Forge Era, Year Eighteen. Gorath Tetsu's flagship limped through the warp gate—30,000 Tau ships, a battered remnant of his once-mighty 50,000, trailing smoke and shame. The asteroid belt ambush had gutted them—Steelborn's 56,000 ships striking from shadow, gauss fire relentless, Moonshrikes carving through. "Twenty-eight thousand left," a deputy rasped, voice hollow, claws trembling over flickering controls. Gorath's optics dimmed—over 2,000 more lost in the breakout, a desperate sprint Steelborn barely contested. "They let us run," he muttered, flat face taut, power armor sparking from a grazed flank. A bitter mercy—the only good news for a crumbling Tau Empire.
"I'm sorry, kin," Gorath whispered, voice breaking, claws clenched on his console. Beyond the warp, 20,000 ships—hundreds of thousands of Tau—lay abandoned, sentenced to Steelborn's jaws. "Had to," he rasped, optics wet, forcing the words. For the empire's last spark, he'd sacrificed them—brothers, sisters, clans swallowed by Jarek's trap. "Message Lao-kun Tau," he barked, voice steadying, though his chest ached. "Tell him—I failed." Defeat clawed him—50,000 ships, his invincible dream, shattered by Steelborn's depth, their reinforcements a nightmare he'd never foreseen.
The warp spat them out—28,000 ships drifting, scarred, into Tau space. "Surrender," Gorath rasped, voice low, optics fixed on the void. "Tell His Highness—truce, now. We can't fight this." Fifty thousand Steelborn ships matched his, then crushed him—Tau's reserves bled dry, their worlds stripped. "They're too deep," he muttered, claws tracing a cracked holo-map. "Unfathomable." Eight months of war—3,000 lost at Ashreach, 7,000 at Vortex Verge, now 22,000 here—had broken him. "Negotiate," he urged, voice a plea. "Anything to save us."
Word spread—shock rippled through the Tau Empire. "Fifty thousand—gone?" a Fire Clan elder gasped, voice trembling, optics wide in a dimly lit hall. "First defeat—ever," a Wind Clan scribe whispered, claw scratching a tablet, history rewritten. Orc hordes—billions strong—had never humbled them like this. "A small country?" a merchant snarled, voice bitter, clutching an empty ledger—Steelborn's might defied their tales. Streets buzzed—old Tau, frail and bent, shuffled past; young were gone, drafted, dead. "We gave everything," a forge worker rasped, voice raw, hands scarred from months of toil—ships, rifles, lives—all for naught.
"Did the Path forsake us?" a mother wailed, voice cracking, clutching a child's toy—her son lost on Graviton Verge. "Lies," a youth hissed, optics blazing, smashing a propaganda slate—promises of victory dust now. Lao-kun Tau's war room thundered—his roar shook the walls. "Gorath—you vouched for him!" he snarled, claws slamming a holo-table, optics blazing red. "Fifty thousand—our last strength—half lost in one blow!" Twenty-eight thousand returned—22,000 gone, a wound too deep. "Fool!" he bellowed, voice a thunderclap, nano-armor whirring as he paced. The Tau Empire teetered—unprecedented crisis, his rage a mask for dread.
"Who saw this?!" a general stammered, voice fraying, claws gesturing at holo-wrecks—Steelborn's 50,000 reinforcements a ghost no spy had caught. "Unfathomable," Lao-kun rasped, optics narrowing, claws flexing. "Truce," the general urged, voice low. "Gorath's right—we're spent." Lao-kun's glare cut him—silence fell, heavy as Graviton Verge's five Gs. "Surrender?!" he roared, voice shaking the chamber. "Abandon the Path?!" The general flinched, then pressed: "Not surrender—truce. Negotiate with Steelborn—any price, keep our spark alive." Lao-kun's claws stilled—green hills, a faint hope, flickered in his mind. "Rise again," the general whispered, voice firm. "Tenfold—hundredfold—they'll pay."
Silence stretched—Lao-kun's optics dimmed, rage cooling to grim resolve. "Talk," he rasped, voice a jagged edge. "Truce—first." The Tau Empire's plea raced—faster than warp, lattice buzzing with whispers. Citizens wailed—some collapsed, optics wet, mourning defeat; others stared, numb, grappling with loss. "Fight!" a Fire Clan youth roared, voice raw, claws clenched—old or young, he'd march, die for vengeance. "Wait," an elder hissed, voice low, optics sharp—Tau would endure, strike back. Faith split—some saw a pause, others disgrace.
Jarek heard it first—Steelborn's lattice crackled before Tau messengers arrived. "Immortal King," a Rib rasped, voice metallic, optics blank in Crestspire's dim hall. "Tau seeks truce." Jarek's claws tapped—holo-maps glowed, Rydeka Verge a graveyard, Graviton Verge his. "Thoughts?" he growled, voice low, optics flaring—testing his council. "We hold one-seventh," a Scourger clicked, tripod legs shifting, claw tracing conquests—Kaelthas, Rydeka, Northspire. "Not broken—yet." Jarek's grin flickered—Steelborn's tide rolled, but Tau sprawled vast, 60 galaxies deep.
"Why truce?" Jarek rasped, voice a rumble. "They're empty," the Rib replied, optics steady. "No strength left—war's bled 'em." Jarek's laugh echoed—cold, sharp. "Fight or talk?" he asked, claws flexing. Namu Verge churned—more ships, Ribs flooding wormholes—Steelborn's might swelled. "Their spark's dim," the Scourger rasped, claw tapping. "Push—end 'em." Jarek's optics narrowed—truce or triumph, Tau's fate hung.