Icefang Clan, City of Teeth.
This subterranean "city" was carved into a natural ice cavern. Because its internal structure was composed of jagged, interwoven stalactites that mimicked the mandibles of a great beast, it was named the City of Teeth.
The Icefang Clan was far more temperate than the Snowclaw Clan. Not only did they engage in trade with the primary Hive, but they had also dispatched auxiliary reinforcements to bolster the defense of the Frostwall against the Greenskin tides.
At this moment, a solemn ceremony was underway in the "Listening Cave," the deepest sanctum of the city. Seven clan shamans stood in a circle around ancient runes etched into the frozen floor. Their hands were clasped, and a low-frequency chant reverberated through the hollow space. Ethereal psionic light bled from the runes, weaving into blurred, flickering images in the air.
Beneath the colossal silhouette of a high wall, amidst a howling whiteout, a shadowed figure manifested. It was followed by the piercing glow of a pair of purple eyes.
"Ugh!" The High Shaman presiding over the rite suddenly groaned. Two streams of dark blood trickled from his nostrils. The other mystics swayed violently, their runes flashing with blinding intensity before detonating in a shower of sparks.
The ceremony was violently severed. The High Shaman slumped to the ground, gasping for air, while his acolytes hurried to provide him with a herbal decoction to soothe the neural backlash.
"What did you see?" A steady voice echoed from the cave entrance.
Icefang Kuai stepped into the chamber. He was a stocky, powerful man with neatly trimmed white hair, draped in a robe of cured ice-beast hide.
The shaman drank the potion, waiting for his pulse to stabilize before speaking. "Great Chieftain... we saw the Frostwall. We saw a man clad in armor standing amidst the storm. He possessed eyes of violet fire."
"Is that all?"
"The divination was... obstructed," the shaman said with a weary smile. "There is a formidable force shielding that man's destiny. Even with our most intrusive probing, we could only recover fragments."
He closed his eyes, reciting the fractured prophecy. "He shall bring both annihilation and rebirth. He shall change the very soul of Brevis. The ice plains will be unified beneath him."
A heavy silence fell over the cave. Kuai walked to the cavern wall, running his fingers over ancient murals carved by his ancestors. They depicted a primordial era where Man and Frost Dragon coexisted. In those stories, the one who earned the Dragon's favor ascended the throne as the Ice Lord of Brevis.
"Have you verified the report from Ulf's hunting party?" Kuai asked.
"It is confirmed," a subordinate shaman replied. "They saw the dragons. They saw the avatar of the Frost Dragon. The appearance of those creatures matches the descriptions of the Great Wyrms of legend."
Kuai turned, his gaze hardening with resolve. "Prepare a tribute. I am going to the Frostwall. If this man truly commands the favor of the Frost Dragon..." His expression shifted from tactical to devout. "Then the Icefang Clan must stand at his side."
The legend of the Frost Dragon spread across the wastes like a wildfire—exactly as Raynor had intended.
He needed a domain where the tyranids could be unleashed without restraint. While the primary Hive was rich in resources, it was a panopticon of surveillance. The State Church, the Noble Council, the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the shadow-agents of the Inquisition all maintained a stifling watch. There, a single fluctuation in biomass or a trace of xeno-energy would invite total extermination.
Bitter memories—and the image of a certain shiny, bald head—flashed through his mind.
Raynor turned his attention to the vast, irradiated wastes beyond the Manhe River. Legally, the mutants living there should have been "purified." It was only a moment of calculated "benevolence" from a Saint-Gallus ancestor centuries ago that led to their exile rather than their execution.
Centuries of isolation had forged a "savage culture." Their faith in the God-Emperor had withered into folklore, and their obedience to Imperial Law ended at the riverbank. For Raynor, this was the perfect laboratory: a vast territory with ambiguous laws, fractured faith, and zero surveillance.
Through the files provided by Carter and intelligence from Butcher, Raynor understood the mutant society's core: division, hatred, and a desperate search for spiritual anchors. The myth of the "Frost Dragon" was the key. By associating himself with the legend, Raynor's actions on the ice field gained a layer of native camouflage.
The Snowclaw Clan's desperate ambush had inadvertently handed him the perfect opportunity. He had deliberately allowed survivors to escape so they would carry the tale of his "dragon" across the plains. Now, the Snowclaws were paralyzed by religious confusion, and others, like the Icefangs, were already beginning to pivot.
Raynor stroked the sleeping tearing worm in his palm, his eyes fixed on the distant peaks. The wastes would become Sarah's lair—the foundation of her strength against the Orks. The legend of the "Frost Dragon" was the perfect mask.
Upper Town, Saint-Gallus Castle.
The High King's Hall was a scene of wreckage. Caladogon sat upon his throne, his chest heaving as the fluids in his life-support tubes bubbled with his fury. Smashed data-slates and shattered crystal littered the floor.
"Idiots! Incompetent fools!" his roar echoed through the vault.
Three nobles knelt before him, members of the Twelve Star Families, trembling in their finery.
"Assassinating the Governor? Using mutants as your blade? Are your brains rotted with Hive-spicing?!" Caladogon grabbed a heavy goblet and hurled it at the central nobleman. It struck him in the temple, drawing blood, but the man didn't dare move.
"High King, please!" the noble on the left stammered. "We only meant to... discourage the outsider. We did not anticipate this outcome."
"Anticipate what? That a million mutants could kill the Emperor's Chosen!?"
The report from the Broken Canyon had reached him minutes ago. It was vague, but his private intelligence network painted a more terrifying picture: a million-man host annihilated by "mysterious creatures," and a Governor who shared a silent command with a beast of legend.
Caladogon felt a chill. He knew the legends.
"Listen well," Caladogon said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I will give you two days to surrender yourselves to him. Perhaps, if you confess, he will spare your families from total purge."
The nobles turned ashen but withdrew in silence. Once they were gone, Callum Saint-Gallus, the family's internal affairs lead, stepped from the shadows.
"Callum, send word to the Noble Council," Caladogon ordered. "All hostile operations against the Governor cease immediately. He needs food, he needs men—give him whatever he asks for. I want no more 'accidents' until he returns from the front."
"Understood," Callum bowed.
Caladogon leaned back, the only sound being the rhythmic ticking of his life-support system. After a long silence, he spoke to the empty room. "Has 'The Crow' departed?"
A voice whispered from the darkness: "They left the nest an hour ago."
"Good," Caladogon muttered, a cold light in his eyes. "Those fools think surrendering will save them. They will not escape the price of their stupidity."