Yellow Jacket

By the time the first light crept over the hills, no one slept.

They had camped only hours before, but the night had cracked something open in all of them. The truth didn't settle. It splintered. For most of their lives, they believed the city was the last holdout. The final breath of civilization. But now, the illusion lay shattered at their feet, and every step forward tasted different.

They weren't the last line.

They were the outermost edge of a forgotten map.

Warren stood at the perimeter of the camp, coat still soaked from the rain, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The mist hadn't lifted yet, but he didn't need clarity to know what direction he was going. He'd felt it take shape in the silence after Isol's story, felt it in the way people listened, not just because they believed him, but because they wanted to.

The Nine had cities. Mega-cities. Skies built from algorithms. Worlds sculpted to resemble paradise. They'd kept it hidden, buried behind theater and fear, while feeding the edge with scraps and silence. But Warren knew now.

And knowing was the beginning of the end.

This was no longer about the warlord, or the Arc, or even the expedition itself.

This was about scale.

About power.

About what the Yellow could become if they stole back everything they'd been told was lost.

Warren didn't believe in destiny. But he believed in taking what the world refused to give.

Behind him, the camp began to stir. Boneway scouts prepped the animals. Grix hummed while she cleaned her clatterfangs. Deana stood silent, sharpening her blade with a tension that hadn't eased since yesterday. Nanuk passed quietly between groups, checking packs and handing out rations without a word. Calra sat with Wren near a damp log, going over one of their older maps, tracing paths with a half-broken stylus and a furrowed brow.

The longer the sun climbed and the clouds began to break, the camp grew louder. Rain still fell in a light mist, but golden shafts of light pierced through in places, streaking across the wet ground and catching in the steam rising from the morning fires. Someone managed to get one lit near the edge of the clearing. Someone else cursed when it smoked too hard and nearly choked out their breakfast. The Boneway warriors joked in their harsh dialects, tossing scraps of dried meat at one another between sips of bark tea and mouthfuls of char. Jurpat tried to join in and got hit square in the chest with a strip of smoked lizard. He laughed anyway, rain glinting off his cheeks in the new light.

Warren had spent most of the night speaking with Isol, the man who looked like a slightly weathered copy of the other two enforcers but was apparently decades older. He'd turned out to be a fountain of information once he understood that Warren wasn't going to beat it out of him. The understanding was simple: no escape attempts, no sabotage, and in return, no brutal executions. They'd help where they could, and so far, they'd honored that deal.

Isol shared more than Warren had expected. About the cities. About the Houses. About how the Enforcer Care Program offered hidden perks, including, apparently, a form of longevity. He wasn't immortal. But every day he felt younger, looked younger. Reverse aging, Isol had called it, though he admitted he didn't understand the mechanism. Only that eventually, he'd stop somewhere in his prime. An expensive feature, often overlooked.

Warren had asked if he wasn't afraid of being branded a traitor for telling him all this. Isol just chuckled.

"Honestly, I might. But you might be the most fascinating people I've ever encountered in all my days."

Jurpat, who'd stuck close to Warren all morning like a puppy pretending not to be one, chimed in: "Yeah. You seem way more real than anyone in the holos."

Isol had grinned at that. "Because he is real. There's something rather fun about trying to beat the system of oppression. It's why I joined with the House I did, back when the Nine split from the Empire. And now you've given this old man a new rebellion to see rise or fall with his own eyes. Well, the ones I'm using, anyway."

Jurpat wasn't much help, not yet. He was more kid than soldier, but he had energy and heart and Warren could see that he was trying. Tarric, on the other hand, was different. Quiet, deliberate. He'd accepted supervision under Batu and Cassian without complaint. He didn't ask questions. He just worked.

They weren't trusted. Not yet. But they were being watched. And more importantly: they were being used.

They weren't ready. None of them were. But that didn't matter anymore.

They were moving anyway.

Muk-Tah's voice rose above the soft clatter of morning prep. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the sound like a drawn blade.

"Move out. We don't wait for stragglers."

There was no fanfare. No rallying cry. Just the shift of motion that came when orders were understood without needing to be explained. The haulers groaned as their systems came online, engines humming low under the rain-slicked hulls. Gangplanks retracted. Lights blinked across the segmented chains of armored transport, and soon the Boneway caravan began to slide forward, gliding over fractured earth with the quiet grace of a beast built for war.

Troops filed into place, some perching in open hauler bays, others inside, checking systems, gear, and readouts. The scent of oil and damp earth hung in the air as the linked transports drifted out of camp.

Warren stood near the front viewing plate of the lead hauler, flanked by Wren and Muk-Tah. Jurpat was in the rear compartment but peeked out often, head swiveling, eyes wide as the drowned bones of the city passed by.

The first stretch of the day's journey wound through a forgotten district. It had no name anymore. Just remnants: collapsed towers clawed by vines, shattered walkways swallowed by moss and creeper root, roads that ended in sinkholes wide enough to swallow buildings. Nature hadn't reclaimed it. It had warped it.

Windows wept green. Entire floors had caved in, crushed by trees that shouldn't have existed in this climate. Antennas jutted from the growth like the bones of fallen machines, half-eaten by rust and vine.

And then, slowly, the ruins thinned.

What followed wasn't a forest. It didn't match any known biome Warren had studied.

The Wilds followed no rules, of architecture or biology.

The air grew heavier. Sticky. The rain that passed through the canopy steamed before it reached the ground. Branches spread like arms stretched too far, flat and fanned, luminous at the edges. Some glowed faintly when touched by sunlight, like jellyfish caught in air instead of sea.

Massive stalks rose on twisted bases, pulsing veins inside bark-like shells that spiraled upward in impossible geometry. Underfoot, the ground felt soft but alive, like something thinking beneath the moss.

Fungi spread like brushfire: fluted towers, wide pads, teeth-shaped colonies clinging to rock and bark. Some glistened as if sweating. Others quivered when the haulers passed. The deeper they drove, the more the flora closed in.

The air shimmered with clicks, rustles, and strange calls, none familiar, all alive. Something screeched from high in the canopy, answered by a deep thrum pulsing through the ground. Bioluminescent insects traced loops through the mist, glowing amber and violet. Vine-snakes hung in coils from branches, their scale patterns pulsing in time with the humidity. The Wilds buzzed, breathed, and watched. Not silent. Never still.

Warren leaned forward slightly, watching through the hauler's front viewport as the lead vehicle eased between two wide pillars of curled bark. Light filtered down in soft sheets, catching on translucent leaves the size of glider wings.

Muk-Tah stayed silent. Warren knew better than to interrupt the passage. The Wilds disliked loud voices. They rejected intrusion. They allowed passage, for now.

Behind them, the caravan wound like a steel serpent into the living terrain. Some inside stayed quiet. Some stared. Some avoided the windows entirely.

Jurpat, however, couldn't stop grinning. Every few seconds he popped his head out again, muttering things like "Did you see that one?" and "That thing had three wings, three." He narrated what he saw to no one in particular, thrilled by every shift in color, every unfamiliar movement, like a kid seeing the world unfiltered for the first time.

Isol watched him with patient amusement, sitting with arms crossed. But every so often, he leaned forward, taking in the terrain with a sharp glint in his eye. He muttered observations under his breath, notes on the way certain stalks grew against gravity, questions about the bioluminescent insect patterns, a running theory on the fungal colonies shifting shape based on vibration. "It shouldn't be this coordinated," he said once, to no one in particular. "It's too chaotic in design. Almost as if the environment edits itself depending on who's observing. Fascinating."

He paused to scribble something in a worn digital pad, frowning when the screen distorted slightly from the humidity.

"You'll burn out your brain before we even hit the treeline proper," he muttered to Jurpat, but his tone held more wonder than warning. Jurpat ignored him.

Warren made his rounds. He found Anza and Yeri sitting near one of the rear holds, shoulders tense, eyes wary. They didn't flinch when he approached, but they didn't meet his gaze either. He knelt, kept his voice low.

"You holding up?"

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Anza's jaw clenched. Yeri answered first. "It wasn't your fault. Holt... that wasn't something you could've stopped."

Anza didn't argue. But her eyes slid to the other hauler. Where the enforcers rode.

"I don't trust them," she said. "That face. I know they all have it, but it's the face that caused his death."

Yeri nodded slightly. "It's not fair, but it's true. They wear the same face. And it's hard not to see it when I close my eyes."

Isol and Jurpat avoided them. Guilt or instinct, it didn't matter. They gave the two a wide berth. Tarric didn't. He didn't offer apologies or comfort, but he didn't flinch either. He passed them like any other member of the expedition, acknowledging, but not accommodating, either.

Warren stayed a moment longer. Then he rose and moved on. They didn't need words. They needed space. Time.

And the Wilds gave neither.

He returned to the front of the hauler, hand resting loosely on the rail. That feeling hadn't faded.

The Green tried to map this. They'd sent teams, probes, pulses, paths. They failed to tame it.

He had no intention of taming it either.

He intended to use it.

And the Wilds were listening.

They were in it now.

The convoy slowed.

The haulers' hum dipped into silence as Muk-Tah raised a fist. No orders were given. None were needed. Even those new to Boneway tradition could feel it, an atmospheric pressure, a weight in the mist.

The forest ahead was not like the ones before.

The vegetation shifted. Gone were the reclaimed cities, and the fungal forest. This place was older. Wilder. Untouched. Trees twisted like knotted muscle, bark glistening with sap that shimmered like oil, not water. Strange blooms opened and closed without wind, pulsing like hearts. A soft, constant percussion echoed somewhere deep, too low for words, but too steady for coincidence.

The haulers floated at the boundary, their systems still perfectly functional. But they did not cross. Not because the haulers failed, but because the Boneway chose to stop them

They knew where the line was. There was a line you did not cross without permission. And no man was permitted to pass without the rite.

Grix clicked her tongue but didn't speak. Wren held Styll closer, The good girl she was stayed quiet as stone.

Deana's hand hovered near her weapon. Cassian tensed, looking toward Batu for guidance, but Batu simply waited.

Muk-Tah turned to Warren. "This is your first passage. It cannot be done casually. This land is sacred. Not because of myth. Because of memory. There is a creature, an ancient being that remembers the old ways. And it demands them be followed."

Warren nodded once.

The Boneway chieftain raised his voice, not with volume, but depth. His words carried, not because they were loud, but because they were right. "We honor the keeper of memory. We honor Ulm'Vair. The one who sees souls without sight. The one who hears sin without voices."

A low chant began. Deep throats, weathered by dust and wind, hummed the call. The Boneway warriors dismounted. Even the wild animals were led down. Not a single engine idled. All was done on foot.

Isol stepped closer to Warren, his eyes wide with academic hunger. "You're serious? This is some kind of ritual? This is extraordinary, I've read about rites like this in fractured accounts from the archives, but to see it firsthand, this is so exciting. I've never seen something like this up close."

Warren didn't answer. He was watching Muk-Tah.

Twelve tribesmen stepped forward, each carrying something wrapped in thick reed-cloth. When they laid their burdens down, the cloth was peeled back to reveal raw meat, still steaming with blood. But one offering was alive.

The Sons of Muk-Tah handled the reins themselves, pointedly excluding the outsider and the half-accepted. They moved with quiet determination, honoring the old rite in full, but made no effort to mask their belief that Nanuk had not yet earned back his place among them.

A brayhorn, six-legged, the size of a heavy cow, its voice a low, uncertain rumble. Muck clung to its legs, and its mossy hide shimmered faintly with damp sheen. Its eyes rolled wide, not in panic, but dulled by some herbal calm. The beast had not been harmed, but it would be.

Jurpat's voice broke in a whisper. "That's our price?"

"No," Muk-Tah said. "That's our gift."

The chants stopped.

The air shifted.

Every living thing in the jungle, every bird, insect, even the predators, went quiet. The percussion stopped. The trees stopped moving. Even the mist stopped rolling.

Then came the first breath.

The smell of iron and moss and ash. A scent like the memory of a war.

Cassian swore under his breath. Wren went pale. Calra stepped back without meaning to. Nanuk closed his eyes.

The canopy bent.

It didn't rustle, it bent, bowing as something vast passed beneath it. The smell grew sharper, as if it weren't approaching but unfolding. Revealing itself.

Then they saw him.

Ulm'Vair.

Three haulers high. Built like a fortress carved from earth. No eyes. No face. Just a wall of breathing vents running down a skull that looked like petrified wood and shattered stone. Its mouth was massive, a vertical seam that promised finality, capable of swallowing prey whole without ceremony. Legs thick enough to crush a hauler without slowing. Each footstep left behind not prints, but wet divots that hissed with heat.

He moved slow.

Deliberate.

Sovereign.

Warren felt his chest tighten, not in fear, but reverence. This wasn't prey. This wasn't threat. This was law.

Ulm'Vair stopped before the offering. The brayhorn shifted, its breathing soft, its moss trembling. The legendary creature lowered its massive head, scent vents flaring. It breathed.

One breath.

Then another.

Then Ulm'Vair's mouth, a vertical seam beneath the vents, split open. It was wide, and so fast it barely seemed to move. It was final. The maw closed around the brayhorn in a motion so fluid it didn't feel like violence. One moment the offering stood. The next, it was gone.

Ulm'Vair turned.

And vanished into the trees beyond.

The percussion resumed. The jungle woke. The mist rolled again.

Muk-Tah knelt. "He accepts."

No one moved. The air still held too much weight, too much echo from what had just unfolded.

Only when the tension thinned and silence regained its place did motion return to the world.

Warren turned to Isol. The man looked shaken. "Still think it's just a story?"

Isol didn't answer.

He was still trying to breathe.

The convoy moved again, faster now, as if the land had made its point and no longer needed to prove it. The mist no longer pressed in, it accompanied them, lightened somehow, as though giving way.

Isol sat near the edge of the lead hauler, legs crossed, datatablet unopened on his lap, unread. For once, he didn't need it. What he'd seen could not be recorded. It wouldn't translate. Ulm'Vair had burned something into him, not as fear, but as certainty. This world was not a mystery to be solved. It was a force to be respected, and maybe, if he was careful, understood.

He turned as Jurpat clambered up beside him, still humming the tail-end of some folk melody he'd picked up from the Boneway children.

"You're enjoying this," Isol said, more observation than accusation.

"I thought I'd hate it. The mud, the cold, the smell." Jurpat grinned. "But it's alive out here. It matters. Every step we take means something. Not like before."

Before. Suits and screens. Authority without weight. Fear without consequence.

Jurpat leaned back, eyes scanning the canopy. "I used to think the holos were amazing. All that drama, those tales of survival. But it was all curated, all clean. They never showed anything like Ulm'Vair. That thing... he was real. Real in a way nothing in the Green ever was."

Isol nodded slowly. "They showed you a world shaped to hold you. This one doesn't care what shape you fit. You either survive, or you don't. But if you do, if you understand it, then maybe you get to be part of something greater."

They rode in silence for a while, watching the trees slide past. Then Isol stood, brushing off the edge of his coat.

"I'm going to speak with the others," he said. "I need to know what they need. Warren's plan, it's more than one man's ambition. And if I'm going to help build it, I have to understand it from every side."

Jurpat blinked. "You believe in him now?"

"I believe in power," Isol replied. "And I believe in change. Warren is both. All he's missing is enough knowledge to shape it. That's where I come in."

Jurpat stayed seated, watching the man he thought of as a mentor leave. He didn't say anything. He just smiled and looked over at Calra, who was helping realign one of the gear crates with Batu. She scowled at him when she caught him staring. He waved awkwardly.

She didn't wave back.

He turned back to the trees, grinning.

Nanuk joined him a moment later, silent until he was sure Jurpat wouldn't flinch.

"You're not from the Yellow," the tribesman said.

"Neither are you."

"No. You came from a place wrapped in illusion, where comfort was mistaken for liberty. I was raised in the untamed, wild, yes, but honest. It scared them, so they call us savages."

Jurpat considered that. "Maybe we both got lied to."

"Maybe." Nanuk's voice was low, even. "But now you get to choose."

Jurpat nodded. "That's what scares me. But it's also what makes this real. I never want to go back."

Nanuk didn't reply. He just rested a hand on the young man's shoulder and moved on.

Behind them, Tarric watched from his position in the back of hauler. He hadn't spoken more than a few words to either of the defectors since Ulm'Vair appeared.

Traitors.

He saw them laughing. Giving information to the enemy. And asking pointless questions.

They'd forgotten who they were. Forgotten what they served.

He hadn't. He would remember for them.

He wouldn't act. Not yet. But he would remember.

Later, as the sun began to fade behind the mist-veiled canopy, Muk-Tah called Warren and the others to the front. The haulers had climbed to a high ridge, narrow but steady, carved by forgotten hands and swallowed by the years. It was the only path forward.

But it also held a view.

The jungle thinned. The mist parted.

And there it was.

The Glass Ocean.

It stretched beyond the horizon, a landscape of black crystal and jagged sheen, rippling with luminous veins of red and violet. Wave-like ridges curved across its expanse, caught in eternal motion, though the sea itself never moved. The glow came from deep within the fractures, like veins pulsing with the last heartbeat of a dying star. Each rise and fall shimmered like fluid, though the surface never moved, illusion tricking the eye into believing the surface churned. The stars above mirrored perfectly on the glossy surface, more stars in the ocean than in the sky, a galaxy inverted beneath their feet.

Wren leaned forward, her breath caught. "It looks alive."

"It was once," Muk-Tah said, softly.

Grix opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her usual storm of words caught somewhere behind her teeth. She swallowed hard, then spoke without her normal grin. "It's like standing on the edge of something too magnificent to name. Like the ground forgot what it meant to be soft, and the sky is trying to remember."

Jurpat blinked, stunned. "This is... this is what real looks like."

Isol, for once, had no words. He adjusted his lenses, scanning, capturing, eyes wide with wonder. "I have never seen anything like this up close. This, this is a thesis in every direction."

Nanuk nodded beside him. "No thesis will teach you how to walk it. But I will."

Calra let out a long breath. "It looks like it could swallow us."

"Maybe it already did," someone muttered from the expedition ranks.

Jurpat gripped the rail tighter. "No holo ever showed us this."

Cassian tilted his head. "I thought it was just stories. Like a bluff to keep people from wandering."

"It's no bluff," one of Batu's scouts murmured. "That's an ocean of knives waiting to be sun-kissed."

Another mercenary, helmet under one arm, stared in uneasy awe. "I used to dream of seeing the stars that never end. This... this is what I saw, I think."

Deana stepped up beside them all, gaze fixed unblinking on the horizon, then, without turning, on Warren himself. Her voice was low and reverent, but there was something fierce in the stillness of her tone. " This is a soul made real," Deana whispered, staring not at the ocean but at Warren. "A reflection of what lies beneath us. And within. You feel it, don't you?"
She didn't blink. Her gaze didn't waver. It wasn't the ocean she was speaking to anymore.

Warren didn't speak at first. He just watched the vast expanse with something closer to silence than awe. This wasn't the first time he'd heard of it. Wren had told him once, back when she still half-believed it was a ghost story. He'd promised then that he would see it himself.

Now he had.

She once told him it had been suburbs. Miles of homes, streets, lives, now gone. But there was no way. Not with how far it reached. It looked endless. A sea of still flame.

And they would have to cross it.

"Three days," Wren said quietly beside him.

Warren nodded. "Nights."

"Car said you can't survive the days. The heat reshapes the waves. Rewrites the terrain. You hide in the pockets between when the glass is stable. Then the last push, with the sun still rising, no cover, no second chances."

Warren stared at the horizon. "We run till dawn, or we drown in fire."

The expedition fell silent again as they gazed upon a world the Green had only whispered of. Not dead. Not forgotten. Just waiting.

Warren's eyes narrowed.

He scanned the ridges and shadows, already tracing routes. Looking for shelters. For weaknesses. For ways through.

He didn't see beauty. Not just. He saw challenge. Territory. Truth.

They would cross it.

And when they did, they would never be the same.