Yellow Jacket

The skycraft cut through thinning clouds, its shadow sliding across snowbound stone and ice-crusted ridges. Frost trailed in spirals behind its wings, glimmering faintly in the pale morning light. The frozen expanse stretched without end, broken only by jagged peaks and valleys carved by centuries of wind. Kasala guided the craft down toward the airfield, a hard-packed strip hewn from permafrost and ringed with barricades of Legion steel. The outpost carried the stripped-down efficiency of a forward base, no decoration, only reinforcement. Every wall was layered against cold, every angle built to hold. Haulers waited in disciplined formation, their engines grumbling as clouds of white exhaust billowed skyward. Legionnaires in full Legion Armor stood rigid at attention, the black and yellow plates glinting under frost and pale sun. Not a single breath or step broke pattern. Every gesture was exact, as though the cold itself dared not touch them.

The ramp dropped with a heavy groan that echoed against the frozen cliffs. Wind surged inside, scattering snow in sharp spirals across the steel deck. The cadets followed Kasala into the open, their boots biting the ice with each step. Cold clawed at their faces, numbing lips and stinging eyes, their exhalations rising in bursts of fog. They moved together in practiced formation, but their gazes wandered. Beyond the haulers and guards, something darker drew them. A mech warrior's frame loomed on the far edge of the strip, once a giant of war, now reduced to ruin. Burnt from the inside out, it had collapsed into itself. Though originally near twenty feet, it now sagged at fifteen, limbs twisted and useless. Its torso yawned hollow, ribs of scorched armor caving inward like the bones of some titanic carcass. Frost coated its blackened plating, steam whispering from the cracks where heat had long since bled away. Researchers clambered across the husk, chipping frost, cutting into frozen joints, dragging tools across plates brittle from cold and fire. They worked like desperate carrion birds, though the husk yielded nothing.

The cadets were herded into the waiting haulers without pause or explanation. The transports rumbled to life, their armored frames grinding forward across the snow-packed flats. Inside, the roar of engines filled every corner, the steel shell shaking with each ridge or drift they crossed. The air tasted of oil, metal, and frost. Strapped benches rattled beneath them. Over the noise, one Legionnaire leaned close to Kasala, voice raised until it pierced the mechanical thunder.

"Quiet for two days now, High Imperator. No fighting. No sightings. And that usually means worse is coming." He nodded toward the slit of reinforced glass, which revealed only a narrow glimpse of horizon. Out there, a storm was forming: a wall of white rolling across mountain and sky alike. The storm churned, vast and endless, its mass consuming everything in its path. "That's the blizzard from Graveholt. The Princedom's mechs live inside it. Ghosts. That storm never dies. It drifts, and wherever it goes, they go. When the snow falls that heavy, their machines aren't far behind. My guess, two days, maybe less, and we'll see a push. Heavy. Bloody."

The words seemed to sink into the hauler itself, swallowed by the vibration of the engine. The cadets shifted, trading glances that spoke of unease they dared not voice. Pale light spilled in through narrow slits, catching sharp profiles and tightening jaws. Some clenched their hands against knees. Some stared ahead, fixed and silent. No one answered. The convoy pushed on, the only sound the growl of treads carving paths into an unforgiving land.

The Frozen West stretched on in endless waves. Snowfields swallowed valleys whole, broken only by jagged teeth of stone where the wind scoured too hard to allow rest. The land felt deserted, hostile, stripped of life long ago. At times they passed wreckage half-buried in ice: steel girders jutting like bones, collapsed towers smothered beneath drifts, rail lines shattered and scattered by frost. Here and there, streaks of black marked places where frost-fire had burned. The cadets could feel the weight of isolation pressing into them, the truth of this place written in silence. The Frozen West was not a land to live in. It was only a land to survive.

The haulers finally ground to a halt before a towering cliff face. An entrance yawned wide, reinforced with iron and carved stone, its maw rimmed with frost like jagged teeth. Legionnaires in full Legion Armor lined the approach, their visors glowing faintly. Lances rested in their hands, disciplined and steady, weapons angled low but never lax. Their breath fogged out, curling into the frozen air before vanishing. The cadets were ushered forward, their boots clanking against frozen grating as they crossed the threshold. Ahead waited a massive elevator cage, chains thick as a man's torso hanging above, groaning beneath their own weight. Icicles clung to the beams, rattling with each gust as the heavy doors ground open.

They stepped inside. The cage rattled shut, chains dragging it downward. The descent was long, drawn-out, every groan of the metal echoing like a heartbeat through the frozen shaft. Cold clung to them at first, worming into joints, creeping beneath collars. Then the walls began to shift. Ice-slick stone gave way to panels of steel bolted into place. Heat bled from the seams, faint at first, then steady. A low hum reverberated through the cage, generators forcing warmth deep into the earth. Frost melted from their armor. The air thickened, warmer, carrying the scents of oil and electricity.

It had been far longer than they expected it to be before the cage shuddered to a halt. They had gone far deeper than they thought they would. The doors clanged open, spilling light and order into their path. White-coated researchers darted across gleaming corridors, voices hushed but urgent. Screens flickered with columns of data. Consoles hummed. The air was sharp with disinfectant, underscored by metallic tang. The cadets were pushed forward, their footsteps echoing off steel and polished glass.

Then the cavern revealed itself. A wall of reinforced glass opened onto vast darkness, and beyond it, ruins stretched into shadow. Pillars of impossible size jutted upward, carved with grooves and lines that no human hand had shaped. The sheer scale dwarfed everything around it. Teams clustered at the bases, their figures dwarfed, setting charges into ice, hammering at the sealed archways. The thud of tools reached faintly through the glass. Then came a blast, rolling deep through the cavern. Frost shivered loose from the heights, falling in glittering sheets.

The cadets could not help but stare, awe clashing with unease in every glance. The cavern was not just ancient; it was alien. It made them small, irrelevant, standing only at its threshold.

Their attention broke as they noticed her. A woman waited at the end of the hall, her presence no less commanding than the ruins themselves. She was beautiful in the way Green Zone beauty was designed to be, symmetry flawless, every feature perfected. But her stillness, her poise, cut sharper than mere beauty. Every line of her posture was exact, every angle deliberate. Grace clung to her, but it was not gentle. It was a weapon. She was someone who could write orders in the morning and slit throats by nightfall, without pause or contradiction.

"Ah," she said, her voice smooth and level, carrying without effort. "The reason this outpost matters is simple. The mine was built atop ruins that long predate us. What you see beyond the glass is older than we can imagine. Older than any record. We are privileged to stand here." She inclined her head, a gesture closer to acknowledgment than courtesy. "My apologies. I should have introduced myself sooner. My name is Helen. I serve as High Commander Ruka's assistant. If you will follow me, I will bring you to her. She will brief you personally. Refreshments have been prepared. The High Commander holds high hopes for this operation, and for those chosen to take part."

Kasala only nodded, his face carved of stone, his silence a command of its own. The cadets trailed behind him, eyes pulled between alien pillars, the storm whispered about above, and the unnerving grace of the woman who led them forward. None spoke. The silence held, broken only by the hum of machines and the distant thunder of excavation echoing through the frozen ruin.

The briefing room was wide and cold, walls plated in steel and reinforced glass. A long table dominated the center, bolted directly into the floor, with rows of Legion-standard seats set around it. The lighting was bright but clinical, casting sharp clarity that revealed every seam in the metal. Along one wall, a display screen flickered with schematics of the ruin below, its shifting lines spilling pale blue across the floor. The cadets sat stiffly, their backs straight, posture drilled into them by months of training. Silence pressed close, broken only by the faint hum of hidden machinery.

The sound of sharp footsteps shattered that silence. Helen entered first, stiletto heels striking the polished floor in measured rhythm. She carried a slim Legion pad against her chest, posture exact, presence sharp as glass. Her face was the Green Zone's perfect symmetry, every detail curated, but her eyes carried weight that unsettled even disciplined soldiers. She did not sit. Instead, she moved to the head of the table and stood with careful poise, her gaze sweeping across the cadets as though measuring them one by one.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"High Commander Ruka will arrive shortly," Helen said. Her voice was smooth and steady, carrying an authority that brooked no interruption. "While we wait, do you require refreshments?"

For a moment, no one spoke. The cadets glanced at each other, waiting for someone to break the silence. At last Elian leaned forward, voice careful but steady. "Yes. If you have it, a Zerulian tea."

Helen inclined her head as though acknowledging an order. Almost immediately, staff slipped into the room with silent precision. Trays appeared as if conjured from the air. Cups of tea, steaming and fragrant, were set before the cadets. Coffee and other drinks followed, poured at the exact temperature, the aroma rising into the sterile room. Jurpat, blunt as ever, asked for a sandwich. One was placed before him within moments. The speed and efficiency carried a message of their own: the Legion tolerated no delay, no imperfection.

Styll perched on Vaeliyan's shoulder, her long body curled close, tail twitching in restless rhythm as her silvered eyes darted. Momo nestled comfortably in Lessa's arms, half asleep, her fur ruffled from the cold. Bastard crouched at Vaeliyan's side in his small form, silent and watchful, his silver eyes gleaming faintly in the room's light as his tail dragged lightly across the floor.

A ripple of quiet banter moved between the cadets as they accepted their cups and plates. The simple act of drinking tea and coffee in such a sterile place carried an edge of surrealism, like luxury had intruded where it did not belong. Helen's eyes slid toward Kasala, her brow lifting in silent question. Kasala exhaled, the sound heavy in the silence. "You may order as well," he said. "It is permitted."

That was all it took. Small requests followed: bitter coffees, spiced teas, simple biscuits and crackers. Each request was fulfilled with startling speed, staff delivering plates and cups with perfect timing. Kasala himself accepted the humblest fare, a poorer tea favored by officers in the field, paired with a plain biscuit. The moment gave the room a strange sense of warmth, almost domestic, as though the war and ruin beyond the walls had been pushed back for a few precious breaths. Yet beneath it all, the discipline of the Legion remained obvious; even relaxation was orchestrated.

When the staff withdrew, the air settled again, leaving only the cadets, Helen, and Kasala. The hum of machinery pressed into the silence, steady and oppressive. Time seemed to stretch, the weight of anticipation thickening the air.

Then came more footsteps, measured, heavy, deliberate. They carried weight with each strike against the floor; the kind of weight that made soldiers instinctively straighten. The cadets rose at once, chairs scraping lightly as they pushed to their feet.

High Commander Ruka entered the room. She was beautiful in the way Green Zone perfection demanded: every feature balanced, every angle flawless. Yet her face bore a scar that cut from her cheek back to her ear. It did not mar her appearance; it sharpened it, giving her beauty a savage edge. Her hair was shorn close in a tight buzz cut. Her ears were strung with intricate earrings, opals and stones that seemed to swim with color, patterns shifting in the light as if alive. They did not distract from her face, nor soften the scar and cybernetic eye. Instead, they gave her a strange duality. Where her scar and cold gaze made her striking, dangerous, the earrings dulled that edge just enough to make her seem more approachable, almost human. It was impossible to know if this was intentional, a deliberate choice to temper her severity, or simply coincidence, but the effect was undeniable. An eyebrow piercing caught the glow of the overhead lights as she stepped forward. One of her eyes was cybernetic, glowing cold blue to match the living iris beside it. The artificial eye never followed her real gaze; it moved independently, flickering as though scanning streams of information invisible to all others.

Her Legion suit was severe, every seam straight, every fold perfect, its chest crowded with commendations. Ribbons and medals marked her as a veteran of campaigns too numerous to count, each one a reminder that she had earned her place not through wealth or politics but through blood and battle. She carried herself with an authority that filled the room, the kind of presence forged only by surviving where others had fallen.

She came to a halt before the cadets. Her movements were crisp, every motion exact. Then she raised her arm and delivered the Legion salute: her fist struck hard against her chest, directly over her heart, while her other hand rose high in challenge to the sky. The gesture cracked through the air like a strike of iron. The cadets mirrored her instantly, their salutes snapping into place with the sharpness of drilled precision.

"We are not human," Ruka said, her voice like iron, steady and absolute.

"We are Legion," the cadets replied as one, the words reverberating through the chamber.

Only then did Ruka lower her arm. Her scar caught the light, her cybernetic eye shifting in ways no human eye could. She gave a single nod, and the silence pressed in once more, heavier than before. The cadets waited, breath caught, as the moment stretched, and the weight of her presence filled every corner of the room.

Ruka stayed standing, palms flat on the table, looking at them as if she could calculate weight by sight alone. The cybernetic eye blinked, then settled. She let the silence hang until the room tightened around it, then she began.

"This is going to be blunt," she said, voice even and controlled. "Listen and do not confuse what I say for comfort. The outpost you are standing above is not, in itself, a contested front. It looks like a mining operation because that is what we made it look like. There is a real seam of ore. We funnel product through those surface tunnels so any cursory reconnaissance will see miners and wagons and go on. That is camouflage and it is deliberate. Beneath that camouflage we have a ruin that is of native making. It is where the idea for the next generation of Legion armor was born. It is where the engineers and researchers pulled ideas from whatever slept in that stone. If the Princedom ever learns what is under this ground, they will map our faults. They will map how to break our armor. That outcome is the one I will not allow.

"Normally I would have dropped you into Nespói," she said, voice flat and dangerous. "Not as a stupid test. Drop into Nespói and people do not come back. That is the fact. It does not carve you into pieces; it swallows you. I send men there because that jungle needs bodies to be burned out. High Command banned those drops because too many never returned. They took my first choice away because I burned through men like tinder. If I had my way I would burn Nespói to ash and claw every resource from its heart. I am angry I cannot do that.

"So, I am doing the next best thing. This site is the second-most valuable place I can use you. Publicly we will say we are going to push the Red Widow into the Wilds. Privately, you will use their push and their machines as a tool. When the Red Widow moves, do not try to kill her; she is not killed easily. Instead, make her move toward Graveholt. Push her into the city itself. Drop her into streets and markets until she is inside their walls. If the Princedom's citizens become her prey, the destruction will be total. She has never been allowed into a city before. She has been run off from facilities or left sites ruined; no one survives her unbound. If she reaches Graveholt it will be devastation on a scale this conflict has not seen. The blood and the ruin will be hers. That gives us plausible deniability and the chance to neutralize a threat without declaring open war. If other Princedoms are forced to throw troops at the chaos, they will waste an immense amount of manpower on a problem they won't be able to trace back to us if this is done correctly."

"The Princedom brought us a request, dressed as cooperation. They want the Red Widow removed, and who would argue? Nobody wants that walking disaster at their doorstep. On paper this is simple: a joint operation, one mech knight from the Princedom, thirty-five mech warriors, our contribution with High Imperator Kasala, twelve Imperators, and this Cadet unit. Publicly we will be able to show we are cooperating to push the Red Widow into the Wilds."

"Make no mistake, this mission is beyond dangerous. The Princedom will underestimate you because you are cadets. That is the advantage. They will send more apparent numbers and more visible force. They have not seen the holos I secured of you, the edges I believe you possess. That is the calculus of this trial: use that underestimation to shape outcomes without leaving our hand visible.

"I can see some of you are uneasy," she said, her voice quieter, not accusing. "That is natural. You are about to be asked to do something that will feel like a knife between teeth. Do not let that freeze you. Hold your roles. Keep your discipline. Trust Kasala. Trust your training. The rest is what soldiers are for."

"If any of you go missing, if any of you do not return, hear this now: the world will never know you existed. That is the cost of plausible deniability. I will not sugarcoat it. If you fail, we will claim you went rogue, driven mad by the Red Widow's song. This mission is black and will never be recognized as a mission in truth.""

"If you complete this, you will not simply have done a job. You will have protected the future of the Legion."

"Questions."

Elian raised his hand and asked about concessions if the Princedom presses the site later. Ruka's cybernetic eye focused on him. "We do not negotiate from weakness. If they learn, we deny. If they press, we crush. We maneuver. We do not give them what we built. That is why you move."

Vaeliyan raised a hand next, blunt and flat. "So, what's in it for us other than completing our trial? We're doing a mission that will never be recognized and is far deadlier than the norm? What tangible benefits will we see if we survive this ma'am?" The question cut through the room, raw and practical.

Ruka's mouth tightened. "Rewards," she said. "You remain part of the Green. Nobody works for free. The problem is that most of your prizes will be blacklisted; you will not be able to show them openly. But that does not mean they are worthless. There will be access, privileges, clearance and things you can only get from assignment and reputation. One of those things is this: if you succeed, you will be placed under my direct command."

They were not sure whether that was a threat or a favor. It was her final note. She stepped back then, the briefing closed. Helen would finish logistics. The cadets and Kasala left the room with their orders and the knowledge that the Legion had chosen them for something beyond their rank. They also left with the unmistakable understanding that the trial ahead would not be easy and would not be clean.