Yellow Jacket

Vaeliyan opened the comm line, his voice steady but edged with urgency, as though every word carried the weight of a decision too long delayed. "I need you. If you can, meet us at your sanctum. If not, I'll have to bring my class there without you. So, can you give us access?" He lingered on the word sanctum, as if he already knew he was pressing against boundaries that were not lightly crossed.

For a long moment there was only silence, the faint static of the line carrying the distance between them, stretching so thin it almost hummed in Vaeliyan's skull. He thought Imujin might refuse entirely. Then the reply came, calm and unshaken, like stone carved into patience. "That's fine. I needed to speak with you all anyway. But why are you bringing them all?"

Vaeliyan's shoulders tightened. He had rehearsed the words a dozen times in his head while pacing the length of his manor, but speaking them aloud made the weight settle in his chest like iron. "Because I think it's time. I'm going to tell them about Warren. I hope I've earned enough of their trust."

The silence stretched again, heavier this time, swollen with things unsaid. He could almost imagine Imujin's eyes narrowing, his fingers steepled as he considered. When he finally answered, his tone turned sly, almost mocking. "Are you sure this is the right time? Don't you want to get to know them a little more first?"

Vaeliyan's jaw clenched. His patience thinned. "This isn't a joke."

But Imujin's low laugh cut across the channel, dry and sharp, a knife scraping across stone. "Of course not. I'm surprised you hadn't told them already. I'm pretty sure Elian suspects."

The words landed like a blade drawn in the dark. Vaeliyan stiffened, his eyes narrowing as if the distance between them could be cut through sheer will. "What do you mean he suspects?"

Imujin leaned back in his chair, though Vaeliyan couldn't see it. The grin in his voice was unmistakable, carrying the weight of someone who already had the answer tucked neatly in his pocket. "After the Julian incident, I've been monitoring all of you more closely. And your house slipped. When you came back from the Ninth Layer, it called you Warren. Elian heard it. He didn't make a scene, but he carried that word like a coin in his hand."

The name twisted in the air, heavy with its own gravity. Warren. It dragged at Vaeliyan's chest, tugging him back toward the face he had tried to bury beneath the mask. Imujin didn't give him time to answer.

"And don't forget who he is. He is heir to House Sarn. They're the information brokers of the Legion. You think he wasn't trained to notice? That boy was raised to catch details others miss, to see the cracks in every wall, to taste the difference in the air when someone lies. If you thought he'd overlook something like that, then you've underestimated him."

Vaeliyan's thoughts churned. Elian had been watching, listening, perhaps even testing the edges of his story. He had noticed more than Vaeliyan intended. He had probably catalogued gestures, tones, even the slip of a single name. And now the quiet realization that someone else carried a piece of his secret pressed against his ribs like a blade.

Imujin's voice sharpened, no longer playful but blunt with certainty. "He's been muttering to himself about joining you on whatever insanity you're planning, even if he doesn't know the truth. That's loyalty born from instinct, not proof. For a Sarn, he's far too trusting of Legion-built housing. Either he believes in you, or he believes in the madness you carry. Maybe both. And either way, that makes him trustworthy enough, because he will follow you even if he doesn't understand what he's following."

The pounding in his skull had never left him, and now it pressed harder, as though every word Imujin spoke was another hammer strike inside his skull. Trust, suspicion, loyalty, betrayal, they spun together into a knot that threatened to choke him. He had planned to reveal Warren on his own terms, when the moment suited him, but Imujin's words made it clear: the decision was no longer his alone. The truth was already leaking through the cracks, and the longer he held it, the sharper it would cut when it finally tore free.

They all stepped off the pad into Imujin's sanctum. Only Jurpat had been here with Vaeliyan before. For the rest, it was their first glimpse of the place. The air shifted around them as the pad's glow faded, and immediately they knew they had stepped somewhere different, somewhere that resisted the Citadel's polished image. It was the closest thing to the opposite of the Green any of them had ever experienced inside these walls, and the contrast hit them like a wave.

Imujin's Sanctum was almost exactly the same as Velrock's Garden, but where Velrock's Garden was green-perfected, sculpted into an ideal that could have been pressed into glass, Imujin's Sanctum was real. Twigs lay scattered on the uneven ground, crunching under boots. Debris and detritus drifted lazily in the stream that cut through the meadow, clogging eddies and catching on rocks. The water burbled anyway, its song uneven, but alive. It smelled of wet earth and rotting leaves, not of flowers bred for symmetry or carefully placed incense. This place was not curated, not hammered into obedient shapes by the Green's ideals. It was a living, breathing piece of wilderness, flawed and raw, its imperfections carried like badges. In that rawness, it was beautiful, untamed, unconcerned, and absolutely real. For cadets used to walking paths designed for them, this felt like stepping into something that had never been built with them in mind at all.

Chime wrinkled her nose, glancing around the sanctum with suspicion. "What is this place?" Her voice held both awe and discomfort, as if she couldn't decide whether to trust what her eyes told her.

Jurpat stretched, rubbing at his eyes, his voice flat with exhaustion. "This is, uh… Headmaster Imujin's private sanctum." He gave Vaeliyan a grimace that deepened into a scowl. "Vael, is he going to be a while, or are we going to have to tell them? Because I am a little too tired for this. You didn't let me sleep yesterday, and now you're not letting me sleep today. And, dear gods, we have class in like an hour."

Several of the cadets let out quiet groans of agreement. Ramis rubbed at his temples, muttering something inaudible. The twins yawned side by side, one leaning on the other in casual support.

Imujin stepped off the pad almost immediately after Jurpat finished his complaint. His towering frame seemed to fill the glade, blotting out the meadow's serenity with sheer presence. "No need to worry, I'm here." His voice carried easily, calm yet commanding. "It's good to see you again, all of you." His eyes flicked across the group, lingering on each face, measuring them in silence before landing on Vaeliyan. "We're going to… well, Vaeliyan, how would you like to do this? Do you want the whole storm and thunder treatment, Want me to make a dramatic announcement? Or something quieter? Or maybe we just tell them."

Elian's gaze sharpened instantly, eyes narrowing into suspicion. "Tell us what exactly?" His tone carried both challenge and curiosity, sharp as a knife held behind his back.

Sylen and Rokhan exchanged uneasy looks, their brows furrowed. Even they could feel the weight in the air, something looming just beneath the surface. The twins shifted their stance slightly, arms crossed, still steady even as they helped Ramis stay upright. None of them liked being left out of answers, but none dared to break the silence further.

Meanwhile, Styll and Bastard padded in a lazy circle around the glade. Bastard's heavy paws made barely a sound, his glowing eyes scanning the shadows, while Styll darted from one patch of grass to the next, nose twitching. She finally craned her small head up toward Imujin, blinking her bright eyes at the massive headmaster. Raising one tiny paw in a wave, she chirped, "Mujin, nice to meets you. Warn says you is master? Stylls don't know what that means, but he says you're a nice guy. Um… can Stylls go play now? I smells yummy buggsies."

A ripple of laughter almost broke from some of the cadets, but it caught in their throats when they saw Imujin's unreadable face.

Vaeliyan crouched slightly, his voice gentle but firm as he addressed her. "No, Styll, I'm sorry. You can't go play right now. But I promise I'll let you come back and play as much as you want later." His words carried a strange tenderness, the kind of promise rarely spoken aloud in the Citadel.

Imujin gave a small, amused rumble at that, the faintest smile crossing his usually stern features. It was fleeting, but enough to ease the suffocating weight of the sanctum, if only for a heartbeat.

Imujin looked at Vaeliyan, his expression unreadable, and said, "We should go to the meadow. If they freak out… well, there are fewer rocks and sticks for them to throw at you there."

Vaeliyan let out a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Huh. That's actually a good idea."

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"Everyone follow me," Imujin said as he turned, striding toward the tree line. Bastard padded forward in silence, his powerful frame cutting a path through the brush, while Styll perched happily on his head as if he were her personal war mount. The rest of the cadets trudged along behind them, their boots crunching over twigs and grass, their eyes darting nervously across the sanctum's wild terrain. Most of them had never been somewhere so raw within the Citadel walls, and the imperfections left them uneasy. By the time they reached the open meadow at the sanctum's center, tension was running high.

"Alright, we're here," Imujin said at last, gesturing toward the open space. His voice carried the weight of finality, as though the meadow itself had been chosen for this moment. "This should do."

Vaeliyan shifted uneasily, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes scanned the cadets—faces taut with curiosity, suspicion, and fatigue. "So… should I just do this, or what?" he asked, the question falling heavier than he intended.

Jurpat rubbed his face, stifling a yawn. His hair was a mess, his eyes bloodshot, and his voice was flat with exhaustion. "Maybe do it a little more subtly. Or… no. Yeah, no, none of that. You know what I'm talking about. Don't make it a whole production. Just… maybe start with the body mod first. That'd probably be smarter."

A murmur of uncertainty passed through the cadets. Some crossed their arms, some exchanged wary glances. Elian, however, stood with arms folded, his sharp eyes locked on Vaeliyan as if he were piecing a puzzle together.

Vaeliyan sighed, then activated his body mod. The features of Vaeliyan Verdance shimmered, blurred, and shifted until the guise of Warren stood before them. He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. "So… this is going to seem strange. Maybe not. I don't know. But this, this is me. Or at least the me you can meet without calling a storm down on your heads."

Elian spoke immediately, his voice sharp enough to cut through the meadow's quiet. "That's the real you. And Vaeliyan's the mod."

"Not quite," Warren said, scratching the back of his neck. "Think of it this way: Vaeliyan is me. This Warren you're looking at now, that's also me, but it's a mask. The real Warren is… behind the living real body of Vaeliyan Verdance. It's harder to show without summoning more than I want to. This version is safer. Easier."

A ripple ran through the group. Chime frowned deeply. Ramis blinked as if trying to clear sleep from his eyes but looked unsettled all the same. Wesley's jaw tightened while Tormen muttered something under his breath. Lessa and Xera leaned together, steadying each other, and whispered a few words too quiet for the others to catch.

Warren ran a hand through his hair and gave a crooked smile that did little to soften the tension. "Alright, let's do this. This is what I look like, more or less. Some slight differences, nothing major."

"The real Warren is a lot shorter," Jurpat muttered, unable to resist.

"Bastard," Warren snapped, only to realize Bastard's ears flicked at the sound of his name. "No, not you. Jurpat is being an asshole." He exhaled, shaking his head. "Yes, fine, the real me is shorter. Vaeliyan's frame is something like a body mod. But this face you're seeing now, this is what Warren looks like. It's just the part I can show without risking everything shaking apart."

"Why didn't you just ask Isol to help explain this?" Imujin asked, his voice dry with amusement. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he left the words hanging like a challenge.

"I don't know," Warren muttered, his tone raw. "I was in a hurry. There's so much happening right now. My plan worked, sure, but I didn't think about what would happen after we actually won. I knew we'd probably win, but this… this is more confusing than I thought. I figured I had four years to ease into this. Four years to convince you all to follow me."

The cadets stirred at that, muttering among themselves, voices a mix of disbelief and sharp-edged questions that none dared to speak fully. The meadow's uneven air seemed heavier, pressing in on them.

"Can you stop talking about us like we're not here?" Sylen cut in sharply. Her voice cracked with emotion, the words slicing through the noise. "Are you telling me you're not my cousin? Because I liked you as family. I hate our family, but you… if you're not part of us, then there's nothing good left in House Verdance."

Her words silenced the group. Every cadet turned toward her, watching the storm building in her expression.

Warren looked at her, the weight of her words pressing heavy against his chest. His voice came out softer, burdened. "Cousin, I… technically, yes. Vaeliyan is still your cousin. I am Vaeliyan. But I'm also Warren, behind all this. He's still there, and one day I'll have to show him to you. But not now. Not like this. Right now, this version is less annoying for everyone." He dragged his hands down his face, visibly fraying under the pressure. "Give me a second."

He opened a line, muttering under his breath while turning away from the group. "Isol. Isol, can you please come? I'm trying to explain all of this, and it's too early, and I'm so fucking tired. I made a decision; they're going to learn about me. They've learned that I'm Warren, but I can't explain it. Please. Just help me."

The cadets exchanged tense glances, their whispers carrying across the meadow like dry grass in the wind. They didn't know whether to trust, to question, or to wait for the explanation that seemed to grow heavier with every passing second.

When Isol and Josaphine arrived, it only took a few minutes of violent vomiting before Josaphine was able to walk straight enough to make it to the meadow. Her face was pale and clammy, her steps uncertain, but there was steel in the way she forced herself forward. She refused to be left behind, refused to let weakness write her out of what was about to unfold. Her eyes burned with the stubborn pride of someone who would drag herself through fire rather than admit defeat.

Isol walked beside her, calm as ever, his expression unreadable. He kept a steadying arm at her side, guiding her forward whenever her balance wavered. She leaned into the help without complaint. To him, her misery was nothing unusual, just another ripple in the river of things he had long since learned to love about her.

The cadets shifted where they stood in the meadow, watching the pair approach. Some looked uneasy at Josaphine's pallor, others simply waited, understanding on instinct that something significant was about to happen. The meadow, wild and imperfect, seemed to grow quieter as the two instructors arrived.

Vaeliyan turned to Isol, exhaustion dragging at his features and voice alike. His eyes were shadowed with sleepless weight. "I need you to tell them my story," he admitted, each word heavy. "Because for the life of me, I don't know how to explain it in a way that doesn't sound even more insane than saying I'm basically a Matryoshka doll of Warren, Vaeliyan, and Warren again." He gave a bitter laugh, but there was no humor in it, only the frustration of someone who had carried too much for too long.

Isol arched an eyebrow at him. The silence stretched between them for a heartbeat before the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His voice was quiet but sharp when he finally replied. "That's… yeah. Alright. Got it." He pivoted on his heel and faced the cadets.

The air in the meadow shifted. A presence seemed to settle over them as Isol's tone changed, transforming from casual to commanding in an instant. He didn't raise his voice, but somehow it carried farther, pressing into every ear, leaving no space to ignore him. "Everybody sit down," he ordered. His words were not a suggestion. The cadets obeyed, some lowering themselves reluctantly, others without hesitation. Grass bent beneath them as they settled into a ragged half-circle, eyes fixed on him.

Isol waited until the shuffle of movement stilled, until the meadow was quiet except for the steady trickle of the nearby stream. Then he folded his hands behind his back again and said, with deliberate weight, "I'm going to tell you the story of the Tidelord." The way he said it made it sound less like a story and more like a judgment, a truth that would not be denied.

Most of the cadets were incredulous. The story had poured out of Isol's mouth with the weight of truth, but to them it sounded like a fairy tale wrapped in nonsense, wrapped in valor, wrapped in war. It was too much to take in, like trying to swallow the ocean in one gulp. Their minds wrestled with the words, struggling to reconcile what they had seen of Vaeliyan, the cadet they trained beside, with the myth that had been laid before them. The air itself felt heavier as if the meadow was leaning in to hear their disbelief.

Xera shook her head slowly, whispering to herself but loud enough for the nearest to hear, "It can't be real… it just can't." Roan rubbed his temples like he was trying to grind the story out of his skull. Wesley folded his arms, lips pressed tight, while Varnai muttered a curse under her breath. Even the twins, usually unshaken, exchanged uncertain glances, their usual steadiness rattled by the scale of what had just been revealed. Some stared at Warren as though they were seeing him for the first time. Others looked away, afraid that staring too long might make the story true. Rokhan shifted uncomfortably in the grass, his hands clenched into fists on his knees, while Chime pressed a hand over her mouth as though holding in words, she didn't trust herself to say.

It was Fenn who finally broke the silence. He leaned forward, shaking his head hard, his voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. "So, you're telling me that the gods are real? And that Warren, the Tidelord, the savior of some unknown city on the fringe, and a gods-damned aberrant, is standing in front of us wearing a dead man as a meat suit while it's still somehow alive? Because the gods, who you claim are real, chose him to ascend to some sort of throne of heaven?" His words carried disbelief, anger, and maybe even a trace of fear, each sentence building on the last until it felt like he was daring Isol to contradict him. His eyes were wide, his jaw set, as if spitting the words out could force the story back into myth.

The meadow fell into a hush again, but this time the silence was sharper, jagged at the edges. Every pair of eyes snapped toward Isol, their gazes flicking between him and Warren, as though waiting for one of them to admit it was a lie. The words hung in the air like a thrown blade, spinning, waiting to cut whoever reached for it. Some of the cadets leaned forward, caught between fascination and terror, while others hunched back, as if distance could protect them from the weight of the truth.

"Yes," Isol replied, without hesitation. His voice was calm, steady, and absolute. "That is exactly what I'm telling you."

Some cadets flinched at the certainty in his tone. Others leaned back, as if the force of his conviction pushed them away. Elian's eyes narrowed, sharp with calculation, while Sylen's jaw trembled as she tried to steady herself against the crashing truth. Lessa whispered something to herself, her voice trembling with awe, while Jurpat groaned quietly as if the explanation had somehow made everything worse instead of better. The weight of the revelation pressed down on all of them, and in that moment, disbelief no longer seemed like enough of a shield. They were left exposed, staring into a story too large for them to deny, forced to either accept it or let it break them.