Yellow Jacket

While Vaeliyan still stood upon the podium, his body rigid in the heat of adoration, the world below him came to a perfect and unnatural halt. Breath held. Sound silenced. Motion stilled. Time itself froze mid-cheer, suspended between heartbeats. A single pulse echoed through that frozen moment, not his own, but something deeper.

Steel The Silvered Maiden called him.

He did not fall into the god's realm. There was no stumble, no disorientation. He stepped, calm and unflinching, through the fracture in reality that split behind his eyes like tempered glass giving way to pressure. One moment he was standing in the heart of the pit, surrounded by the roar of tens of thousands voices; the next, he was alone in a realm of eternal transformation.

The Forge awaited. Ever-shifting, never cool. Molten veins of metal twisted through obsidian stone and liquid glass. The air shimmered with heat too sacred to burn, and the ground itself breathed, alive with sparks, pulses, and shudders of adaptation. This was the heart of Steel's domain: raw, ruthless creation born from fire and intent.

She stood above him. Towering. Terrible. Beautiful.

Steel always wore the form of a winged woman. Her wings were wide and razor-edged, forged of silvered metal, feathers shaped like sharpened blades. Her eyes were not eyes, they were pure flame, alive with knowing. Her beauty was unbearable, not because it was soft, but because it was true. Nothing about her could be denied.

She was not a statue or a symbol. She was the crucible of becoming.

Her voice did not speak, it sparked, it hammered, it crackled like lightning across steel beams. She glowed, she melted, she erupted with purpose. Her words struck not air but iron, not ears but bone. She spoke as metal would, unforgiving and true, a sound forged more than spoken.

"Vaeliyan, my dear Vaeliyan," she hammered into him, her words resounding like a smith's hammer meeting the anvil of his soul. "You have completed the task I set upon you. You faced the trial, adapted, survived, and triumphed. As you have fulfilled a major task, you shall receive a major boon."

She stepped down from her pedestal of flame, dragging reality behind her like a cloak. She reached into the flowing river of ore that split the floor and pulled meaning from molten fire.

"First, I bind your blood," she crackled, the words sparking as she lifted a thread of searing silver that hissed and shimmered in her grip. "Your souls will read as one. This will allow your new AI to move freely across the boundaries of your forms. It will not see two identities, only one whole. They will follow you, no matter what shape your soul wears."

Chains of mercury light surged from her hands and wrapped around his wrists, his chest, his throat. The heat was unbearable. The pain was absolute. And then, it vanished. The bindings sank into his skin like breath into embers, leaving no mark but a certainty in his blood.

"Next," she continued, "I grant you the power to bind the spirits of two items, one for each form of your soul. These are not weapons. They are extensions. Reflections. Echoes of who you are and what you may yet become. You will choose them. You will feed them your victories. In return, they will grow alongside you. But be warned: this gift is rare. Only one who possess a Veil may bind items so. Choose poorly, and your path will fracture."

Vaeliyan lowered his gaze, solemn. "May I take time to consider what I choose to bind?"

Steel's laughter was the groan of cooling iron.

"Yes, my contender. You may. But understand this: time does not wait for you to decide who you are. The sooner you bind, the sooner they awaken. Delay, and they may remain silent while your enemies sharpen their edges against your hesitation."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Behind her, the forge flared higher. Sparks rose like dying stars. The heat intensified, the air warping with purpose.

"Last," she said, turning fully toward him, her expression something between command and pride, "I task you with ending the reign of Lord Barcus before you return home.

Her footsteps cracked the stone as she approached, and she stopped inches from him. Her flaming eyes burned with the full weight of the divine.

"Now you must go," she whispered, a hammerstroke softened for a child who had not broken. "Know that I am proud of you, my child. You have shaped yourself in fire, and fire has not denied you."

Her smile burned silver.

And then, the forge dissolved. The pit reformed. Reality snapped back into place, as if nothing had happened.

The crowd still stood with hands raised in salute. Their voices resumed mid-roar. No time had passed for them.

But Vaeliyan remained on the podium, still and cold-eyed, forged anew. The weight of Steel's will pressed behind his spine. Her final command echoed in his chest.

Steel had spoken.

The Siren's Song would soon sing again.

And the world would learn its rhythm.

Josaphine could not wait any longer.

The ceremony was still echoing in the minds of the masses, thousands of cheers ricocheting through the Citadel like echoes in a steel drum, but she was already moving. Purpose burned in her blood. She didn't care about appearances. She didn't care about protocol or performance. And she certainly didn't care about the discomfort of the pads or the brutal, skull-rattling transition sickness that came with long-range travel.

She wanted answers, and she would have them.

She dragged her dear husband, Isol, and her winnings straight to the nearest pad. Her knuckles were white with urgency. She thought of home and the pad accepted the command.

In an instant, they arrived.

Their estate was pristine perfection, almost too composed to feel real: flawless hedges shaped by surgical drones, imported trees positioned for seasonal symmetry, carefully tuned songbirds placed like musical punctuation, and a perfect little babbling brook whose flow had been calibrated for ideal acoustics. The illusion of nature, curated and paid for in full.

Josaphine barely registered any of it. Her body betrayed her first. She doubled over and vomited onto the gravel, immaculate, of course, and retched until her throat was raw. Transition didn't just move the body; it pulled the soul sideways. And she had never been able to get over it.

Isol reached out instinctively, hands gentle.

"My dear, you mustn't push yourself..."

She cut him off with one perfectly manicured finger pressed to his lips. Her glare could have cut glass.

She stood, slowly, shaking off the sickness and adjusting the hem of her coat with practiced grace. One breath. One more. Then fire.

"What the hells was that?!" she snapped. Her voice carried like a slap. "You made me believe Jurpat was the one. The next big thing. The prodigy! You led me to think he was the force worth watching. And yet Vaeliyan, your Vaeliyan, walked into that pit like a ghost of war. Like something pulled from myth. And he didn't just win. He dominated."

She didn't give him a chance to speak.

"You tricked me. Your own wife. The woman you claim to love. And don't you dare pretend there's nothing more. That boy swims in a sea of sharks, and somehow he feels like the apex predator. They circle him like they're waiting for him to bleed, but I swear it's them who should be afraid."

She began pacing the length of their stone path, hands gesturing wildly.

"And his gear, don't even start. You said he built that out of scrap and mining junk. Scrap! And yet it looks like the weirdest insect legs I've ever seen. Unnatural. But no one, no one, looks at a pile of junk and decides to strap it to their legs and weaponize it. That's not invention. That's madness sharpened into genius."

She shook her head, breath ragged.

"And then there's his ignorance. Or is it an act? I played Relion Rebellion with him, Isol. And the boy couldn't tell a pylon from an energy port. He didn't know the basic tenets of world economics. He couldn't even quote the foundational axioms of any of the Four Systems. That's not ignorance. So how does someone that far behind in basic knowledge plan that performance?"

Isol stood still, hands behind his back, face unreadable.

"My dear," he said, voice calm as ever, "you heard what you chose to hear. I never once said Jurpat was the future. You assumed. You wanted a narrative you could manage. I didn't spoon-feed you anything because I know you're more than capable of finding the truth."

He stepped forward, shadows shifting with the movement.

"Vaeliyan is different. You saw it. You felt it. And you're not wrong, he's not just part of the game. He's redefining it. That boy's not trying to win. He's setting the board on fire. And the Citadel? This tournament? This was never the destination. It's just a footnote on his path."

Josaphine didn't speak. Not right away.

She stood in the glow of their sculpted garden, her eyes locked on the distant edge of the sky, where clouds moved like secret fleets and stars seemed to shift out of alignment.

Vaeliyan had a future. And she had more questions than answers.

The next conversation would not be polite.

It would be precise. Relentless. And long overdue.