Crestfall's steel grip tightened under Jarek's watch, its six worlds and scattered orbitals humming with Steelborn efficiency. Rageclaw's empire was a memory, its bones picked clean by the Forge Era's thirteenth year. Redstone, ten light-years back, churned out Living Steel and Riftgate prototypes, a quiet pulse of power. Jarek's holo-feed flickered with player chatter—Absolute Loyalty buzzing with boasts and bickering. A voice cut through, sharp and smug:
"Listen—the Old Sages ruled this galaxy when humans were still grunting in caves. They foresaw your kind's rise, and we Eldrin carry their spark. Our psionics could've crushed the League by now if not for a cosmic snag."
Silence, then a scoff. "What, no comeback? King's here—scatter!"
The feed went dead.
Jarek smirked, muting it. Eldrin, Old Sages—psionic ghosts he'd never crossed. Players swore they wielded the Warp's currents, minds bending reality. Steelborn didn't bend. The Warp was a festering mess—chaos that corroded flesh and circuits alike. Jarek's Ribs loathed it, their Ascension rooting out anything that wasn't cold, hard steel. The Eldrin could preach; he didn't care. The League's civil war—factions clawing over a rotting Emperor—was a better gift. Crestfall was his, but Redstone's reach was still thin. Time was an ally while the giants bled.
Year Fifteen of the Forge Era brought strangers to Crestfall's edge. A flotilla blinked out of a Void rift—sleek, angular ships, their hulls a dull blue. The Tau, they called themselves—short, wiry frames, flat faces with no nose ridge, skin rough as slate. Their lead craft hailed a Steelborn patrol, tone smooth: "Greetings—we come in peace, seeking trade." No guns flared, no threats like the Pale Crest's old bluster. Jarek weighed it. Crestfall's forges hungered for rare ores—iridium, thorium, stuff Redstone's crust didn't cough up. The Tau offered it cheap, stacks of it, no haggling. "Let 'em in," he ordered, voice flat. "No borders crossed, no trouble."
Curiosity tugged at him. The Tau weren't Pale Crest—blind, arrogant—but something else. Their ships hummed with tech, not Living Steel's league, but sharp for a race he'd never logged. Trade pacts clicked into place: raw materials for Crestfall's vaults, Steelborn scrap for Tau holds. No weapons, no secrets—just business. The Ribs watched, optics glinting, as Tau traders docked at Shatterpoint's new ports, their cargo sleds heavy with ore.
But the Tau's eyes wandered. Their envoys—clad in tight, angular suits—lingered near Steelborn rigs, peering at Pulse Rifles, scanning Living Steel plating with too much hunger. "Impressive craft," one said, voice clipped, tracing a ship's seam. "What drives it?" Jarek's Ribs bristled—tech was their blood, their spine. To the Steelborn, it wasn't just property; it was identity. Letting outsiders poke at it was like handing over a limb. The Pale Crest—now dubbed Elephants, their trunks irrelevant under Jarek's rule—never touched it. These Tau wouldn't either.
"They're nosy," a Rib commander growled over comms, optics locked on a Tau scanning a Riftgate frame. Jarek's jaw tightened. "Keep 'em out," he said. "No lines crossed, no blood—yet." The pact held—Tau stayed polite, their goods flowed—but the itch grew. Imagine a stranger eyeing your rig every day, dreaming of cracking it open. Jarek felt it, a low burn, but held back. Their ores fueled Crestspire's forges, cheap and steady. Use outweighed annoyance—for now.
The Tau puffed up during talks, their flat faces smug. "Five centuries," one envoy boasted, hands clasped. "That's all it took—farmers to starfarers. A thousand systems in a blink, young and fierce. We Tau will rule the void someday." Another chimed in, eyeing Jarek's holo-map: "Your Steelborn are sharp—two galaxies, solid tech. But we've governed a thousand. You could learn from us—trade engines for experience." Jarek stared, silent. He didn't flaunt it: Redstone's Ascension, twelve years from dust to Crestfall's crown. Their pride was a pebble to that.
"Engines?" the envoy pressed, voice oily. "Yours outrun ours—how?" Jarek's lip quirked. Living Steel, non-inertial drives—secrets the Tau'd never pry loose. Steelborn didn't preach; they built. The Tau's game was clear: cheap goods to worm in, goodwill as a mask, tech theft the prize. Jarek played along, squeezing their ores dry. Crestfall's vaults swelled—thorium for Riftgates, iridium for guns. The Tau thought they were clever; he thought they were useful.
Their empire loomed—a thousand worlds, they bragged. Not a lie, maybe, but their ships didn't sing like Steelborn hulls. Jarek didn't fear them—annoyance wasn't dread. Flipping the table would be a chore, not a war. A thousand planets meant sprawl, not strength. Crestfall's two systems, Redstone's forges—they'd outpace that in time. "Keep trading," he told the Ribs. "Eyes open." The Tau's value held—resources for now, trouble later.
The Absolute Loyalty feed buzzed again. "League's still cracking," a voice said. "Astartes squads roaming—hit a fringe lord yesterday." Jarek half-listened. The Tau weren't Astartes—gene-forged doom—but they'd learn. Steelborn didn't share; they took. Riftgates hummed in Crestspire's yards, gates flaring, Ribs stepping through. Redstone's labs pushed harder—soldiers today, fleets tomorrow. Jarek paced, holo-maps spinning. The Tau could strut; he'd build. The galaxy wasn't theirs yet.