Forge Era, Year Eighteen. Gorath Tetsu's realization hit like a gauss blast—too late, too shallow. His 50,000 Tau ships drifted into an asteroid belt near Rydeka Verge—countless rocks tumbling in the void, a jagged maze of stone and shadow. "Ambush," he rasped, voice a hollow echo, optics scanning the chaos beyond his flagship's bridge. The hundred Moonshrikes—Steelborn's bait—had lured them here, and now the trap sprang. From behind every asteroid, Steelborn ships phased in—stealth mode dropped, Living Steel hulls glinting, gauss cannons flaring green. Over 56,000 strong, they surged from all sides, a relentless tide crashing against his scattered fleet.
Gorath's jaw tightened—his high spirits crumbled, replaced by dread. "Surrounded," he muttered, claws digging into his console, power armor whirring as the bridge rocked. Tau ships at the front—eager chasers—vanished first, encircled by Steelborn's cutting tactics. Moonshrikes darted—Mach 50 streaks slashing hulls—while heavier frigates fired, gauss beams punching through shields like paper. "Gone," a scout stammered, voice trembling, holo-feeds flaring with red—dozens of icons blinking out. Every lost ship stabbed Gorath's chest—these were Tau's treasures, forged from a dying empire's last gasp, now dust by his blunder.
"Regroup!" he roared, voice cracking, optics wild. "To me—now!" His fleet scrambled—pulse drives flaring, captains shouting over comms—but Steelborn pressed harder. "Too many!" a frigate commander wailed, voice lost as his ship split—crew ash in seconds. "Their fire's dense—too fast!" another screamed, railguns useless against Living Steel's speed. Gorath's mind raced—50,000 against 56,000, ambushed, outmaneuvered. "Where'd they get these ships?!" he snarled, claws slashing air, denial fraying. Crestfall, Namu Verge—he'd underestimated Steelborn's reach, blind to Steelheart's forges.
Jarek watched from Crestspire, holo-maps alive with Tau ruin. "Close the door," he growled, laugh cold, optics blazing. The asteroid belt was his anvil—56,000 ships his hammer. "Cut 'em apart," he rasped, claws tapping—Steelborn's tactic unfolded: high-mobility strikes slicing Tau's formation, isolating chunks, devouring them. Tau ships shrank inward, desperate to reform—Steelborn's gauss fire forced them apart, relentless, surgical. "Beat the dog," Jarek muttered, a dark grin splitting his steel face—total annihilation the goal.
"How many left?" Gorath barked, voice a jagged edge, optics darting to his deputy. "Thirty thousand—barely," the aide stammered, claws trembling over controls. "We stretched too far—their firepower's shredding us." Gorath's breath hitched—20,000 ships lost or cut off, abandoned to Steelborn's jaws. "Break out!" he roared, claws slamming his console. "Warp entrance—full thrust!" Thirty thousand rallied—pulse cannons blazing, hulls aligning—a desperate spear aimed at escape. Even Steelborn's might couldn't stop them all—Jarek had known some would slip, but 20,000 kills sufficed.
The breakout was brutal—gauss beams carved through, Moonshrikes swarmed, but Tau's mass held. "Hold!" Gorath shouted, voice hoarse, flagship shuddering as a plasma lance grazed its flank. Ten ships burst beside him—debris spinning—but the warp gate loomed. "For the empire!" he rasped, optics dim, guiding 30,000 to freedom, 20,000 left to die. Steelborn let them run—Jarek's trap had reaped its toll.
On Graviton Verge, Tau soldiers felt the void's silence—no reinforcements broke the sky. Six months under five Gs had carved despair into their bones—Steelborn Ribs marched, unkillable, gauss fire endless. "They're not coming," a Fire Clan grunt muttered, voice flat, pulse rifle limp in his claws. "Fifty thousand—our fleet's strong," another argued, optics flickering, clinging to faith. "Steelborn's got tens of thousands," a third rasped, voice low. Silence fell—hope bled out.
"I heard a Krex surrendered," a Vexar hissed, claw tapping his dented armor. "Figures—money over Path," a Tau snorted, optics dull. "These skeletons don't stop," another whispered, voice trembling—six months of death, no end. Next dawn, Steelborn advanced—Ribs and Scourgers storming trenches, gauss blazing. Tau corpses littered the dirt—many self-slashed, stomachs cut, despair's final mark.