The insectoid units, disguised as the mythical creatures of Brevian legend, began an efficient and merciless massacre. They did not breathe fire or frost; instead, they employed the most direct and violent method available to them: kinetic impact.
A "dragon" swept through the cavalry ranks, its membranous wings slicing like titanic sickles. The riders on either side fell like wheat before a harvester. Those struck directly by the creatures' massive bodies were instantly reduced to a fine slurry of meat and bone.
The Snowclaw clansmen were utterly powerless against these monsters; the mere displacement of air from their low-altitude passes was enough to upend mounts and riders alike.
The cavalry host was a blank white canvas, and the tyranid flyers were the paintbrushes. Streaks of crimson appeared across the ice—blood-red paths carved by the dragons' relentless collisions.
"Retreat! Fall back!!!"
Following the death of Larry, his second-in-command—a grizzled veteran of the ice plains—roared the order. But his voice was drowned out by the chaos. The formation of the million-strong horde had collapsed. The vanguard tried to halt while the rearguard continued to press forward, and the flanks attempted a panicked pivot. The entire army collided with itself, a frantic mass of trampling hooves and dying men.
They were unaware that the "dragons" were consciously herding them. Flanking from both sides, the flyers drove the scattered survivors toward the east, where a naturally formed bowl-shaped valley sat with only a single, narrow egress.
The remaining elites, led by the deputy warchief, finally realized the trap. They attempted to wheel their beasts for a desperate counterattack, hoping to regroup. But a "Warrior Queen" flyer had already locked onto them. It accelerated, tucking its wings tight against its body until it resembled a living javelin.
The elite warriors raised their power spears, their ice beasts charging at full gallop in a futile challenge to the mythical predator. They screamed to bolster their courage, but in the face of absolute biological superiority, their defiance was hollow. The tyranid flyer didn't care for their shouts; it simply slammed into them.
The wind howled, spears snapped like dry twigs, and the elite guard vanished into the blizzard. With their leadership annihilated, the last vestige of order vanished. More than nine hundred thousand cavalrymen were driven like cattle into the mouth of the valley.
The Valley Entrance.
As the final cluster of cavalry squeezed into the natural trap, a massive figure descended from the heavens and hovered at the center of the valley's opening.
Sarah.
Her six-meter-tall form, modified by the [Camouflage Armor], shimmered with the same cyan-blue hue as the flyers. But she was a more perfect realization of the form. Her carapace mimicked dragon scales with uncanny precision; her bone blades were elongated into wickedly curved talons, and her membranous wings, when folded, draped behind her shoulders like a majestic, regal mantle.
Snow and wind swirled around her in a violent halo. She stared into the valley. The densely packed survivors stared back. Fear rippled through the silence. To the Snowclaws, they weren't looking at an alien; they were looking at the ancient ruler of the ice plains: the Frost Dragon.
Sarah's head tilted back, her internal organs pulsing with psionic pressure. Beneath the mask of the blizzard, her blasphemous biological structures thrummed with power. Then, a purple psionic storm erupted from her being.
A tide of violet energy swept through the valley. Everything the "snow" touched was claimed by an eternal, unnatural frost. The cavalrymen didn't even have time to shriek. The purple rime condensed on their skin and surged inward. Flesh and bone crystallized under the corrosive influence of the Warp-like energy, life extinguished in a heartbeat.
Nearly a million souls were silenced in ten seconds.
The valley became a gallery of statues, each frozen in a lifelike pose of despair and terror. Sarah took one final look at her masterpiece; soon, a swarm of Ripper-strains would arrive to reclaim the biomass. She flapped her wings and ascended into the dark clouds.
The Canyon Battlefield.
The second wave of the cavalry charge had ground on for twenty agonizing minutes. The PDF defensive perimeter had shrunk to a circle less than three hundred meters in diameter. Fewer than eight thousand soldiers remained standing.
Ammunition was trapped in buried transports, and reserves were dry. The survivors were reduced to hand-to-hand combat, wielding bayonets and trench shovels against the ice beasts. Raynor stood at the very edge of the line, his power sword's disintegration field flickering as its power cell drained. He stood atop a literal mound of enemy corpses, his armor slick with frozen gore.
Gus's voice crackled in his ear, thick with hopelessness. "My Lord... the third wave has begun. At least two hundred thousand more. We... we can't..."
His voice cut out. Everyone on the field heard it.
A dragon's roar.
It came from the north—furious, majestic, and loud enough to drown out the storm. Both armies froze. The Snowclaw riders turned in alarm; the PDF soldiers looked up in disbelief.
A giant, cyan-blue shadow tore through the clouds. As Sarah swept across the battlefield, the hurricane-force winds from her wings nearly threw the soldiers to the ground. She hovered for a single, fleeting second in the center of the carnage.
She looked at Raynor. Raynor looked at her.
No words were exchanged, no gestures made. But in that second, Raynor felt a torrent of emotion: worry, protective fury, and a deep, aching longing. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, a mirroring longing welling up in his eyes, hidden behind his visor.
With a silent understanding, Raynor raised his power sword high.
Sarah unleashed the purple blizzard once more. The psionic storm crashed into the third wave of cavalry before they could retreat. Those at the center were disintegrated instantly; those on the periphery were shattered by the shockwave, their organs pulverized within their chests.
The storm wiped out nearly one hundred and eighty thousand riders in an instant. The survivors broke. They turned their beasts and fled into the wastes, abandoning their weapons and their pride.
Sarah did not pursue. She hovered, surveying the field. Every soldier who met her compound gaze felt a primal tremor of absolute, instinctual terror. But she did not strike the Vanguard.
She glanced at Raynor one last time, then beat her wings and vanished into the heavy clouds.
Silence reclaimed the canyon.
"That... was that a Frost Dragon?" a soldier whispered, his voice shaking. "From the old stories?"
"Shut up," an officer hissed, though his own hands were trembling.
Every eye turned to Raynor. The Governor remained standing, propped up by his sword, gazing at the patch of sky where Sarah had disappeared. Snow began to settle on his pauldrons.
"Take a tally of the casualties," Raynor finally spoke, his voice hoarse from command. He paused, then added, "Today's events are classified as Top Secret. No one discusses the 'Dragon' without my express authorization. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir!" The soldiers saluted, a new fervor in their eyes.
Raynor turned and walked toward a half-destroyed Chimera. He pulled open the door to find Dobby awake and staring at him.
"Boss..." Dobby grinned sheepishly, his face pale. "We won?"
"We won," Raynor nodded, placing a hand on the Ogryn's shoulder. "You did good, Dobby."
He leaned back against the hull and let out a long, ragged breath. Through his earpiece, Gus asked cautiously, "Your Excellency... was that her?"
Raynor looked at the northern sky. "Yeah," he whispered softly.
He switched off the comms and pulled the miniature tearing worm from his gear pouch. The little creature curled into his palm, its eyes glowing faintly.
"Thank you," Raynor said in a voice meant only for the two of them.
The creature rubbed against his fingers. Around him, the survivors began the grim work of salvaging the living from the dead. The snow fell harder now, beginning to bury the bloodstains, but it could not bury the newfound faith in the eyes of the men who had seen their Governor stand with a dragon.