Yellow Jacket

The world in front of Warren ripped away, and suddenly he stood in an alley. A boy so small and fragile that he had forgotten how to be a man crouched there. Warren's breath caught as he realized he was looking at himself, his younger self, standing over a corpse with hunger etched into every line of his thin body. Then a voice called out, a voice he had not heard in so long that it pierced him deeper than any blade. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the only woman he had ever called mother walked into the alley. In her hand she held a scrap of meat, offering it not to him, but to the rabbit that darted forward to bite her hand.

"Thank you," Warren whispered, his voice breaking. "Thank you so much. But why are you showing me this? This is one of the saddest and happiest moments of my entire existence."

The Emperor regarded him, eyes like molten glass. "The way she forged you blunted the monster. It blunted the blade you would have become. You might have been a scalpel that cut away the world, yet instead you became a cudgel that hammered it into place. I am surprised. You were hollow. Interesting. Truly, truly interesting."

"What does that mean?" Warren asked, confusion sharpening his words. "Hollow? You say it like it's a name, like it means something."

"You are no longer hollow," the Emperor said. "But that child there, he was filled with her, and that is all that kept him from being nothing but death upon this world. Not that you are any less now. If anything, you are more. But the death you cause is shaped differently."

The vision shifted. Another alley appeared around them, this one familiar. Warren recognized it instantly, the place of the brick. He had just run from the Red, scraps stolen from Car clutched in his hands, when a man attacked. Warren had always remembered it as a frantic blur, but now, for the first time, he saw the full scene clearly. The man had been waiting for him. Warren realized with a sick twist that someone else had walked past that same alley and had not been attacked. The man had chosen him. It was not a random mugging as he had always believed. It had been an ambush.

The man carried no good gear, but the way he moved, the certainty of his ambush, spoke of intent. Warren froze as a thought struck him. "Was this Umdar's original contender?"

Because Warren had nothing then. Even less than nothing. A brick in his hand, some scraps from Car, a nut bar. Nothing worth killing for, unless there had been a reason to kill him. And Warren had never learned who Umdar's first contender had been.

He started laughing bitterly. "I can feel it. Yes. Yes, this man was a contender. Interesting. You had no ability, yet you surprised him with your ferocity."

The Emperor studied the scene with detached curiosity. "You do not see these as horrors. There is no shame in you here. Very well, let us move on."

The alley dissolved, replaced by a quiet, dark chamber before the massive monolith of a vault. Men and women screamed as a ghost tore them apart. Warren's chest tightened, shame pressing against his ribs.

"Ah," the Emperor said. "This is one of your regrets. But you fulfilled a promise to those you devoured, yet remorse follows you."

"I still wish I had done it differently," Warren admitted. "And I don't know why I feel that way. It never used to be like this. I don't understand where it comes from. you... You understand my stats better than anyone, but is emotional intelligence a thing?"

The Emperor laughed, the sound reverberating like stone cracking. "Of course it is, boy. But I do not believe a stat gives you empathy. There is a factor we are missing. Something deeper."

Warren's eyes narrowed. "Why are you showing me all of this?"

"You said you wanted to see your horrors, did you not?"

"I did. But these… these are regrets." Warren's voice cracked with frustration. "Why would you call these horrors?"
"Why is the brick man a regret to you?" The Emperor asked him in reply.

Warren started laughing, the sound jagged and raw, his shoulders shaking as the memory of that moment clawed its way back into his mind. The alley. The man. The brick. He could still feel the weight of it in his hands, the rhythm of his arms rising and falling as he struck over and over again, smashing the man's face until there was nothing left but ruin. It wasn't the man he regretted. It wasn't even the brick itself. It was the stupid, useless machete. That was the mistake. That was the regret. He should never have picked it up. He could have fought with his fists and likely come out the same, but instead he had chosen the blade, and the blade had betrayed him. The machete had shattered mid-fight, splintering like cheap glass, a worthless shard of metal that nearly cost him his life. He told the Emperor as much, spitting the words as though even the memory of the weapon left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Odd," the Emperor murmured, his tone carrying both curiosity and certainty as he studied Warren with molten eyes that seemed to pierce bone. "You regret the blade." He tilted his head, voice steady but edged with judgment. "I believe in this world; blades were never meant for you."

Warren swallowed, throat dry, unsure whether to laugh again or hold his tongue. There was a strange truth in the words that dug at him, though he could not fully grasp it. He clenched his fists, silent, until the Emperor continued.

"I have one more regret to show you," the Emperor said, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "Are you ready?"

Warren met his gaze, his shoulders tense and rigid. "Do I really have a choice?"

"No," the Emperor answered simply. "You do not."

The world shifted around them, tearing apart like a veil ripped from its hooks. Warren blinked hard as the ground slid away, and when his vision cleared, the air was different. He froze, heart hammering in his chest. "Odd," the Emperor said again, his voice lower now, touched with something like surprise. "This is not what I expected. But I see why you would regret this moment."

Warren looked ahead, and his breath caught. Wren stood there, her figure softened by the glow of memory, her hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. Pregnant. The sight hit him like a hammer. He remembered the moment he left Mara as though it had been carved into his soul with fire and steel. He did not regret leaving, it had been the only path forward, the only way to carve a chance at survival for the people he cared about. But he regretted what he had lost in doing so. He regretted the time that had slipped through his fingers like sand, and he missed her with an ache that seemed endless. He wished he had been allowed to stay longer, to see her smile, to hear her snores, to be present instead of absent. But the Legion had been the only way forward, the only way to save them both from the jaws of inevitability.

His voice cracked, spilling out raw and unguarded. "I love her. I miss her. I don't even know if my child is born. I don't know what they look like, or if they are even alive. And I don't know how to be a father." His words trembled in the air, as though speaking them aloud gave shape to a weakness he had never let anyone see.

The Emperor's expression shifted, softening with a rare trace of humanity. For the first time, his molten eyes dimmed as if he looked inward, remembering something long buried. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ages, heavy yet strangely gentle. "None of us truly do, my boy. No one knows how to be a father. We only do our best. Some of us fail, some stumble, and some manage to do better than others. But there is no certainty in it. Only the attempt. Only the will to try."

The words hung between them, resonant and undeniable, as Warren's chest ached with the truth of them.

Warren, you are more than I was expecting. I can see why a god would have chosen you. This is different from how I would trial another. Most, I would not need to see their souls laid bare like this, their hearts exposed before me. But you, you are not weak of heart. The things you regret are born from love, not cowardice. And the strange nature of your hate for blades, that is something you should truly think about. Even if blades are not meant for you, there are many times when a good blade will save your life. Do not dismiss the idea that tools which failed you once could one day be the only thing keeping you alive. Think on that, Warren. A man who refuses one weapon may find himself trapped when all others are stripped away.

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Warren laughed again, a sharp sound in the quiet. "Many good blades in my hands have tried to take my life more than save it. I do not trust them. The only blade I have ever trusted was the one left to me by my mother. And I never used that blade to harm anything. I used it only to take what was mine, and that is it. It was a gift given from her father to her, then to me, and I will give it to my child. I will not sully it by using it to kill. It was never meant for that. I do not know if another blade would ever call to me the same way her blade calls me. It is a voice I hear even now, a voice that reminds me of her. I would rather carry that memory unbroken than stain it with blood."

The Emperor regarded him steadily, voice low and resonant. "My boy, you are an anomaly. You are too weak to take the trial of combat, but the trial of the heart… you are the steadiest I have ever seen. I think we should go eat. I have your mother's tea waiting, I have the boar, I have cakes, I have fruits from all over the world, I have libations of memory. But there is one I have never shared with anyone else." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as his tone softened. "My wife, Del, she used to gather the grapes that remained on the vines in winter and stomp them herself with her bare feet. You can taste love in that wine. Not because it is good, it tastes like shit, truth be told, but the memory of it, in this place, you will taste my memory of her love for me, and my love for her. That is what I offer you, Warren. Not the taste of fine things, but the taste of what is gone and yet still real to me. And hopefully you can feel what little I can offer. I am sorry for what has been taken from you, and what has been done to your city. It was never my goal to have the world shatter as it has in my death. My Will was to protect, but even Will cannot stop the collapse of men."

Warren stood and nodded to the Emperor, voice firm though his eyes glimmered with something heavier. "I do not accuse you of this. I do not bear any grudges against you. As far as I have been told, you were one of the only ones who tried to lead us away from the greed of the Green, or the nobility of the Princedoms. You tried to carve something good for us all, and maybe it was only your Will that held it together."

The Emperor's voice lowered, and his expression darkened like storm clouds. "Do not blame them, Warren. I was never a father to them. My children were not raised by my hand. I was a conqueror, a leader, not a father. I loved my children too much as well, but when I lost my wife, I let them do whatever they wished, and power corrupted them. I should have seen it all coming, but my heart was broken, and a broken heart cannot rule."

"How do you know this?" Warren asked softly, curiosity and pity threading through his voice.

The Emperor's eyes flickered with a strange light, more memory than flame. "It was back when I could still speak with myself. Not long after, I realized the truth. When I lost myself, that was when I knew it was gone. That was when I knew my dreams were over. Everything I built would crumble, except for my Will. And my Will alone stands in front of you now, even as stone falls to dust."

His voice dropped lower still, quiet and resonant with something like gratitude. "You have given me a gift, Warren. In hearing you, I am reminded that even monsters can love, and even conquerors can weep. Thank you."

The Emperor had not lied. The wine did taste like shit. Bitter, sour, cloying in its aftertaste. Yet beneath that unremarkable flavor lingered something undeniable. It also tasted like love, raw and unfiltered. It carried the essence of being truly loved, and of loving in return. Warren felt it coat his tongue and sink into his chest like warmth spreading through marrow. He did not want to sully the taste with his tears, even though they pressed at the corners of his eyes, insistent and burning. The tea that followed carried the memory of his mother; every sip steeped with the echo of her voice and the comfort of her presence. It was like standing once more in her kitchen, the scent of herbs and smoke curling around him. And the boar, rich, savory, dripping with flavor, was unlike anything he had ever known in the waking world. It was simply delicious, and nothing else compared.

They sat together in a vast hall, shadows stretching up into a ceiling that disappeared in darkness. A fire roared in a wide stone hearth before them. The flames gave off no searing heat, only the steady embrace of warmth, like hands wrapped gently around the soul. There were only the two of them at the table, and in that quiet space it felt almost like a father and son. The Emperor, who had once lived and lost, sat across from Warren, who had not yet even been given the chance to experience such bonds. The contrast was sharp, but the moment was gentle.

They spoke for a long time. Not about matters of empire or gods, not of wars or legacies, but about the kind of small things that weighed more than any crown. Little fragments of life. The comfort of certain foods. The strangeness of forgotten dreams. The bitterness of regret. These were not world-changing conversations, but they stitched a fragile kinship between them, thread by thread. Both of them seemed to appreciate it deeply, as though such connection had been denied to them for far too long. In the silence between words, they understood one another.

At last Warren broke the rhythm with a question that had lingered since the beginning. "If a minute out there is a year in here, do you see Imujin every day? Or the others, too, technically?"

"Yes," the Emperor answered, his tone grave, eyes reflecting the firelight. "I see them at least once a day by the measure of the outer world. But for me, centuries pass between those moments. Every word exchanged, every order given or counsel shared, is separated by ages. They speak to me briefly, and then I wait. I endure endless years of silence before the next word comes. Imagine living entire lifetimes between single conversations."

Warren's heart clenched at the thought. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I wish there was a way to slow the time in here. To make it bearable."

The Emperor gave a small smile, weary but genuine, his great shoulders sagging as if the weight of centuries had pressed them down. "Warren, I know you mean well. But if it could be done, it would have been. This is the slowest we could devise, the only way to preserve a Will inside the Heartwood. Any slower, and even Will would unravel into nothing."

Warren frowned, his brow creasing. "What exactly is this Heartwood you speak of?"

"Ah," the Emperor replied, leaning back slightly, eyes distant as if peering into a memory carved into the foundations of the world. "What do you know of the Forest of Hemera?"

"I mean, their forest? What are you talking about exactly?" Warren asked, puzzled, his voice tightening with curiosity.

The Emperor's voice dropped lower, resonant with truth. "Warren, one of the most fascinating facts of our world is that no two forests are alike. Each one is singular. Each one carries its own form of life, its own heart. Each heart is a living, beating presence, and each offers a different gift to the world around it. Some heal, some poison, some remember. The one that bound itself to me granted me the power to bind others—to the Heartwood itself, and through it, to each other. That is how the chain was forged. Wood to platinum. Platinum to gold. Gold to bronze. Bronze to iron. Through these rings, I tethered not only men, but legacies."

"The rings," Warren said slowly, his voice filled with dawning realization. "They are part of the heart of the forest?"

"Yes," the Emperor answered, his voice heavy with certainty, like a stone set immovable in the earth. "The rings are fragments of the Heartwood."

The Emperor stood slowly after the meal, his massive frame rising like a mountain from the table. The faint light of the memory-fire cast long shadows across the hall, throwing his armored form into sharp relief. Each step he took carried the weight of centuries, deliberate and solemn, until he stood directly before Warren. His presence filled the space, pressing down on Warren like gravity itself. With hands that seemed carved from stone and tempered by time, the Emperor placed both palms firmly on Warren's shoulders, steadying him as though anchoring him to the world.

His voice rolled out, deep and commanding, each word ringing with the power of judgment that could not be questioned. "Warren, I have decided. You will build a Citadel. You will carve it from the bones of this world and make it stand as a testament to what you are. You will become one of my Headmasters. You will speak to me again, and you shall be bonded to me. You will uphold the Emperor's Will, and together we shall see if the world is ready for what comes next. Do not falter. Do not turn aside. Now go."

The Emperor's hand rose, massive and unshaking, before lowering gently to Warren's head. The touch was not cruel, nor was it soft, but it carried the weight of a final decree. It was both a blessing and a command, the sort of gesture that bound fates together. Warren felt it press into him, a tide of authority sinking into marrow. His vision blurred as if the world itself rejected what he was, and the great hall dissolved into nothingness. Fire, food, wine, and stone fell away until all was silence. Then his eyes snapped open to the meadow, reality flooding back into him with brutal clarity.

The storm-scented air struck his lungs, sharp and alive, and he staggered slightly as his senses caught up with him. Mud clung to his boots, rain dampened his hair, and the echo of the Emperor's command still lingered in his bones. Slowly, almost fearfully, he raised his hand and stared at the new ring bound to his finger. The others were already gathering around him, drawn by the shift in the air, their movements cautious, their faces tense with expectation. None dared speak at first. Their eyes were locked on him, on the strange new glow.

The ring pulsed faintly, a living thing upon his hand. It did not burn with the deep blood-red of Imujin's ring, the color of sacrifice and old authority. Instead, it shimmered with the steady golden-yellow of Warren's jacket, bright and defiant, alive with promise. The light reflected in the wet meadow, scattering across droplets of rain like tiny shards of sun. It was a color no one had ever seen upon a ring before, and its presence felt like a challenge hurled at the world itself. Warren's ring burned with its own truth: a symbol of defiance, of will, of a war yet to come.