Yellow Jacket

The hard truth settled over the meadow like a blade drawn across the throat of silence. Imujin's voice carried no warmth, no hesitation, only the weight of finality:

"You have to pick right now where you want to stand. I don't mean this as a warning. I mean this as a final choice. Life in the Legion under Warren… or no life at all."

The words cut through the meadow, sharp enough that even the wind seemed to fall still. Cadets shifted uncomfortably in the wet grass, their gazes darting from Imujin's towering form to Vaeliyan's taut silhouette. No one laughed, no one muttered. The gravity was too much.

Elian rose slowly, his voice rough but steady, carrying further than he meant. "You know what, I was already planning to follow him into the hells. Nothing's changed, other than now I know the gods are real. I was worried you were some sort of plant, but this is… well, I guess you are. I don't really know what you are, even after all of that. Gods, oh fuck, the gods are real. Is… uh, do you have any way of… can we see the real Warren? Like, this, we know this is a suit. Can you show us anything? Just to tip the ones who are faltering." He waved his hand toward Fenn and Tormen, who looked like they had eaten something rotten. The disgust on their faces was less about the rain and more about the weight of what they had just been told.

His words hung in the heavy air like a challenge, daring Warren to make the impossible real. Cadets glanced sideways at each other, torn between fear and the need for certainty. The question was out now, and none of them could put it back in.

Sylen's voice followed, softer but sharper than steel. "Please. Show me the man who killed my cousin, and the man who would become the best part of my family. I need to meet the real you." Her eyes locked onto him, fierce and unyielding, trembling with grief and hope. The cadets felt her plea as much as they heard it.

Vaeliyan dropped the body mod. His image wavered, shimmered, and then collapsed away. In an instant, he dropped the Veil. Warren appeared in front of them, all five foot nothing of him, tiny by the Green standards, his frame drowned in the defiance of his yellow jacket. For a moment, there was nothing, and then the world shifted.

The storm arrived like a hungry beast, sudden and merciless. Clouds boiled from nowhere, swallowing the sun. A wind with teeth tore across the meadow. Rain fell with crushing force, driving into the earth until the soil churned into mud. It wasn't just water, it was Warren himself, spilling into the world. The storm carried him, and he carried it.

Josaphine, Imujin, Jurpat, and Isol moved without thought, pulling out umbrellas in a practiced motion. Veterans of this storm, they knew what was coming. The cadets, unprepared, gasped as they were drenched to the bone in seconds. Hair plastered to faces, uniforms soaked through, they went from dry to drowned in a single heartbeat. The rain hammered into them, relentless, as though the sky itself had chosen sides.

Styll and Bastard played in it without hesitation, as if this chaos was home. They were bonded to Warren, part of his soul, and this storm belonged to them as much as to him. Bastard roared silently, his war form gleaming black as lightning struck across his scales. Sparks danced over the ridges of his hardened scales, crawling like living veins of fire. The seams between each scale crackled with lightning, as though the storm itself was trapped beneath his skin. It looked like he was made of lightning being held into shape by the black plates of his body, each pulse seemed to threaten to tear him open and unleash the storm within. His glowing silver eyes pulsed with storm-light. None of the cadets had ever seen him like this, elemental and furious, a predator shaped by the tempest.

Styll's small ferret body blurred into drifting mist, nearly insubstantial. Raindrops passed through her as if she was part of the storm, yet her laughter echoed sharp and clear. She looked like she had dissolved into the rain itself, half-illusion, half-spirit, flickering between substance and smoke. She darted through the downpour in playful arcs, leaving faint trails of vapor as she bounded across puddles and stones.

The meadow had become unrecognizable. Grass lay flat beneath sheets of water, trees bent under the shrieking wind, and the cadets huddled together in a sodden line, their breaths stolen by the violence around them. For the first time, they felt Warren's storm not as rumor or metaphor but as reality, inescapable, undeniable, overwhelming. It soaked through their skin, their lungs, their bones, until they could no longer pretend he was just another cadet. He was something else entirely, and now they knew it.

Then the storm softened as Warren took hold of it, reining back its teeth. What had been a tempest became comfort, the lashing winds easing into a steady rainfall, the thunder quieting to a distant murmur. The rain that had battered them no longer simply fell, it bent around him. Droplets curved in defiance of gravity, reversing their fall to cling close, orbiting him as though he was the center of the universe. The storm seemed to cradle Warren, reshaped from fury into shelter, every drop drawn toward him as if he were its center and purpose.

Elian started laughing, the sound cutting through the wet air, raw and unrestrained. It carried across the meadow, drawing every eye toward him. Some of the cadets looked at him like he had lost his mind, but he kept laughing anyway, shoulders shaking as if he knew something they did not.

Roan wheeled on him, his voice sharp with frustration. "What's so funny? This whole thing is crazy. You think this is some kind of joke?"

Elian finally caught his breath, though a crooked grin still clung to his lips. He didn't even blink when he spoke, his tone calm but edged with certainty. "You all missed it. The first time I went to Vaeliyan's house, it was basically a tsunami. Floodwater everywhere, walls bending like they were made to drown us. And it makes perfect sense now. His perfect environment, his perfect atmosphere… it's a flood. That's what he is. That's what he has always been."

Jurpat gave a rough laugh, shaking his head. "Vaeliyan told me that story, and I couldn't stop laughing when I first found out the house recognized him."

Elian glanced at the rest of the cadets, his voice steady but carrying a quiet exhaustion. "Alright, nothing changes. We were already on the same side after the challenge. After we won, we were all ready to follow his lead until the end. This doesn't change that. All he has done is shown us who is. And who he is… is tiny. But if I can live with that, you all can follow the short stack. Can't you?"

The group rippled with nervous laughter, though it was thin and uncertain. Fenn gave a sharp nod, his jaw set tight. "You're right. I was going to follow you into oblivion. I mean, hells, you're so short it's ridiculous. How do you follow someone that short? You look like a child. But I was planning on following you till the end. I still will."

Warren's brow twitched. "Please stop talking about my height. Look, you're all just giants, alright? That's all it is. You're all huge, I'm not small."

Jurpat snorted, his smirk widening. "No, you're just tiny. It's always been a thing, even back in Mara.I mean isn't Wren the same height as you?"

"She's shorter than me," Warren shot back instantly, defensive enough that a few cadets chuckled despite the tension. The moment felt almost normal for a heartbeat, as if joking about his size could make them forget the monster standing in front of them.

But Imujin's voice cut through the laughter like a blade. His tone was iron, steady and final. "Alright, we can't keep doing this. Everyone, listen. I'm going to bind you to him, and we're going to do it now, because there's no other choice. This is unorthodox, and no one, not one of you, is allowed to speak of this beyond these walls." His eyes scanned the group, and for the first time several cadets swallowed hard, realizing the seriousness behind the words.

He hesitated, muttering under his breath as if calculating steps in his head. "We'll need platinum. Isol, go and get it. I'll bind them to him the same way you are bound to me. Josephine, I'd ask you to fetch the Imperial Oak from my office but… never mind. I'll do it myself. You stay here and keep watch. None of them leave."

Imujin exhaled, rubbing at his temple, the weight of what he was about to do pressing on even him. "This is chaos, but it will work. When I return, we'll forge rings for all of you. And from that moment on, none of you will be able to turn away from him, no matter what comes next."

The meadow was silent after his words, the cadets staring at each other in disbelief, fear, and a strange spark of awe. None of them had expected to be brought into something this final, this binding, this absolute. They had thought they were training to be soldiers. Instead, they were about to be tied to a storm given human shape, and there would be no way back.

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The cadets had remained gathered in the meadow, their circle ragged, their uniforms still drenched and heavy from Warren's storm. The ground had softened into mud beneath their boots, every step threatening to pull them down, and the swollen stream at the meadow's edge had carried the sound of rushing water like a second heartbeat. The smell of wet earth and torn grass clung to the air. None of them had spoken. Even the restless ones, the ones who usually whispered through anything, had been silenced. The air itself had seemed to wait, heavy and taut, as though the meadow knew what was coming.

Imujin had stepped forward and from his pocket he had drawn a length of Imperial Oak. The cadets had shifted uneasily at the sight of it, their eyes widening. Even cut, the wood was alive. Its surface had seemed to breathe, the grain shifting in a faint rhythm like ribs rising and falling. Veins of green pulsed faintly within it, old power moving slow and patient, as though the tree itself refused to die. A murmur had rippled through the cadets, low and nervous, but none had dared break the silence. The sight of it carried a weight older than the Citadel, older than their Houses, a weight that pressed on their lungs.

Imujin had set his palm against it. The wood had shuddered in recognition, straining against him, alive and unwilling to be tamed. He pressed harder, his hand steady, his will unyielding. The oak groaned, a deep, splintering sound like the wail of a forest under strain, but it bent. Slowly, impossibly, the length of living wood curled inward, fighting every inch, drawn into a circle by his command. By the time it closed, it trembled like an animal caught and broken to a leash. He held it up for them to see, the living ring quivering in his hand.

He lowered it to his own wooden ring. With deliberate care, he pressed the fresh band against it, clamping his other hand down over both. Mud streaked across his knuckles, his jaw tightening with the effort. For a long moment nothing happened. The cadets leaned forward without realizing it, breaths held, waiting. Then the light came. A red pulse flared from his ring, bleeding into the new one. The surge raced through the oak's veins until they burned bright, each line alive with power. The glow lingered, steady and relentless, a tether forged between the ancient and the new.

When Imujin pulled his hand back, the ring was ready. He rose and faced Warren. His towering frame cast a long shadow over the boy who was not truly a boy. His words were stripped bare, spoken with the weight of judgment that allowed no escape. "Yes or no?"

The cadets stiffened. Their hearts hammered in their chests. There was no oath, no tenets, no explanations. Just the question. A question so simple that it carried more terror than any speech could have. One word would bind him. One word would change them all.

Warren had nodded, his throat dry, his eyes unblinking. "Yes."

Imujin placed the ring in his hand. It was warm, alive, almost trembling, as though it had been waiting for him. Warren slid it onto his finger, and the wood bit deep. Pain flared as blood welled, feeding the veins. They lit at once, flaring red and sinking hooks into him, locking into his soul with an authority older than his name.

The cadets whispered, some in awe, some in fear. Ramis clutched his knees so hard his knuckles had gone white. The twins pressed shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on Warren as if trying to memorize this impossible sight. Tormen muttered something low and bitter, but even his disbelief faltered as the air pressed heavier. Chime covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, while Wesley folded his arms as if bracing himself against what he could not deny. Lessa and Xera exchanged a glance but said nothing, their silence louder than words.

Even Bastard prowled at the edge of the circle, scales alive with faint lightning, his gaze never leaving Warren. Styll chirped softly, her small body half-hidden in the mist that rose from the rain, as if she, too, understood what had just happened. They were his bonds, and they welcomed the weight without hesitation.

And so, in the rain-soaked meadow, with mud beneath their boots and the storm bending to his center, Warren Smith was bound by the Imperial will. It was as if the First Legion itself reached across time to claim him. Nothing in the Citadel's training could prepare him for the truth of what he was about to witness.

Warren staggered as the ring locked into him. His knees buckled, his breath caught, and for a moment it looked as though he would collapse into the mud. Imujin moved with surprising speed, his massive hand seizing Warren by the shoulder, holding him upright with the ease of a man stopping a falling child. The cadets gasped, some half-rising as though they could do something, but none dared to move closer, their wide eyes fixed on the burning band around Warren's finger.

Then Warren's body went slack. His head fell forward, and his weight sagged against Imujin's grip. He did not crumple to the ground. He fell inward, as if the world had folded beneath him. The glow of the ring on his finger flared one last time, veins of crimson racing across its living grain, and then Warren was gone, pulled into the luminous veins of the wood itself.

He plummeted through silence. The storm that had loved him vanished, the meadow receded into nothing, and the weight of Imujin's hand dissolved as if it had never existed. The rush of water, the whispers of his classmates, even the pressure of mud beneath his boots, all of it peeled away. The ring swallowed him whole, and in doing so, reshaped the reality around him.

When Warren opened his eyes again, he stood within a chamber unlike anything he had seen in the living world. Black alloy walls rose high into the unseen, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen, broken only by vast panes of seamless glass that shimmered faintly with inner light. Rows of light panels glowed steady along the walls, bathing the space in a constant white-gold radiance that carried no flicker or imperfection. Towers of data pylons climbed into the air like the trunks of a perfectly ordered forest, their cables running upward in disciplined lines, pulsing with rhythm as precise as a heartbeat. The air itself carried a deep hum, the song of power maintained without end, steady and eternal. It felt less like a place and more like a living mind, vast and organized, incapable of collapse.

The chamber stretched outward, but all paths drew the eye to the dais at its heart. A massive platform of steel and stone, it rose from the flawless floor as though the chamber had grown around it. Atop the dais sat the throne. It was not ornamented with jewels or banners; it was austere, functional, and unyielding, integrated into the chamber as though it had been born there. Every edge gleamed with sharp authority, every line radiated permanence. It was a seat made not for comfort, but for command.

And upon it sat Emperor Gregor. He looked strong, composed, and utterly alive. The man who had once ruled all still sat in silent dominion, as if the passage of time had chosen to leave him untouched. He wore Legion armor, black and gold, its plates seamless and immaculate, catching the white-gold light as though polished an instant before Warren's arrival. The armor looked untouched by war, but it carried with it a gravity that spoke of countless victories, battles won and armies broken beneath its weight. It fit him perfectly, an extension of his body, more like a second skin of authority than a suit of living metal. There was no sign of frailty, no decay, no shadow of death clinging to him. He was the preserved essence of the Emperor, bound to the ring, maybe the last living echo of his will.

His presence filled the chamber so completely that Warren's chest tightened. Breath came shallow, as though the very air refused to allow him comfort. This was not the brittle specter of a ruler long gone, but the undeniable impression of a man who had never stopped ruling. The sheer weight of his existence pressed into Warren like the storm itself had found a rival.

Gregor's eyes opened the moment Warren arrived. They were sharp, unwavering, alive with command, and far too focused to belong to anything that might be called memory. They fixed on Warren as though they had always been waiting, piercing him down to the marrow. The silence stretched until it became unbearable, filling Warren's head with the hum of the chamber until it threatened to break him. And then the Emperor's voice came. It was clear, resonant, and whole, carrying across the chamber without distortion, without doubt, without hesitation.

"You are not what I expected," Gregor said. "A child… yet you wear my will."

"Do you understand where you stand?" Gregor's voice carried through the chamber, heavy and certain, the kind of sound that seemed to press against the walls themselves. "I am not Gregor himself. I am his Will. His command, his test, his judgment. Every Headmaster must face me. None can lead without proving themselves in this place. It has been this way since the first stone of the Citadel was laid, and it will remain so until the Legion itself fades."

Warren's throat tightened. His lips parted, but it took him a moment to find the words. "You're… not alive?"

"I am what remains," Gregor replied. His tone was calm, without hesitation, as if he had explained this to countless others. "I am bound into the wood, into the blood, into the Legion's oath. The man you would call Emperor has long since returned to the soil. The flesh and the crown are gone. But his Will abides, sealed here so that no throne is inherited without trial. I am the last gate. I am the measure of truth."

He leaned forward slightly, the immaculate plates of his armor catching the chamber's white-gold light. "And I see you, Warren. I see all that you are. The ring binds to your blood, and through that bond, nothing is hidden from me. Your bloodlines, your strength, your failings, the hollow places you have yet to fill, I know them all. I do not see only the face you wear, but the foundation you are built upon. The numbers written into your bones, the potential carried in your veins. You are laid bare before me."

Warren staggered a step backward, his fists clenching at his sides. The sheer weight of those words pressed down harder than the Citadel's walls ever had. "But I didn't know," he said, the words spilling from him almost in a gasp. "I didn't know this was what I agreed to. No one told me."

Gregor's gaze did not waver. His expression did not soften. "Ignorance does not absolve you. The Will does not bend to explanations or excuses. You chose. You said yes. That is enough. You opened the door, and so you must step through it. That is the cost of the ring. That is the cost of command." He paused, letting the silence thicken until Warren's breath came shallow. "Every Headmaster who has stood where you stand knew they faced death. They knew and they accepted. All who stand here come in blind. None are told what awaits them, not one. It has always been so, and you are no different. Perhaps that will break you. Or perhaps that will prove you strong enough, even as one so weak as yourself."

The Emperor's eyes gleamed like molten gold, alive with impossible intensity. "Now we will see if you can endure what was never meant for one like you."