Forge Era, Year Eighteen. Gorath Tetsu's flagship hummed fresh from warp—50,000 Tau ships stretched across Rydeka Verge, railguns primed, pulse cannons glowing blue. A hundred Steelborn ships flickered ahead—sleek, darting Moonshrikes, their Living Steel hulls glinting mockingly. "Luck's mine," Gorath growled, flat face splitting with a grin, claws tapping his console. "Whoever downs one, I'll push for first-class honors—pile up kills, you're Tau heroes!" Fifty thousand against a hundred—meat on a platter. "Chase 'em!" he barked, voice thick with hunger, optics blazing. Merit dangled like ripe fruit—his to seize.
"Enemy's fleeing!" a scout shouted, voice sharp, holo-feeds tracking the Moonshrikes bolting at superluminal speed. "Pursue—run 'em down!" Gorath roared, claws slashing air, ambition drowning caution. Steelborn's Second and Third Fleets—30,000 ships—were pinned elsewhere, and the First, a battered 6,000, clung to Graviton Verge. Fifty thousand Tau ships loomed invincible—tactics be damned, numbers ruled. "Easy kills," he muttered, optics glinting. Why fret over a hundred when his armada could crush galaxies?
Jarek watched from Crestspire, holo-maps flaring—Gorath's fleet a red swarm, chasing his bait. "Fools," he rasped, laugh cold, optics narrowing. Those hundred Moonshrikes weren't strays—Jarek had sent them, bait dangling from intel squeezed from Tau prisoners. "Fifty thousand coming," a captured Tau-kun had gasped, voice trembling under Steelborn interrogation. Jarek grinned—56,000 ships already held Rydeka Verge; now, he'd spring the trap. "Let 'em run," he growled, claws tapping. "Stretch 'em thin."
Tau captains raced—pulse drives flaring, ships jostling for kills. "Merit's ours!" a frigate commander crowed, voice crackling over comms, pushing his hull past limits. Steelborn's Moonshrikes darted—fast, erratic—dodging fire, luring deeper. "Signal from our forces—weak, jammed!" a tech reported, claws fumbling, optics darting. "Normal," Gorath snapped, voice steady. "Steelborn's tech edges ours—jamming's their trick." No friendly contact? No worry—50,000 ships crushed doubt.
"Formation's stretching!" a deputy warned, voice tight, holo-map showing Tau ships scattering—chasers outpacing the core. "Keep going!" Gorath barked, claws clenching. "Finish 'em, then regroup—how do we lose?" Fifty thousand dwarfed a hundred—Steelborn's two galaxies (Crestfall, Namu Verge—Tau intel missed Steelheart) capped them at 30,000, he reckoned. More? Fantasy—impossible.
"Enemy's firing back!" a scout shouted, voice spiking—Moonshrikes looping, plasma lances flaring. "Fuel's low—they're desperate!" Gorath grinned, optics glinting. Decades at the helm—bottom rung to commander—taught him ships: high-speed chases burned reserves. "Caught 'em," he rasped, victory close. "Friendly message!" a tech cut in, voice urgent, patching a garbled feed.
["On xx, xx, xx, our army—defeated across the board—caution, reinforcements…"] Static drowned it—Kael Vorn's scarred face flickered, claw raised in a familiar tic. "Fake?" a deputy stammered, optics narrowing. "Steelborn could forge it." Gorath's grin faded—instinct prickled. "No," he rasped, voice low, claws freezing. "That's Kael—scar, gesture—too real. They lost—20,000 ships gone." His mind raced—mutiny? Plague? No—only one answer fit.
"Reinforcements—theirs!" he roared, optics flaring, power armor whirring as he lurched forward. "Ambush—stop the chase! Reform now!" Too late—56,000 Steelborn ships phased in—gauss beams slashing, Moonshrikes swarming, Living Steel laughing at pulse fire. "Trap!" a captain screamed, voice lost—his frigate split, crew ash. Gorath's 50,000 shattered—Jarek's blade fell.