief Sey–Ra's voice returned, sharper this time. "You say he killed the Broodmother? Alone? That is no feat for a mortal."

Whispers spread, mutterings from the lesser tribes and warriors gathered beyond the fire ring. The claim was too much. Too bold. Too sudden.

"A trick, perhaps," Chief Del–Noh added. "Some poison. Some coward's play beneath the mountain."

Then Grix stepped in beside Muk–Tah, posture strange for her. She stood still, back straight, voice calm. Almost noble.

"This is Warren Smith. The Ghost in the Mist. The Yellow Jacket. Where we come from, he is kind of a big deal..." She tilted her head, grinning just a touch. "Also, he is Carmine's nephew. So there is that."

That landed.

Chief Ra–Sa of the Red Hook folded her arms, studying Warren. Her face, lined with fire-kissed years, showed recognition. "I remember you. At the bazaar. When we stood with Carmine against Lucas's dogs."

Chief No–Rel of the Bluecoil nodded slowly. "You were the one who came first. You drew the fire away."

Chief Ursan hesitated now, tension visible in his stance. "You say he faced the Natah? Alone?"

Muk–Tah raised his voice. "Not just faced. Endured. Conquered. He brought down the Broodmother."

Even that silenced some.

Chief Del–Noh still scowled. "That beast ruled the flame pools for generations."

"And now her hide lies beneath him," Grix added. "You doubt your eyes?"

Warren hadn't moved. Hadn't said a word. But the way he sat: not slouched, not idle, but composed and coiled, like he'd eaten gods and bled death.

Grix raised her voice once more, this time clear, steady.

"He earned his seat. He survived the Natah. He killed the Broodmother. And he wears the.... wait, where is the mantle? Why are you wearing your coat? I practiced this all day and you go and pull this?"

Grix's voice cracked, slurred slightly from drink, but fierce as ever. Her hands were already moving, ready to shred the nearest ceremonial garb out of spite.

Muk–Tah stepped forward quickly, voice calm but firm.

He placed a hand to his chest. "He is the Tidelord. I swear it. By blood. By fire. By challenge."

And so the silence held, waiting for the storm to speak next.

And then, Warren stood.

He took the yellow jacket from his shoulders and donned it fully, slipping his arms through the sleeves. It fell around him like storm-wrapped steel, a statement louder than any drum.

He didn't speak like a king. Didn't rise with elegance or courtly grace. He stood like a killer.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Flat. And sharp as a drawn blade.

"Send your best. I'll put them in the dirt beneath my feet."

A ripple went through the chieftains. Shock. Disdain. A few drew back instinctively.

Kor–Ven sneered, pointing at Warren. "You sit in a place that does not belong to you. That seat honors centuries of tradition, and you fill it with defiance."

Del–Noh shook his head. "You think yourself equal to us? We are the chieftains of the greatest tribes this world has ever known. Sons of Kal-Gish. Your audacity is staggering."

His voice cut through with bitter edge. "You should be bowing, boy. You should be pleading to stand before us, not lording above us like some crowned wraith."

But Warren did not bow. He did not blink. And Muk-Tah's voice rose, calm and resolute.

"You ask who he is. I answer: he is the Tidelord."

The outrage that followed was not just disbelief, it was insult taken to marrow.

Ursan snarled, "He is no son of the tribes!"

Seyral stepped forward with narrowed eyes. "This one wears no blood we recognize."

Quieter but firm, she muttered, "He's an outsider. A shade."

Ha–Lek barked again, "He claims the Natah? A story told in smoke!"

"He names himself First Son? When did that lie take root?" Del–Noh said.

"He took a place he was not offered," Seyral added.

"He has no ties," said Kor–Ven. "No walk. No oaths."

"He is no tideborn," finished Ha–Lek.

The arguments thickened. Voices overlapped. Chiefs turned on each other. Some doubtful. Some enraged. Pride battled myth. Authority warred with uncertainty.

Ra–Sa didn't speak. Just watched. Car vouched for him, and that was enough to hold her tongue, for now.

No–Rel said nothing either. He only stepped closer to the circle, his arms crossed, eyes pinned on Warren, not with doubt, but with the memory of a fire.

And that was when a quieter voice rose.

"I beg your pardon," said Isol, stepping forward, book in hand. His voice trembled at first but steadied. "But that isn't actually in these laws."

"And who are you?" Ha–Lek barked.

Isol smiled with a kind of sheepish pride. "Oh, my apologies. I am Isoldian Brent, third scion of House Brent. And I know that isn't what you meant to ask."

He held up the heavy text. "I am the Tidelord's, well, my Old Balruesian is a bit poor, forgive me. Dosa-Lorith, I believe, translates to Wave-Singer. Ernala once called me his chronicler, but this book says it's more hands-on than that."

He straightened slightly. "I am the voice of his rule."

Murmurs erupted.

Isol continued. "And as such, I must clarify something: the laws you speak of? They don't apply to him."

"What do you mean, boy?" Ursan growled.

"This is the Book of Dathalto. 'Dathalto' means 'the people' in Old Balruesian, so this is literally the Book of the People. It states clearly: when a Tidelord rises, the only law that binds him is the path he walks. The phrase 'Where he leads, we follow' is not a metaphor. It is mandate. This is a direct translation from the book of your so called laws."

He held up the page.

"All these other traditions, these rites and trials, they apply to you. Not him."

The silence turned sharp.

"He is not the one who must prove worth, because the tide has already turned. And if you cannot stand against the molten wave, then be buried by it."

Warren still hadn't moved.

But the air around him shifted.

It wasn't heat. Not pressure.

It was inevitability.

A few of the chieftains exchanged glances. Some still scowled. Others fell quiet.

Seyral raised her chin. "Even so. Words don't earn right."

Ernala stepped forward then, and her voice cut through like glass against iron. "You speak of stories. I've heard his. They outmatch the deeds of most of you standing here. He didn't inherit his title. He stole it from death itself."

Her gaze swept across them. "You want him to kneel? He walked with the Natah and faced what not even Kal-Gish ever dared."

Nanuk stepped beside her, face hard. "He didn't just face it. He won. He took the mantle by force. I am the strongest of the Sons of Muk-Tah, and he beat all of us. One hand. Bleeding. Alone."

Grix laughed softly. "I liked you before all of this, Nanuk. That's why I nudged him in your direction. Just a little push, you were the only one worth taking."

Nanuk didn't smile. He looked to Warren. "He is my Wayfinder. And I am his first Scar. That's bond enough for any of you."

The crowd quieted. Even the doubters stilled.

Isol adjusted his book, clearing his throat.

"So. Shall we stop screaming and act like the Chieftains you claim to be? Or would you rather keep shouting until the world forgets your names?"

Warren still hadn't blinked.

He took one step down.

And another.

"You want me to beg for your crown? I wear a coat made from fire's last breath. I walked into the mountain and came back with its scream."

He pulled the truncheon from his side, slow and deliberate.

"Come take it."

Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

The cats hissed. Styll growled.

Wren didn't reach for him. She only watched.

Ursan stepped forward, hand twitching toward a blade...

...and stopped when Muk-Tah raised one palm.

"Enough."

The older man turned to Warren.

"They will test you. But they will do so with blades dulled. Not because you need mercy. But because I would rather they lose pride than lose lives."

Warren's voice cut through the hush like a blade through cloth.

"No. Let them come at me with the rage in their hearts. I will break them all until they beg to call me Tidelord through their broken teeth, if they're still able to speak."

"Let them come."

And from the edges of the gathering, the champions of each tribe began to step forward.

But not one of them smiled.

Because they knew.

This was not tradition.

They faced the rising flames.

The challenge hung in the air like a sword suspended at the moment before descent.

Warren stood alone in the center, yellow coat falling behind him like the mantle of a god who'd grown tired of worship. The truncheon in his hand didn't waver. His eyes didn't blink. And his voice still echoed in their bones.

Let them come.

Kor–Ven spat at the ground. "Arrogant bastard. You think we haven't cut down worse than you? You think your coat makes you untouchable?"

Ha–Lek stepped forward, eyes narrowed to slits. "He doesn't speak like a man who wants to lead. He speaks like a weapon left unsheathed too long."

Del–Noh's voice was tight. "This is no trial. This is no rite. This is war-mongering. You ask for a challenge, boy? You will get one."

Ursan didn't speak. Not at first. He stared hard at Warren, hands behind his back, lips pressed thin. His breath came low and slow. A warrior's breath. Not from calm, from preparation.

Seyral let out a sharp breath. "He dares challenge us like this. Alone. As if we are nothing."

Ra–Sa, who had remained still, folded her arms and said only, "He does not speak as a child. He speaks as one who has already killed what we fear to name."

No–Rel grunted, nodding once. "I've seen eyes like that before. In the reflection of my blade, when I faced the Sand Runners. Men who survive that don't bluff. They do."

The gathering fractured into motion.

Some chiefs argued. Others stepped away. Voices clashed like swords drawn in speech.

"He wants blood." "He doesn't understand what this means." "He understands better than any of us." "We are not tools for his legend." "Then prove it."

Ursan raised a hand, and the crowd silenced, if not stilled.

"Let him bleed," he said. "Let him see that words cannot carry the mantle."

"You think he'll fall?" No–Rel asked.

"No," Ursan answered. "But I want to see what he does when he's forced to make someone else fall."

Seyral turned to Ra–Sa. "You back this?"

Ra–Sa didn't flinch. "I just watched a man walk out of fire. He did not scream. He did not beg. He simply walked."

Del–Noh scoffed. "That makes him what? Unburnt? Unbroken? We've seen firewalkers before."

"Not like him," she replied.

Ha–Lek grunted. "Then let him be tested. Not by our champions. By us."

The murmurs rose again, sharper this time.

"He wants to fight the chieftains themselves?" "Madness." "He called all blades. We are blades."

Seyral turned toward the circle again. Her voice cut through the noise. "So be it. We give him what he asked for. Not dulled blades. Not ceremony. Rage."

And slowly, one by one, the chieftains who opposed him stepped forward.

Ursan. Seyral. Kor–Ven. Del–Noh. Ha–Lek.

Their champions followed.

Sons and daughters of the tribes, fifteen in total, three for each chief. Not all were young. Not all were clean. Some bore scars so deep they shimmered in the starlight. One still dripped blood from a blade freshly sharpened.

No–Rel stayed back, gaze cold but unmoved.

Ra–Sa folded her arms and said nothing. Still watching. Still weighing. Still measuring words against truth.

Muk-Tah did not move at all.

The circle was no longer political.

It was a battlefield.

Warren did not smile.

He stepped forward into the dust and drew a line with his foot.

"Come then. Let's see if you can hold the tide."

And five tribes came to break against it.