Yellow Jacket

The tribal grounds had once been a place of noise, fire, and clamor. Even the misted air that hovered low this morning could not entirely mute the echo of laughter that had lived here just days ago. But now, that echo had fallen still. The Boneway grounds did not mourn loudly. The tribe knew how to grieve with their hands, not their voices. Grief here was a kind of reverence. A silence that stretched like hide across a frame: tight, deliberate, and held firm by every set of shoulders that walked in step.

The funeral procession began at the edge of the camp, where the old stones marked the eastern boundary. No one spoke. Not even the children. The first to enter were not mourners, not in the traditional sense, but those who carried weight.

Muk-Tah walked at the front, not as chief, but as Father. His shoulders were bare, marked in ash and oil. Each step he took was purposeful, but not forced. Behind him came Warren and Zal-Raan, each gripping the front ends of a carved wooden pole. Slung between them, wrapped in ochre-stained linen, was the body of Ohra. His shape was almost indistinguishable beneath the thick folds of funeral cloth, but his size, his presence, remained clear. There were still whispers, doubts not yet buried, but no one could question this much: Ohra had died a tribesman.

But it was not the black wrap of a fallen heir he wore.

His linen was white.

Not the color of leadership, or sacrifice, but of the common-born. The ordinary. And that, more than any eulogy, struck the tribe dumb. Shock moved like wind through the ring of gathered witnesses. Ohra had been marked for succession, trained as the future leader. To see him wrapped in the plain white of a tribesman... was not just a denial. It was a dishonor.

Holding the back ends of the same pole were Nanuk and Cu-Tal, the eldest of the Sons of Muk-Tah. Nanuk's head was bare. His braid was gone. That, too, spoke volumes.

Behind them followed a second group, slower, but no less steady. Holt's body was massive, a testament to the man who had fought and laughed with equal force. The linen wrap was red, warrior red, rare for an outsider. It shimmered faintly under the morning light, its weight as symbolic as the hands that bore it. A man of the Yellow, yes, but one who had died on Wilds soil, and who had been deeply, fiercely loved by those who now carried him.

Four guards carried him. Yeri at the front left, jaw set with the discipline of a soldier; Tamsin beside her, his usual swagger carved into solemn focus. Jonas held the rear right, and Johanna the rear left. All four bore the weight evenly. Not because they were ordered, but because they refused to dishonor the man who had stood beside them.

Trailing behind came Anza. Alone.

Her hands were open at her sides, and her eyes were red from tears, and sleepless nights and the burn of grief that would not let go. She did not try to meet anyone's gaze. Her place at the back was chosen, not assigned. It was hers to walk, and she did.

Around the procession, the tribal grounds changed.

Where once there had been fires and tents, trade tables and makeshift repair stations, now there were only open paths. Tribes people had cleared the center of the grounds for the rite. They stood at the edges now, forming a wide circle, heads bowed, many with hands pressed to the center of their chests. A gesture of loss. A gesture of memory.

No one wailed. No drums sounded. The only sound was the soft crunch of boots on dry earth.

The path curved inward, drawing the group toward the heart of the grounds: a large flat stone known only as the Spine. It was older than the Boneway, older than any tribe now living. Even Muk-Tah gave it respect as they approached.

Ohra's body was laid first, gently lowered by the four who bore him. Warren and Zal-Raan stepped back, giving space as Nanuk and Cu-Tal adjusted the wrappings and placed his final markers: a shard of antler, a braid of wild copperroot, and a hand-carved figurine shaped like a bull's head.

Then came Holt.

The guards moved with synchronized ease, but the weight was not physical. It clung to their faces, their breaths. They set him down beside Ohra, not quite touching, but close enough that the two bodies mirrored one another. A sign of shared death. Equal sacrifice.

The contrast between them was not missed. One wrapped in red. One in white. One celebrated. One demoted.

And standing where Nanuk would have stood, at the front, beside the chief, was Warren.

An outsider.

The murmurs began. Silent at first, then building, a low chorus of unease and offense. Elders whispered among themselves. Mothers hissed through clenched teeth. Nanuk stood stripped of braid and birthright, and the one who bore the position of heir... wore yellow, not blood.

Muk-Tah stepped forward.

He held no staff. No blade. Only a length of white thread. He knelt between the bodies and tied the thread to each of their wraps, connecting them with a single line.

"They did not die the same," he said.

The first words spoken.

"But they will pass together this night One to ash, as a warrior. One to earth, as a tribesman."

He looked at the ground beneath Ohra's feet.

"We bury him."

Then he turned to Holt.

"He burns at dawn."

Some murmured in disapproval. Others watched in stunned silence, their gaze drifting to Ohra's white wrap again, as if trying to reconcile what was lost, or perhaps what had never been proven.

But the air was tense. The silence no longer reverent, but strained.

Muk-Tah rose. "We carry them to the wind. To the ash. To the Ocean that has no memory."
"Who will speak for the dead."

No one else came forward for Ohra from the caravans riders.

The silence that followed was not respect, but avoidance. The caravan had whispered of betrayal. That Ohra had passed information to the Green. That his death had not been sacrifice, but retribution. No proof had surfaced, yet no one stood to clear his name. Even here, among his own, he was alone.

All except Zal-Raan. He stood beside Warren, not speaking, but his eyes held the grief of someone who had loved Ohra not as a brother in title, but as one in truth. He looked at the wraps, then at the tribe, and said nothing. Words would not have changed it.

Then came the voice of a smaller grief.

Anza knelt by Holt's bier, shoulders tight, hands balled in her lap.

When one of the tribe mothers approached, asking if she wished to speak for the outsider, Anza looked up.

"He was so kind," she said quietly. "The big man didn't deserve to die."

She hesitated. "And it was at my hands."

The girl's voice cracked, not loud, but enough that heads turned.

Yeri stepped forward without a word. Batu followed.

"Girl," Yeri said, gently. "This was not your fault."

Batu nodded. "The one at fault is gone. Forgotten. But do not forget Holt. He would have died to protect you. In a way, he died to protect all of us."

Anza said nothing more. But she nodded. Once. And stayed where she was, eyes on the warrior in red.

Muk-Tah turned to Warren. "You carry weight too. If not in blood, then in bond."

Warren did not move at first. But then he walked forward, past the Spine, stopping at the edge of the thread.

"He gave his life for the young," he said. "And he gave his for strangers. That's more than honor. That's Truth."

He reached down and touched the thread. Not to lift it. Just to feel it.

"We will build what they never saw. That's the only answer."

The guards did not speak, but each stepped forward to lay down something at Holt's side: a picture, a piece of anza's hair, a notebook torn and marked. Symbols of what he fought for.

Anza approached last. She said nothing. She sat.

Not beside the bodies. Not at the center. But just beyond, hands in her lap. Her presence was the final mark of truth.

And then came the voices.

Harsh, clipped syllables. The tribal tongue, spoken not for mourning now, but challenge.

Elders. Mothers. Stirred to fury.

Muk-Tah turned to face them.

They barked accusations. Questions. "What have you done?" "Where is his braid?" "Who is this outsider at your side?"

Muk-Tah did not answer. He looked at them once, steady and sharp. And they fell silent.

"You will speak their language," he said, voice calm but iron-edged. "They have earned our words, and the right to speak for themselves."

Warren raised his head.

"I understand," he said.

In their language.

The silence turned brittle.

Muk-Tah blinked. A pause, then confusion. Pride.

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"Did you always?" he asked.

Warren shook his head. "No. I learned."

Zal-Raan, stunned, turned toward him. "How did you do this? It's been barely three days."

Warren's reply was simple. "I listened."

Muk-Tah laughed, short and sharp. "You truly would have been brother to Kal-Gish."

The tribe recoiled.

Even the earth seemed to hold its breath.

The lead elder stepped forward, voice cold.

"Muk-Tah, you may be chieftain. But you go too far. No outsider would be good enough to walk at the side of your father.... Of Kal-Gish."

And with those words, the storm of unrest truly began.

Warren stepped forward into the rising tension, voice steady and clear.

"I may be an outsider to the Boneway," he said, speaking the tribal tongue so every elder heard it without doubt, "but by rite and by might, I am the First Son of Muk-Tah. The First Son of the Boneway."

He looked directly at Nanuk.

"Nanuk is my First Scar."

The words rippled through the crowd like lightning splitting stone. Elders stiffened. Several gasped aloud. The gathered tribe began to murmur, not with confusion, but shock. Nanuk, the pride of the Boneway, the once-heir, had lost his standing in silence, and now it was named aloud.

Muk-Tah did not flinch.

"He speaks the truth," Muk-Tah said, stepping forward. "Warren is his wayfinder. By his word, as the First Son and his wayfinder: Nanuk is my son once again."

A sharp cry rang out from the crowd.

Ernala, Muk-Tah's wife and Nanuk's mother, stormed forward.

"You let this outsider take our son? The pride of our tribe? You let him steal his birthright and tell us to honor him?"

Nanuk's voice cut through hers for the first time.

"No, mother. He didn't steal it. My brother defeated all five of us. With his bare hand. He earned it. He claimed my place."

Ernala turned toward her son, stunned. "Not possible. He must have cheated. There is no way one boy could take down all five. Not barehanded."

Zal-Raan stepped forward then, voice calm but cold.

"He didn't cheat. And he didn't say hands. He said hand. One. The same hand he cut to begin the rite. The same hand he used to put each of us on the ground."

Ernala's expression twisted, pain, fury, disbelief.

"Then I demand he prove it," she said. "If he could beat them so easily, then let him challenge Natah."

The crowd recoiled. The name struck like iron dropped in water.

One of the elders shook their head. "It is too early for that. He has not yet been..."

"I agree," Muk-Tah said, cutting them off.

Ernala turned to him in disbelief. She had expected resistance, not consent. She had expected him to fold, not stand.

But Muk-Tah met her eyes without wavering.

"Let the rite be tested again. Let the Natah decide what the Boneway truly believes."

And the storm swelled anew.

Far from the center, where language blurred into motion and posture, the members of the expedition stood uneasily. They could not understand the words, but the body language was impossible to miss: pointed hands, sudden steps, gasps from the crowd, and then the sound of a name spoken like a weapon, Natah.

Cassian tensed beside Batu. "What just happened?"

Batu didn't answer at first. He stared at the circle of tribe elders, then at Warren, who stood unflinching as the fury of Boneway custom circled him.

Isol, by contrast, looked thrilled. He stood a few paces off, eyes gleaming, whispering to himself as he tried to piece together what he was watching. "This is ritual combat law," he muttered. "Or maybe tribal succession mechanics. Maybe both? Gods, I love this place."

Deana was more reserved. She folded her arms and kept one eye on Anza, who remained half-shielded behind Yeri.

"You sure he's not about to get himself executed?" she muttered.

One of the Boneway hunters who had traveled with them, Senn, a wiry scout with a twisted feather in her braid- turned toward the expedition.

"He claimed the title of First Son," Senn said, her accent thick but words deliberate. "And named Nanuk his First Scar."

Cassian blinked. "Is that... like, family?"

Senn nodded. "It is rite. And power. He stood in the place of the heir and no one stopped him. That makes it real."

"So what was that name they all reacted to?" Grix asked, having wandered up behind them unnoticed.

"Natah," Senn said quietly. "A test. A last step. He must fight Natah if he wants to wear the title truly."

"And Natah is...?"

"The Boneway's keeper of the final rite."

"Like a champion?"

Senn shook her head. "Like a trial that walks."

Even Grix went quiet.

More Boneway caravan members stepped forward, murmuring among themselves. Their voices clashed between awe and fear. One of the older ones muttered, "Not even Muk-Tah would have dared it when he was young."

"And he's allowing it now?" Batu asked.

Senn looked away, as if ashamed. "He did not just allow it. He agreed."

At the center, Ernala still stood seething. Her son standing next to the outsider, her husband across from her, and the outsider, Warren, at the middle of the storm.

Ernala raised her chin. "You shame your blood."

But Nanuk did not look away.

"I lost," he said. "And he took nothing. He earned what I could not keep."

The murmurs of unrest did not vanish, but they quieted when the elders raised their hands. One of the oldest among them stepped forward, face lined with years and wind, voice heavy with finality.

"We must honor the dead," she said. "Before the living are offered to death."

It was not just custom, it was law. The rite could not begin while those lost remained unburied.

And so they turned back to the bodies.

Ohra was laid in the earth, near the center of the tribal ground. The spot was not honored, not marked for a chieftain or hero, but it was not hidden either. It was a place that might, one day, hold forgiveness. A burial that allowed for memory, and for judgment to shift if truth ever came. Some among the Boneway openly wept as the body was lowered. Others stood in stiff silence, their gazes hard. To them, this was already too far. To them, Warren's breath was offense. To them, blood must answer for betrayal.

But no voices rose to stop the rite.

From there, the procession moved, not all, but many. They walked together along the worn path that led to the shore of the Glass Ocean. The journey was long, made in silence, save for the low hush of wind curling over cracked salt flats and the occasional distant sound of mourning drums carried ahead.

Holt's pyre had already been built. Boneway caravan members who had gone ahead had done the work with precision and care. The wood was stacked high, dry and curved like ribs rising toward the blackened sky. They had placed tokens at its base: His lance, a bent fork from his gear pack, and the woven sash he had once joked was far too bright for a guard.

When they laid Holt's body upon the wood, he seemed small, even in stillness. The wrap of warrior red shimmered in the first light of dawn, and the procession gathered close. Expedition guards, Boneway caravaners, traders, even some of the children stood without instruction. They had come because something in them needed to.

The mothers and elders of the Boneway, those who had not been there for Holt's death, stood in the outer ring. Tradition demanded their presence, and so they came. But their eyes were dry. Their mouths set. They were not cruel, merely unmoved.

Only Muk-Tah, the chief, wept.

He stood with his hands clasped, head bowed. Tears slid down the creases of his face and fell to the sand. He had not spoken of Holt, not publicly. But the tears spoke enough.

Then Warren stepped forward.

He carried no instrument. No torch. Just his voice.

He began to sing.

The words were old. Older than the Boneway. A song Mara had taught him when he was a child, when he asked what song was used for the dead.

It was soft, at first. Haunting in its stillness. His voice was not loud, but every note landed with a precision that felt unnatural. Pure. Like the sound did not pass through him but was made from him.

Calra joined first. Then Yeri. Then Deana. None of them knew the words, but their harmonies rose around Warren like the hills circling a quiet valley. Wordless, raw, perfect.

Styll started to hum, her small body vibrating with sound, but Wren placed a hand on her furred side and whispered, "Wait love."

And she did.

Then came the surprise.

The Boneway elders turned in confusion as Nanuk and Zal-Raan stepped forward, heads low, and began to chant the reply.

The song was one they knew. One not heard in full since the days before Kal-Gish took the mantle.

The Boneway caravan tribesmen joined in. One by one. Not rehearsed. Not in unison. But whole.

And Warren's voice soared above them, not louder, but sharper, cleaner, more true. Like it carried the weight of what had been lost, and what might still be saved.

When the first rays of the sun crested the horizon, they struck the pyre like a blessing. The dry wood caught as if summoned by the light itself. No torch was raised, no hand reached out. The fire rose slow, as if reluctant, then caught with a sigh that seemed to breathe through the crowd.

The chant fell silent.

The harmonies faded.

And Warren's final note rose like the crash of a wave. Like the roar of fire. Like truth itself crying out across black glass.

The pyre blazed.

And the Glass Ocean began to move again, its surface melting from solid to liquid under the dawn, as if stirred by the song itself.

No one spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

Only the fire. Only the molten glass. And the shape of grief made holy in the quiet it left behind.

The fire had not yet burned down to embers when the elders called for silence again.

They formed a crescent before the still-glowing pyre, their cloaks catching the first warmth of the day. Smoke curled upward, thin and bitter-sweet, and into that rising haze came the next words.

"The rite of grief is complete," said the eldest. "Now begins the rite of fire."

Whispers returned, fast and sharp. The word spread quick, Natah.

Warren stood still, unflinching.

"You know what it means," the elder continued. "To claim place at the head of the Boneway, to carry title and fire in equal measure. For you outsiders Natah is not a duel. Not a hunt. It is pain. It is flame. It is trial."

Muk-Tah stepped forward. "The peak watches over us. The trial will be held there, where the burning wind scours even bone."

A younger woman brought forth a small bowl of dark red paste, thick as tar. She offered no words, only held it out with both hands.

Warren looked at it, then to Muk-Tah.

"is this it?"

"It is Natah," Muk-Tah said. "You will feel your skin melting. Your blood boiling. Your eyes set alight from within. But it will not kill you."

"And I must climb?"

"To the peak. No armor. No skill use. Only what your body carries. Your weapons may go with you."

"And at the top?"

" Cindershards lives in the molten pools. It will not run. It waits in fire. You must end it."

Warren took the bowl.

Wren moved before he could raise it.

"Don't," she said, sharp. "This isn't a challenge, Warren. This is suicide."

He didn't flinch. "If I want to free the Yellow, I start here. These people don't follow words. They follow the flame."

"So let them burn someone else. You've already proven enough."

"Not to them. Not yet."

Wren clenched her fists, helpless.

"I'll come with you."

"You can't. This one's mine."

Behind them, Isol spoke up from the back of the crowd. "This is truly fascinating. The pharmacology alone..."

"Shut up, Isol," Wren snapped.

But Nanuk stepped forward next.

"As his First Scar," he said, voice low, "I will go with him. I am but an extension of his will."

Gasps from the crowd.

Ernala shoved forward. "No. You are too valuable. You cannot waste yourself for a stranger."

Nanuk turned to her, and his voice was sharper than flame.

"He is my wayfinder. And I will go where he leads. Even if that path walks through death."

Her expression twisted, broken between fury and fear. "You follow him into nothing."

"I follow him into truth."

Warren stepped between them. His voice was gentle, but final.

"Nanuk, brother. As your wayfinder, I lead the way. And this time, I need you not to follow."

Nanuk opened his mouth to protest.

"I will do this myself," Warren said. "And I will do it before noon."

That silenced even the wind.

A low exhale broke from Ernala's lips. She smiled. Not with joy, but a cruel curve.

"Listen to your wayfinder."

Muk-Tah turned toward her. His eyes were steady.

"You shall see why he walks with my father. Why he may be more than even Kal-Gish, the greatest of our chieftains. I did not see it at first. But I do now. He is our future."

Ernala's smile twisted. "And when he does not return, our son will take his rightful place again." Her voice was silk wrapped around broken glass.

Muk-Tah gave a soft, almost sad chuckle. "My love, you have always been strong of heart. But a more stubborn woman has never walked this world. Warren will return. If he says before noon, I believe him."

He turned to the gathered Boneway. "We prepare the feast. As is rite."

And the crowd began to move. Slowly. Uncertain.

But Warren remained still.

The bowl of Natah in his hand.

Before he could drink, Grix sauntered up beside him with a crooked grin. "The Spitter seems really excited," she said, nudging Warren's leg with her elbow. "But also disappointed he won't get to watch. Can't say I blame him. Would've been a hell of a show."

Deana stepped forward next, her tone sharp and full of strange reverence. "We'll all see a god of the rain step through fire."

Anza stood behind them, her eyes wide, her voice small. "Don't die," she whispered. "Please. I can't lose another friend."

Batu snorted. "This is one of the stupidest things I've ever borne witness to, and I've seen Cassian play dice with Grix for three days straight. That was dumb. This is dumber."

Calra crossed her arms. "You die, and I swear, if you leave Zoldy behind, I'm coming for you. Dead or not."

Then came Styll. She padded up close, eyes shimmering. "I love you, Warn. Please stay safe."

Warren crouched just enough to touch her head. "I love you too. I'll come back. I promise."

Then Wren stepped up. Her voice was quieter than the rest. "Batu's right. This is stupider than Cassian playing dice with Grix."

She leaned in.

"You better come back to me," she said, and then whispered something only Warren could hear.

His eyes widened, then narrowed.

He looked at her, almost forgetting the heat in his hands.

She met his gaze. "You come back to me, and we talk about everything. If you don't, I'll learn how to raise the dead just to beat you to death with Stick."

And then she stepped back.

The wind shifted.

And Warren turned toward the peak.

He brought the bowl to his lips. And drank.

The world did not burn.

But it began to boil.