A day later, the 2nd Vanguard Corps regrouped thirty kilometers north of the Broken Canyon.
The casualty report was more severe than initially anticipated. Of the fifty thousand guards, twenty-seven thousand had been killed in action, twelve thousand were seriously wounded, and more than thirty percent of their armored vehicles were reduced to slag and scrap.
Yet, despite the losses, morale was unnervingly high. Every surviving soldier was convinced they had witnessed a holy miracle—that their Governor was under the direct protection of a legendary Frost Dragon.
Raynor offered no explanation to the rank and file. He simply ordered the column to increase its pace, determined to reach the Frostwall by the appointed time.
Inside a command transport, Gus sat across from Raynor, his hands clasping a data slate. "My Lord, the Snowclaw Clan has been broken. Their losses were so absolute they won't be able to muster a threat in this sector for a long time." He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "But the question remains: who leaked our marching route?"
Raynor leaned back in his command chair, his eyes half-closed. "What do you think, Gus?"
The answer was unspoken but understood. Gus remained silent; he knew Raynor already had a plan to deal with the vipers back in the Hive.
Snowclaw Fortress.
Deep within the ice field, an abandoned industrial fortress loomed. Its massive alloy skeleton was largely buried in the permafrost, and what remained exposed was choked with rust and rot. Centuries ago, this had been a vital Imperial mining outpost. When the veins ran dry and the humans departed, the empty shell became a sanctuary for mutants and outcasts.
Now, it served as the nominal capital of the Snowclaw Clan. Around its rusted spires, thousands of mutant tribes gathered, united by a singular, burning hatred for the Hive-dwellers who had abandoned them to the wastes.
The largest foundry building in the fortress had been converted into a council chamber. A massive bonfire roared in the central clearing, its flickering light illuminating hundreds of grim faces—the chieftains and elders of the gathered tribes.
In the center of the hall, more than three thousand men knelt in the dirt. They were the only survivors of the million-strong cavalry host. They were tattered, bloodied, and broken—not just in body, but in spirit. Many had dilated pupils and trembling lips; some scratched at their own skin until they bled, while others kowtowed to the empty air, chanting like madmen.
"A dragon... a blue dragon!"
The tribal shamans circled them, their hands outstretched. Faint ripples of psychic energy flowed from their palms—a warm current intended to stabilize the chaotic minds of the survivors. But while it could soothe the soul, it could not erase the raw trauma of what they had seen.
An hour later, the High Priest ceased his chanting and wiped sweat from his weathered brow. He walked to the high platform and bowed to the figure upon the beast-throne.
"Chieftain, you may ask your questions now."
Snowclaw Rain rose from her throne. She was a towering savage, standing over 2.2 meters tall, her body covered in thick white fur. Only her face revealed patches of rough, gray skin. Her white hair was braided into dozens of thin cords bound with bone rings. She wore reinforced scrap-armor and carried a massive stone-headed axe at her waist.
She stepped down to the first survivor, a young cavalryman with a face still soft with youth.
"Look at me," Rain commanded. Her voice was a low, gravelly rasp. The boy looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Speak. What happened? How are you the only ones left of an army of millions?"
The boy's lips moved rhythmically. "A dragon... the Frost Dragon! It fell from the sky, and men were shattered like glass..."
"Nonsense!" a chieftain in the back row roared. "Frost Dragons are myths! They have been extinct for ages!"
The boy didn't seem to hear. "The purple snow... it burned my eyes. It hurt to look..." He broke down then, weeping into the dirt.
Rain frowned and looked at the High Priestess. The old mutant's face was pale as she maintained her psychic vigil. "He is not lying, Chieftain. He describes only what his eyes beheld."
Whispers erupted through the hall. Rain moved to the next survivor, a veteran with three jagged scars across his face. "And you? What did you see?"
The veteran's eyes focused, though the fear in them was sharper. "Dragons. Dozens of them. They herded us like grox into the valley. Then the Great One arrived. It brought a purple storm that turned every man to ice. They died standing, frozen in a heartbeat."
His account was more detailed—and infinitely more terrifying. Rain's expression grew increasingly grim. She questioned dozens more, and the answer never wavered: a dragon attack, a purple blizzard, and the instant annihilation of nearly a million warriors.
Finally, she approached the last group—survivors from the skirmish at the Broken Canyon. They were in the worst condition, nearly all of them functionally insane. It took the shamans twice as long to get them to speak.
"And you?" Rain's voice was laced with murderous intent. "Did you see a dragon too?"
A half-mad rider suddenly shrieked, "The Governor! That Governor! He commands the Dragon! It only listens to him!"
The chamber fell into a deafening silence. Every eye fixed on the screaming man.
"Explain yourself!" Rain barked.
The rider gestured wildly. "We were winning in the canyon! We had them! Then the dragon came—Whoosh! Whoosh!" He mimicked the beating of wings, a comical sight that no one dared laugh at.
"It only struck us. It didn't touch the Hive-dwellers. I only survived because I fled faster than the wind!" He dissolved into maniacal laughter.
Rain knocked him unconscious with a swift blow, then turned to the High Priest. The old mutant examined the man for a few seconds before stepping back, his voice dry. "He speaks the truth as well."
The only sound in the hall was the crackling of the fire. The myth of the Frost Dragon held a sacred weight among the mutants. Legend stated that whoever earned the approval of the Frost Dragon would be the rightful ruler of the Brevis Icefield—the Ice Lord. It was a primitive faith they had clung to after the Imperium cast them aside.
Now, the myth appeared to be flesh and blood. And the one the Dragon had chosen was the new Governor of the Hive, the man rumored to have the Emperor's own blessing.
An elder spoke hesitantly, "Great Chieftain... if this is true, will our blades against the Ice Lord bring the wrath of the ancients upon us?"
"Silence!" Rain growled. She paced the floor, her mind racing. Suddenly, she stopped. "What of the noble from the Hive? The one who contacted us?"
The elder replied quickly, "They sent a courier yesterday, demanding to know if the Governor was dead."
"Tell him," Rain said, her eyes flashing with a fierce, predatory light, "that our arrangement is over. Everything he gave us will be kept as tribute. And send him a warning: if he dares strike at the Governor again, I will personally march into his Hive and turn his skull into a chamber pot."
The elder shuddered. "As you command."
"And one more thing," Rain said, her gaze sweeping the room. "No one speaks of this outside these walls. All survivors are to be guarded. No one leaves the fortress."
She returned to her throne and rested her chin on her hand. "Prepare a small party. I am going to see this Governor for myself."
She looked out toward the frozen horizon. "Let's see if he truly has the heart to be our Ice Lord."