Yellow Jacket

The night held. Not quiet, but reverent. Fires still burned low across the tribal grounds, casting long shadows that swayed like memory. Smoke curled through the air, faint and dry, tugged by a breeze that never quite made it past the perimeter. The scent of blood was fading, but not gone.

Ash clung to everything. To boots. To breath. To the silence that came after the breaking stopped.

Warren stood at the edge of the firelight, bare-chested. Spiraling flame patterns inked his collarbone and ran down both arms, bold and unmistakable. Around his neck, beads of black glass and shattered Broodmother scale hung in cords, each one placed with deliberate care.

The yellow coat rested over both shoulders. It was nicked and torn in a few places, nothing a little bit of mending couldn't fix.

He was small, still young, still sharp-boned, but no one looked at him that way anymore. The children watched him like a story come to life. The warriors stared like he was an arms-master.

Some faces still held indifference. One man, naked except for a loincloth, looked at him with open hate.

Behind him, Cassian's laughter rang out, sharp, unbothered, and impossible to ignore.

One of the Mothers reached toward the hem of the coat, maybe to adjust it. He moved before she could.

"It's not yours to fix," he said. Not cruel. Just true.

She stepped back. No one else tried.

He hadn't said more than a few words since the fight ended.

Until now.

He lifted one hand.

Rain Dancer activated with no fanfare. Just a shift in the air.

The blood that had soaked into the floor, dried along the edges of stone and skin, began to lift. Not violently. Not in a rush. It came away in strands and beads, lifted by invisible tension. Droplets rose like dust disturbed by a passing wind, curling upward in slow arcs.

Warren didn't look at the crowd. He didn't gesture broadly. He just moved his fingers, once, twice, and the blood obeyed. It didn't shimmer. It didn't vanish. It gathered.

He pulled it away from the fire circles. From the benches. From the space where the rite was to be held. He guided it to the edges of the field, to the far stones where offerings once burned. There, it fell again. Sunk into soil instead of ceremony.

He didn't speak.

But the act was louder than anything he could have said.

The crowd noticed. One elder put a hand to his mouth. A child gasped. Even the drummers faltered.

It was a kindness.

This space would not hold blood tonight.

It would hold her.

Wren stood across the gathering field in full ceremonial silks, bright, bone-stitched, and steeped in tradition. Her hair, bright red and half-tamed, was braided with black glass beads that clicked softly with each breath she drew. The scaled remnants of the slain Broodmother curled along one shoulder, not as armor, but as declaration. She looked stunning.

She looked stunning. And furious. The kind of fury that makes beauty look dangerous, and love feel like a challenge.

One of the Mothers fussed with her shawl. Wren didn't stop her. But her hands curled into fists behind her back. She caught Warren's gaze. Held it. Didn't smile.

He didn't blink.

At the fire's edge, Muk-Tah stood with the chieftains, Ursan, Seyral, Kor-Ven, Del-Noh, and Ha-Lek, in a loose circle. Their wounds were wrapped, their postures wary. None of them spoke to Warren directly. But they kept looking at him like he was still carrying the fight in his hands.

One by one, tribe members began to gather. Isol stood quietly near the back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Warren with a rare stillness. Jurpat was circling near Calra, clearly trying to flirt and somehow failing upward, he kept putting his foot in his mouth, though whether it was intentional or not was hard to say. Ernala ignored him entirely, her gaze instead fixed on the center. Isol stood nearby, close to Warren now, no longer an enemy but already something more, a mentor-in-the-making, quiet, sharp-eyed, and paying attention to every unspoken shift.

Whispers.

"Is it real?"

"They're doing it now?"

"They're really pairing the Tidelord to the girl from not of the tribes?"

"She's his Shoreheart."

"They say she killed three enforcers on her own."

"They say she brought him back from the dead."

"I heard she tamed the beast in the mist."

"That's his, not hers."

"No. That's theirs."

Cassian passed through the murmurs like a knife through fog, waving off rumors with theatrical exhaustion. "Why does no one ever remember that?" Cassian called out, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Cassian sighed dramatically. "Historical neglect, that's what this is."

Grix grinned from beside him, teeth bared. "Shut up, pretty-boy. We're about to watch the worst wedding in the history of war crimes."

Deana crossed her arms, her mouth tight with uncertainty. "Is this really a wedding? I thought that was a joke."

"It's going to be," Nanuk said. "The elders want it. The Mothers want it. They want to bind him here."

Grix muttered, "They both want this. Just wish Car and Florence were here to see it. I bet they'd want Bastard here too. They love that gods-damned cat."

Back at the center, a young boy brought Warren a carved token, something meant for the ceremony. He held it up, trembling.

Warren didn't take it.

He looked past the boy to Wren.

The drums started. Soft. A slow, rising rhythm meant to invoke tradition. They beat like footsteps. Like roots growing.

The elder stepped forward, voice clear. "We gather in witness. To bind the Tide to the Shore. To call forward the next song."

Wren moved forward, each step measured. She didn't look at the crowd. Just him.

Warren stood.

Off to the side, Mabok and Cu-Lan stood close together, half in shadow. Their voices were low, bitter.

"They act like our brother didn't just get buried like a criminal," Cu-Lan muttered. "Like it never happened."

Mabok grunted. "They cheer for him. Cheer like he's their savior."

"He should've never come into the Wilds," Cu-Lan hissed. "Should've stayed whatever he was before. Not the First Son. Not the Tidelord. Nothing."

They didn't speak treason. But they didn't need to. Zal-Raan passed just behind them, silent, and caught every word.

He said nothing. But his jaw set, and his steps slowed. He listened, then moved on, eyes cold.

Nearer the fire, Ernala stood speaking softly with Muk-Tah, her expression caught between curiosity and caution.

"He carries the title well," she said. "But none of us expected a wedding."

Muk-Tah nodded, watching the others gather. "The Tidelord moves different than we thought."

Ursan scratched his beard. "I brought a tribute crate, livestock, old-world textiles, and a bio-fuel generator, and the plasma-blade from my father's war chest."

Del-Noh shifted, tugging at the edge of a fur wrap. "For the Tidelord, I offer what I've guarded for years: a sealed Empire medkit untouched by time, a relic scanner still humming with charge, and an encrypted hardcase salvaged from a collapsed vault transport bearing the crest of the Old Empire. I've never opened it. It could hold schematics, tech, or something rarer. Let them open it together. Let their future begin with a treasure the old world couldn't destroy."

Seyral frowned. "I brought more than a tribute. Ten crates of Empire-caliber diagnostic equipment, enough to outfit a field hospital and keep it running for years. But my true gift is one of the last solar lance prototypes: Empire-forged, tuned to pierce a foot of steel and capable of linking to neural targeting if calibrated. It belonged to my sister, Uyra, who held the last line before the southern ridges fell. She died with honor. She'd want this weapon wielded by someone not just ready to fight, but ready to protect something real. For the Tidelord and his Shoreheart. For what they'll build."

Ha-Lek, quieter than the rest, said, "I brought a full convoy of haulers, ten strong, refurbished and refitted with modular power cores. Enough to move a village, or build one. My people also packed crop seeds, drought-hardened and lab-cultivated, and three containment crates of preserved food cultures: yeast, grain starters, and nutrient algae. For the Tidelord and his Shoreheart, to plant, to feed, and to grow."

Kor-Ven exhaled. "I brought datachips, pre-collapse schematics. All labeled. And I've got an intact AI seed. No memory, no interface. Just a shell, but it could become something."

As the chiefs murmured, Isol stood slightly removed from the crowd, his neat script pressed into an actual leather-bound book, real paper, made by hand, each page pressed and bound with the care of someone who remembered what real books once meant. His pen moved smoothly, even in the low light, capturing the night.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He recorded Warren's silence, quiet but composed. Wren's smile, too, a small, sharp thing that flickered and faded like an ember caught in wind. The whisper of beads. The posture of chiefs. Everything. The history of it.

Nearby, Grix spoke softly again, "Florence and Car would've loved this. They already made jokes about it. I know they will be pissed that they missed it."

Jurpat, close enough to hear, turned and blinked. "They're not here?"

Grix snorted. "They're far. Too far. But they'd still want to see this."

Jurpat brightened. "Wait, wait, I've got something. Mr. Muk-Tah!"

Muk-Tah looked up, wariness returning.

Jurpat grinned. "Let me grab my holoscope. It's with the enforcer gear, locked away. I can record it. Properly. For them."

Calra raised a brow. "What's a holoscope?"

"It captures light and sound and stores it as a full projection," Jurpat explained. "It's not a weapon. It's a memory keeper."

Batu narrowed his eyes. "You're not going alone."

Jurpat held up both hands. "I wasn't planning to. You and Calra come with me. I don't want to mess this up."

Muk-Tah gave a nod. "Go. Be quick."

The trio vanished toward the storage crates.

A few minutes later, they returned, Jurpat triumphant, a strange metallic device clutched in one hand. He adjusted the dial, turned the lens, and the recording began. A soft glow, a hum of resonance. No intrusion. Just quiet witness.

The wedding would be remembered.

The air pulled taut.

Warren stood.

He stepped down from the bench, Styll hopping beside him with a quiet chirrup. The space between him and Wren was ten steps. He took them all.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried.

"This isn't about titles. Or mantles."

He stopped in front of her. "This is about us."

He reached out, and this time, there was ceremony in it. He opened his palm, and she laid hers into it.

"I give you my name," he said, reciting the first line as tradition demanded. "My shield. My fire. My last breath, if needed."

"I take your name," Wren replied, her voice steady. "And I give you mine. My steps. My steel. My last breath, if needed."

Their hands were bound by the elder's thread: a simple cord woven with black glass beads and faded silk, looped once around their joined fingers.

"I vow to match your steps," Warren said. "To carry when the weight is too much, and to walk when the road goes long. I vow to build the future with you, not behind, not ahead. As one."

Wren's voice softened but stayed firm. "And I vow to build with you, to walk when you walk, and hold fast when you cannot. What comes next is ours, always."

He leaned close. Forehead to hers. "You're not marrying a Tidelord," he whispered. "You're marrying me."

She smiled. "Good. Because I'm not pledging to the Tidelord. I'm marrying you."

She leaned in closer, whispered with a grin, "And I'm taking half your shit."

He snorted. She laughed.

Their fingers stayed locked.

The crowd didn't wait for the elder's hand.

A child clapped. Then someone laughed. Then someone cried.

Batu, already red in the face, wiped his nose and whispered, "I always cry at weddings."

Anza held his arm and sniffled. "It's okay. Weddings get the small ones and the big ones."

Styll chirped again, her version of a cheer, and pawed at Warren's ankle before darting over to Wren, dancing in a tight circle.

"Warn! Wen! Happy dayses!" she said, her voice childlike and thrilled.

Jurpat, wide-eyed and earnest, fiddled with his holoscope. He caught the entire exchange in clean, clear frames, but when he overheard Wren's whispered quip, he nearly dropped the scope. Grinning, he rotated it toward Calra.

"She really said that."

Calra rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the smirk. "Of course she did."

Grix shouted, "Finally! Now somebody get me a drink and kiss the bride!"

Cassian raised a jug. "Seconded!"

Petals. Leaves. Fur. Something sailed through the air. Styll tossed something too, absolutely stolen.

Wren kissed him first, hard and sure and unapologetic.

He kissed her back like it was survival.

And the fire roared as if joy had teeth.

Above them, the sky stretched open. The stars watched without judgment. The Glass Ocean far below reflected the heavens, frozen and still, catching firelight like scattered gems. Behind it all, the peak rose, silent, ash-marked, and bearing witness.

Warren didn't say another word.

But when Wren leaned in and whispered something else, whatever it was, it made him smile.

And for the first time since the trial, since the blood, since the storm, he looked like someone who belonged to himself again.

Her Warren.

Her Husband.

The celebration carried on behind them, firelight flickering against tents and drums, but Warren and Wren stood apart. Just beyond the last ring of light, past the stones and ash, they stood on the rise where the Glass Ocean met the land.

Rain had started again. Not heavy, just enough to draw lines in the molten surface, each droplet hissing into steam before vanishing. The whole horizon shimmered, the warped mirror of the ocean catching stars and firelight alike. Warren's coat barely moved in the breeze. Wren didn't take his hand, but she was close enough to feel the heat rising from the cracked earth, close enough that the silence between them was a kind of vow.

"They'll remember it," she said. Not smiling. Just sure.

He nodded. "We have to move soon."

"I know."

They didn't know if they could afford to let the warlord live another day. Or if that single day would be the one that broke them. But they knew the world wasn't going to wait. They hadn't planned for this moment. The wedding wasn't something they'd prepared for. But the Wilds had demanded it. The tribes had pulled it into being.

And now it lived behind them, like firelight clinging to smoke. Beautiful. Real. But already fading as they looked toward what came next.

The sun hung high, half-shrouded behind pale clouds. Light rain misted across the field, soft and warm. It danced across the surface of the black glass, sending tiny droplets skittering along the veins of crystallized ash. The Glass Ocean didn't ripple, but it breathed heat and shimmer like a sleeping god. Above it, the sky fractured in reflections, sunlight warped, multiplied. Behind them, the peak loomed jagged and dark, bearing witness.

Zal-Raan stood near the mouth of the rise, waiting. Nanuk and Senn had already packed their gear. Not everything. Just enough. They were ready. Behind them, others stirred.

Four of the champions from other tribes moved with certainty, not hesitation. They had not sworn fealty, but something older than words passed between them and Warren. One by one, they took their place behind him. They had seen the tide turn. And they knew how to follow power.

Muk-Tah approached quietly, heavy steps muffled by the cooled grit. "You know," he rumbled, "we could go together. Bring the tribes to the warlord's camp. End this before it spreads."

Warren didn't turn. "We both know the Glass won't hold thousands."

Muk-Tah said nothing for a moment.

Then Warren continued. "Take the tribes to the Yellow. Find Car. Find Florence. Tell them the new Tidelord sends a flood, but the ocean needs shores to return to."

Ernala stepped forward beside Muk-Tah. Her expression was unreadable. "We've never moved all of us. Not since the founding. This is our home."

Warren looked back over his shoulder, eyes cutting through the dark.

"I know. It's not fair," he said. "But my home is a prison we were told was an honor to die for. I'd like to free it from the ones who hold it."

A silence followed.

Then Wren spoke, soft but certain. "We won't ask you to come. But if you do, it won't be as followers."

Warren nodded. "We go with forty-nine. Maybe more. Maybe less. But those who walk the Ocean with us will shape what comes after."

Muk-Tah exhaled. Ernala turned away slightly, her gaze lost to the glass.

"The gifts the chiefs gave us," Warren added. "They're not for now. They're not for this camp or this night. They're for what comes next. The future. I'd like my home not to be a graveyard. I want it to be a new chance, something more than the Green can touch."

Zal-Raan stepped up beside him. "The wind's shifting."

"Good," Wren said. "We move at sunset."

The midday light shimmered on the glass below, casting back a fractured mirror of sky and cloud, broken and strange.

And behind them, the drums began again, faint, but not gone.

The first step onto the Glass was the hardest.

The molten mirror stretched before them, still steaming in places, its surface a barely-cooled skin stretched tight over something that still writhed beneath. The sun hung low behind them, casting long shadows over the shore as Warren stepped forward first, the toe of his boot pressing against the fragile edge.

It cracked.

A high, keening noise split the air as the top layer splintered, flexed, and then held. Just barely. Warren took a breath, shifted his weight, and moved forward. Each step came with risk: not every patch of the Glass Ocean had cooled fully. Some pockets still wavered like syrup under thin ice. One wrong step and a person would vanish, melted, swallowed whole. And the Ocean would move on like they'd never existed.

One by one, the expedition followed. The original forty-six, and more now: champions from the tribes who had seen what Warren was becoming, and had chosen to follow not because he asked, but because they could see his rise like a stormfront. Zal-Raan walked with him. Senn and Nanuk, silent but resolute.

They would walk for six hours through the first night. Only then would they reach the first island, a natural rise of obsidian ringed by high cliffs of cooled slagglass and jagged. It was the only safe haven before dawn. If they didn't make it by then, the molten waves would surge again, and the heat would kill anything caught in the open.

The second day would be worse. Another eight hours of traversal. Another ring of safety. And the third push, final and unforgiving, would be a sprint. No breaks. No shelters. They would have to run across a terrain that boiled beneath their feet, fully geared. If they didn't reach the far shore by sunrise, they would burn.

Warren had told them all what the journey entailed. The risk. The pain. The likelihood of death.

No one stepped back.

Not even Tarric.

The air shimmered around them, heat distorting the horizon. Every breath felt too thin, too dry. Even the wind seemed to move differently above the Glass.

He looked to each of them. Warriors, scavengers, dreamers. Survivors.

This wasn't a march. It wasn't a charge.

It was a crossing into myth, not because they wanted it to be, but because the world had made it so.

They stepped together.

And the Ocean waited.

The sun's light scattered across the Glass in shifting patterns, casting broken reflections of their group as they moved. Every shadow looked unfamiliar, twisted by heat and angle. It felt like they were being watched by their own ghosts.

Zal-Raan walked toward the front, just behind Warren. His steps were deliberate, focused. Gone was the sneer, the swagger, what remained was purpose. Each step he took was not for pride, but for proof. That he belonged. That he could carry his weight.

Senn kept her pace light, eyes scanning the horizon. Her spear shifted like an extension of her will, always in motion, always ready. Her focus never broke. Not even when the Glass flexed beneath her with a sickening groan.

Batu cloak fluttered in the light wind, the only thing moving freely. His expression was unreadable. He didn't speak, but when one of the newer tribe champions slipped slightly, he reached out without looking and steadied them.

The first hour passed in tense silence. Then someone began to hum. A low sound. Just a melody. Wordless. Familiar to no one and everyone.

Deana picked it up next. Then Senn.

Even Warren found himself breathing in time with it.

They didn't speak, not in words. But the sound held them together.

Grix walked somewhere in the middle, grumbling every time the glass cracked too loudly underfoot. "This is stupid," she muttered. "Glorious, terrifying, probably suicidal, but still stupid." She never turned around, though. Never hesitated.

Isol scribbled constantly. He had made a strap out of twisted cloth to secure the book to his chest, so he could flip it open with one hand and write with the other. Sweat ran down his face. But he documented every moment.

Jurpat kept pace just ahead of him, carefully holding the holoscope to record forward motion. It flickered now and then, the Glass playing havoc with its readouts, but he didn't complain. He adjusted, adapted.

Wren and Calra walked side by side, silent but alert. Calra's eyes gleamed faintly with that quiet burn she always wore when something mattered. Wren was unreadable, until she reached out and tapped Warren's shoulder once. Just a tap. No words. Then she nodded.

The first bubble of heat burst near Anza's leg. A vent cracked open just ahead and a hiss of superheated air shot upward. She leapt back instinctively. Batu caught her with one arm.

"You alright?"

She nodded, wide-eyed. "Just didn't see it."

"Watch your footing," he said, then looked to the others. "They're waking beneath us."

Not even halfway yet.

Deana walked with her hands loose at her sides. Her fingers tapped rhythms into her thigh, counting. Timing. She didn't speak either, not until Warren looked back.

"We'll make it," she said.

He nodded.

Behind them, the Glass shifted again.

A noise, like a sigh, escaped the world beneath.

Another vent burst, this time farther out, a sharp exhale of mist and steam. The surface there glowed faintly before settling. But it reminded them all of what they walked over.

Living heat. Held back by breath and courage.

The youngest of the tribal champions, a girl no older than seventeen, whispered a prayer. She didn't stop walking.

A chunk of the path shattered beneath one of the older men. He dropped, screamed, but the glass caught him again. Bruised. Burned. Not gone. He kept walking.

People tried to help him up. He waved them off.

Warren slowed until he was beside him. "You still in?"

The man nodded. "Still here ain't I."

Warren moved forward again.

Every minute was measured in risk.

And yet, they moved like a single breath pulled across the world.

The Glass cracked. The Glass whispered. The Glass threatened.

But it did not win.

Not yet.

Ahead, the island rose slowly out of the glare. The cliffs shimmered in the heat haze, distant and unreachable.

But they were real.

And they were close.

"Two hours left," Wren whispered.

He nodded. "We make it."

And they stepped again.

Together.