Yellow Jacket

The lookout sat high above the broken edge of the Wilds, built into a collapsed rail tower that had been welded and reshaped into something functional. No symmetry. Just reinforced intention. Rusted steel cables wrapped its bones. Copper conduits sparked in loops across the sides, feeding power into the bones of old antennae. The Cult of Iron didn't build for beauty. They built to hold.

It stood like a wound that had scabbed over, solid but never healed. Plates of weathered hull metal curved into walls that bore the weight of storms. Some sections looked melted into place. Others were hammered by hand, reinforced with patchwork rivets and scavenged braces.

The gates didn't open when they arrived.

Forty-three people, all scarred by heat and distance, stood at the threshold of the Cult's border. Their silhouettes flickered in the fading light, more shapes than people, hunched beneath gear, rain-wrapped in silence.

Warren didn't signal. He just stood.

Styll shifted in his coat. Wren rested one hand against her pack strap, eyes narrowed against the wind. Nanuk's weapon stayed slung, but his fingers flexed. No one else spoke.

The wind pressed through the broken fields behind them, dragging mist and memory in its wake. Somewhere in the distance, the molten waves still crashed, but this place, this perch, was quiet. Elevated. Watched.

Someone exhaled too loudly. A scout near the rear.

A single slit opened in the barricade. A mechanical iris widened, then narrowed. It made no sound save the soft buzz of old servos.

One word came through the speaker: "Harrow."

The gate didn't groan. It clicked. A slit in the barricade unlatched just wide enough for a figure to step out.

They weren't like the last one.

This Harrow was younger. Slimmer. Warier. Their coat was less ceremonial, more tactical, built for movement. Their face was hidden behind a veil of iron-mesh fabric. No rebreather. Just filters. Their hands held no weapon, but their stance was tight.

They didn't speak immediately.

They looked.

At Warren. At Wren. At the number behind them.

Forty-three was not a normal number.

Their head tilted slightly. "You're early," the Harrow said. "And large."

Warren stepped forward. "We carry tribute. Not weapons. Not threats."

The Harrow's gaze swept the line again. "Or a cover story. That many bodies in this stretch? Could be a warband. Could be marauders."

Warren held out the token: the mark of a Harrow, aged and scorched. A mark that made him something few outside the Cult were ever permitted to be, a Harrow in name, not the title but the honor. One almost never given. Many within the Cult sought their whole lives to earn and never did. It wasn't meant to be worn lightly or shown without cause.

The Harrow stepped forward one pace. Reached. Took it.

Paused.

Fingers closed around the token with a familiarity that betrayed something like hesitation.

"You were given this?" they asked, not quite disbelief, not quite recognition.

He kept silent.

Wren spoke. "Yes. It was given to him. Not stolen, if that's what you're asking."

The Harrow turned the token once in their hand, held it to the light. The scorched pattern reflected the sky.

"If you're lying," they said softly, "this place will spit you out. Steel doesn't bend for stories."

Warren met their gaze without speaking.

They nodded once.

They turned. The gates creaked. Old metal. Rusted. Maintained in memory, not in polish. It was a sound like pressure equalizing between two truths.

"You may enter. But not all at once. One ring, one group. Five and a shadow."

Nanuk stepped forward. "Why the limit?"

The Harrow didn't look back. "Because this place wasn't built for crowds. "

Warren nodded. "We'll stage in rotations."

He reached into his pack and produced a small, weather-sealed pouch. Then another. Then two more. He kept going.

Ten in total.

Each was marked, each sealed with the scorched-black tie of cultivation, the weave of someone who knew how to store life like it was scripture. The symbol of careful intent.

"We also carry this," Warren said.

He stepped forward and held them in both hands, offering them openly. "Ten bags of seedstock."

The Harrow's eyes flicked downward. Then locked.

"What is it?" Their voice was no longer sharp. It trembled just slightly.

"Seedstock," Warren said. "Enough to start layered soil beds for over a hundred growing rings. Maybe more. Depending on how your infrastructure holds."

The Harrow took one of the bags slowly, reverently, like it might collapse from the weight of meaning. They opened it only slightly. The scent that rose was unmistakable: dry husk, viable core, untouched by mold. Rare beyond measure.

They closed it with both hands. Stared at Warren.

"This… this could feed thousands."

No answer came.

"This could feed a city," the Harrow whispered.

Still he said nothing.

Their voice grew smaller. "Where did you even find it?"

"Doesn't matter," Warren said. "We brought it to be used. Not named."

A long silence followed. Then the Harrow lowered their head.

Not bowed. Lowered. The gesture of someone who understood the difference between faith and proof.

"You could have sold this to and trader. Bartered it for shelters or passage. And you gave it to us?"

Warren's tone didn't change. "You'll do more with it than they ever would."

The Harrow swallowed. Then spoke more clearly, voice edged with something raw.

"You all may enter. Together. Not in stages. Not in shadows. All of you."

They turned toward the inner gate. Then stopped.

"It is not because of your number or your token. It is because you gave us a future we could not have made alone."

They raised their hand and gave the signal. "Open the inner wall."

From the parapets, the guards responded. A new tone rang out, low, bell-like, rich with layered harmonics. Not a warning. A welcome.

The Harrow remained where they were, cradling the seedbags like they were flame in cloth.

Then they moved, fast but controlled, stepping ahead of the group and signaling to the watchers. Their voice carried with sudden clarity:

"The gate is open. Fully. These are not intruders. They have a wondering Harrow with them. Let every watch post know. This tribute stands beyond transaction. It is kinship."

The Cult responded without delay.

From the tower balconies and the crenelated walkways of welded steel, figures emerged. Acolytes in burn-shielded robes, mechanics with soot-black gloves, archivists still wearing lenses fogged from their workstations, all stepped forward.

Not to block them.

To greet them.

Some bowed. Others made the Cult's three-gear sign, slow and deliberate.

An older nun stepped from behind a scaffold, eyes wide. "Ten bags? That's more than we've seen in fifteen cycles."

A young boy, robes far too big for his frame, whispered, "They brought food for the walls. Real seed."

A quiet wave of reverence followed them down the corridor.

The mist that clung to the floor seemed to part gently in their wake.

Warren didn't speak. He just walked with the weight of what he'd given.

Wren kept close, one hand brushing against his coat now and then.

Nanuk remained at flank, scanning not for threats now, but for faces. Every one of them was watching.

Cassian whispered behind him, "I've never walked into a place like this without being eyed for weapons."

Deana murmured back, "That's because You've never brought a miracle."

Calra shifted her weight and smiled under her breath. "Careful. They might start praying to us."

The Harrow walked ahead now with head bowed, not out of shame, but acknowledgment. They spoke quietly, but their voice echoed like a blessing:

"This place remembers what you've done. Even if you never return, it will hold the shape of your steps."

And as the gate closed behind them, no one felt it lock.

Behind them, the others began to shift, pulling gear tighter, forming lines out of reflex.

The Harrow raised one hand. The gate opened wider, revealing a narrow corridor flanked by reinforced struts and diagnostic panels still humming with soft power.

Inside, the air shifted.

The Cult was watching.

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From the parapets, two more figures appeared, barely more than shadows behind mesh and iron, weapons holstered but eyes gleaming through cracked visors. One held a scatter lance. The other a relic flare, not lit, but ready."

Next they entered a corridor. Rust clung to the edges like a breath held too long. Each bootstep echoed against metal. The walls were too close. The lights too soft.

Styll stayed pressed against Warren's chest.

The Harrow didn't guide them. They just walked ahead. Not pausing.

The Cult didn't explain.

Not like the ones they knew. Back in the Yellow, the Cult's presence had always been direct, helpful, half temple, half shelter. Here, the tone was different. Not hostile or unkind. But reserved. Guarded. Like a flame kept behind glass.

Even as they welcomed Warren and his fold with reverence, there was a sense of separation. A distance. As if this branch of the Cult still weighed every kindness against the weight of risk.

And they were watching.

The first chamber wasn't wide. A checkpoint more than a welcome hall. Rusted consoles lined the left wall, blinking with faded data. One of the acolytes traced a finger across a screen that buzzed gently in response. Nothing aggressive. Just awareness.

Metal benches sat flush against the far wall, unused. Their placement was intentional. This wasn't a place to rest. It was a place to wait. To be processed.

Wren's boots squeaked slightly against the floor. Her eyes scanned overhead piping, tracing the old cooling systems looped into redundant coils. Not for temperature. For ritual.

Nanuk glanced at a set of embedded numbers above the threshold. Coordinates, maybe. Or dates. They were burned in, not painted.

The Harrow stopped at the far end and turned back to face them.

"This is the first gate," they said. "It stays closed unless you're expected. Or unless you bring something the Cult needs."

Warren didn't move. "And today?"

"You bring hope," the Harrow answered. "And we have answers."

Wren looked to Warren, but he didn't flinch.

Behind them, the gate sealed shut with a sound like stone being split.

A lock engaged in four places. Not mechanical. Rhythmic. Like music played through iron.

"No need to disarm," the Harrow said. "But leave your noise outside. Steel doesn't tolerate shouting."

Deana shifted slightly. "We're not here to fight."

"Then you'll survive," the Harrow said.

They turned again and led the group deeper, down a narrow path flanked by hanging cables and relics strung like prayer chains.

Each relic bore a tag. Names. Series numbers. Years long expired.

Calra reached out, almost touched one, but stopped herself.

"They log their memory in metal," Isol whispered, her voice almost reverent. "Every scrap matters. I've never stepped inside the Cult before… gods, the history here, this is a library written in rust and alloy."

The walls seemed to breathe. Not alive. Maintained.

Somewhere deeper, a slow chant echoed. Barely audible. Like a prayer being whispered through exhaust vents.

The Harrow said nothing as they walked. But their posture changed because they now walked beside someone marked.

Warren wasn't just a guest here. He was something more meaningful. A wandering Harrow, by token and intent. And those who followed him were his fold.

That was how the Cult read it.

They were reverent.

he expedition finally stopped moving. Not because they were ordered, but because the tension bled out of their legs. No more molten tide. Solid floor and walls that held.

They ate in shifts. The Cult had not offered food, but they'd offered space, benches bolted into the old ribs of the lookout. It was quiet. Not temple quiet. Not reverent. Just... still.

Styll uncurled from Warren's coat and prowled the edges. Calra dozed against a bulkhead with her lance across her knees. Nanuk remained standing, ever-watchful. Others traded gear, repaired laces, or drank water in slow, grateful sips.

Cassian frowned. "We stopping long?"

Warren looked up. "Long enough."

"We're close," Deana added. "So why wait?"

Warren ran one thumb along the edge of the table, then nodded toward the inner structure. "Car called this place a lookout. He didn't mean it as a name. He meant it literal."

He rose and moved toward the far end, past the rows of cables and narrow halls. At the top of a reinforced stairwell, a locked hatch stood. The Harrow had already left it open.

Inside was a chamber just large enough for one or two people. At its center: a telescope, ancient, but lovingly repaired. The glass was clean. The adjustments smooth. It looked out across the dark horizon.

And there, far off, rising in the hazy distance, was a jagged sprawl of lights and smoke.

The Warlord's domain.

Warren leaned forward, studied it in silence. The world around him grew quiet, like the world itself had taken a breath and held it, like it wanted to know what approached. Even the rusted bones of the lookout seemed to pause.

Bootsteps behind him.

"Fancy seeing you up here," a voice said, amused, light, entirely out of place.

Warren turn immediately.

A scavenger's silhouette: lean, wiry, patchwork coat draped like a storyteller's robe. One eye was dull metal, cybernetic and old-world, the other sharp as flint. His voice curled at the edges like it had lived in a dozen dialects and forgot which one it belonged to. Nothing about him was impressive, until he moved. Then he was nothing but presence.

Switch.

"Not many come this far," Switch continued. "Fewer still survive the crossing. I'm impressed. And you know how rarely I say that."

Warren exhaled once through his nose. "Why are you here?"

"Because the horizon's bleeding, and you're the knife." Switch stepped beside him, looking through the scope without touching it. "Because I want to see the rain wash away the sun."

Warren snorted. "You're not here for poetry clearly."

"I'm here for what comes next," Switch said, shrugging. "Poetry's a prelude. I watch the fall."

"You always talk like this?"

"Only when i speak."

Warren turned, warier now, gaze narrowing. "You shouldn't be out here."

"I'm here to see the world clearly. It's shifting, bending, making space for you, and that kind of change doesn't go unnoticed. Doesn't take a god to notice that."

"That what are you? A god?"

Switch smiled without humor. "I'm what happens when stories outlive the people who wrote them."

"So a ghost."

"Sometimes. Sometimes a warning. Sometimes a gift. Depends on the ending."

They both looked back through the telescope.

"You'll need more than luck," Switch said quietly.

"I've got more."

"Do you?" Switch tapped his temple. "Tyrants don't die with screams. They die with whimpers in the dark, usually by the hands of the ones they thought they broke."

"That's not my path."

"No," Switch said. "Yours is paved in blood and pain."

Warren tensed, but Switch's voice stayed light.

"I watched a king drown in a mirror because he couldn't see past his own reflection. I saw a girl carry her mother's name too long and collapse under the weight. I once walked with a man who thought he could steal his way to godhood."

"And you? What did you become?"

"A witness. A thief of endings. A teller of almosts."

"You're full of shit."

Switch grinned. "Shit makes the best fertilizer."

Warren reached forward, a flicker of warning flashing through him.

Switch didn't move. Just sighed.

"Careful. You grab too hard, you miss the thread."

"You know too much."

"I forget more than I remember. But some things… stick. Like you Drift Walker."

Warren lunged.

Fingers closed on air.

Switch dissolved, no resistance, no flash. Just a bloom of nanites, soft and silent, scattering into nothing.

And the silence that followed was complete.

He was gone.

No sound. No step.

Just absence.

Warren stood alone again, staring through the space where a man had stood, one who somehow knew his class, a truth he had never spoken aloud to anyone beyond his closest allies.

Warren returned to the telescope, his hands steady, his breath slow. Switch was gone, but the tension lingered, like heat clinging to glass long after the fire fades.

He adjusted the lens, bringing the Warlord's territory back into view. From this angle, the approach was deceptive. What should have been open land was fragmented: staggered buildings, angled barricades, and uneven terrain that choked sightlines in all directions. It wasn't just bad design, it was intentional. Someone had laid out the architecture to obscure the coastline, to keep the Glass Ocean hidden.

Warren narrowed his eyes.

New structures were rising. Crude scaffolding clung to their frames, but the orientation made no sense unless the goal was concealment. None had the look of habitations or storage. They weren't defenses either, no fortified corners, no sloped roofs for rainfall. Just walls. Blind, ugly walls.

He traced the line between the Warlord's central compound and the ocean beyond. From ocean to stronghold, the land looked navigable. But the reverse? It was treacherous. Natural gullies had been deepened, slopes cut sharper, debris scattered in what could almost be mistaken for runoff, until you looked closer and saw the pattern.

It was a maze. Not to keep people out, but to keep them blind.

His gaze drifted toward the towers. Four of them, mounted with what looked like long-range spotters. Their scopes pointed not toward the sea or sky, but inward, watching their own territory.

That was telling.

They hadn't prepared for this approach. No defensive cannon nests. No reinforced bunkers along the coastward edge. No landing pads. Because why would there be? No vehicle could survive the molten tide. No convoy could roll across burning glass. And if skycraft approached?

Warren knew the math. So did they.

If air units ever flew over the ocean, it wouldn't be raiders, it would be the Nine. And if the Nine were coming, the Warlord would already be dead.

This crossing, this ridiculous, suicidal, impossible foot march, was the only gap in the armor.

And they hadn't seen it coming.

Warren adjusted the telescope again, this time locking on the compound itself.

A fringe of trees stood off to the far left of the compound, tall, maybe taller than the walls, but Warren didn't focus on them. A single flare of movement: a figure, half-visible, standing near one of the central spires. He couldn't see the face. But the posture said everything.

Arrogant. Relaxed. Unbothered.

Good.

Let them think no one's coming.

Let them think the ocean still burned any who walked it.

Let them sleep.

But Warren wasn't just looking anymore. He was mapping the flaws.

He followed the crude scaffolds and thought of pressure points. Bottlenecks. Lines of sight. Weak walls meant for concealment, not defense. A handful of bodies in the right places could bring it all crashing down.

One barricade blocked three angles. Take it out, and any patrol would lose coverage of the entire rear quadrant.

He scanned the newer buildings again, then looked past them. The roads were thin, gravel-choked paths that wound around the sprawl like veins trying to avoid clot. They weren't meant for escape, they were meant to delay.

An explosion in the wrong place would create panic. But panic was messy. Warren didn't want messy.

He wanted obedience.

Another turn of the lens, and he caught the edges of a water line. Likely a cistern fed by condensers or repurposed tech. Too exposed. A simple breach would force the entire compound to ration under duress.

Then the food stores. Or what looked like them. He couldn't be sure. But the way guards rotated near the northwest side suggested something worth watching. Something vulnerable.

He smiled again. Sharp and hungry.

Echo Vision helped keep things organized, as long as he kept thinking of this like the fight had already begun. His mind moved faster now, folding terrain and architecture into tactical models. Every weak angle became an opportunity, every blind spot a knife waiting to turn.

A wall, just beside a scaffolding rig, had no real support beams behind it. A fake wall. Or a rushed one. Either way, a weakness.

They had built for show. Not siege.

Warren tracked a long, sloping ridge that ran behind the rear structures. Unassuming, like part of the terrain. But it gave high ground.

Sniper placement.

Distraction teams.

Collapse the tower sightlines with timing, and the compound would go dark for nearly three minutes.

Three minutes of silence could shift everything.

He adjusted again. A plaza, used often, if the ground wear was any sign, marked with scorch and stress cracks. Parade ground or execution site. Either would be valuable.

Because people gather where fear is shown.

Which meant a speech. A reckoning. Or a spectacle.

And Warren could craft a better one.

The internal watchers were a gift. They showed which direction the Warlord feared most.

His own.

He stepped back from the telescope and breathed in the air of the lookout, thin, dry, touched with the faint smell of rust and distance.

The calm before.

A smile tugged at the corner of Warren's mouth.

This would be fun.

And then he turned, descending the stairs, the whole fortress already folded behind his eyes.

Ready to tell the others what he had seen, and how they would break it, piece by piece.

Warren met the others near the mess hall, where most were still resting or rechecking gear. Wren caught the look in his eyes before he even spoke, something had shifted.

"We need to move," Warren said, low but firm. "Tonight."

Several heads turned. Nanuk stood straighter. Calra narrowed her eyes. Grix blinked and leaned forward with interest, like she was already anticipating blood.

"We thought we had more time," Isol said. "Wasn't the plan to wait for the scouts to finish their return?"

"That was the plan," Warren said. "Until I saw what we're up against. They're not prepared. They don't see us coming. That window closes fast. If we act now, if we hit clean, we won't need to stay here another night."

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"What did you see?" Calra asked.

"Weakness. Woven like misdirection, buried under routine and lazy confidence. It's in their layout, in the blind spots they stopped seeing. It's in the way their towers look in, not out. A dozen cracks posing as order. I have the shape now. We can break them in one shot."

Nanuk grunted. "That's bold, even for you."

"Bold's the only thing they won't expect," Warren said.

Wren stepped closer, arms folded. "You think we can take the whole compound that fast?"

"I think we don't need to take it. Just crack it. Fracture the fear they've built around the Warlord. Once we start, the system inside eats itself."

Deana looked unsure. "And what if it doesn't?"

"Then we make it. We don't leave it to chance. We don't leave it standing."

Grix grinned. "Now you're speaking my language."

Isol rubbed his jaw. "You see lines to cut? Routines to disrupt?"

"I see the pressure points. Their structure's tight, but it's not loyal. It's trained obedience. That breaks easier than belief."

Calra asked, "What about the watchers? Those towers?"

Warren shook his head. "They're watching the inside. They're afraid of their own, not what's coming."

Nanuk growled. "Cowards building walls to stare at themselves."

"Exactly," Warren said. "Walls meant to trap, not guard."

Cassian had arrived halfway through and now stepped into the circle. "You sure we can trust the timing?"

Warren nodded. "The sun's already behind us. The ocean's still cooling. This is the only night we'll get the drop."

A silence followed.

Warren scanned their faces. Warriors. Survivors. Some zealots. Some broken things patched together by hope, steel, and spite. But they were his.

"Tonight we move," he said again. "And if it works, we're heading home tomorrow."

This time, there was no cheer. No grand call. Just motion.

Blades checked. Packs tightened. Eyes sharpened.

They believed him. And that was enough.

Zal-Raan was the one to voice the obvious. "The Cult's gates don't open till morning. How are we leaving before dawn?"

Before Warren could answer, a voice interrupted from the edge of the gathering. A figure robed in iron-trimmed cloth stepped forward: the Harrow who had received them at the gates.

"You are here to clear the rust that stains the east," the Harrow said, voice steady and strange. "The Gates of Iron will open for you, Harrow."

He inclined his head toward Warren.

"We will mark the hour. You and your fold will pass as the rust breaks."

No one said a word. The fire crackled nearby. Warren gave the Harrow a single nod.

He didn't ask how they knew. He didn't need to.