The counterattack lasted for three grueling hours.
When the last Ork Deff Dread was blasted into molten slag by the main cannon of the Cold-Front super-heavy tank, and the last surviving Greenskin retreated back beyond the breach, the sun had already begun to set. The battlefield fell into a sudden, eerie silence, broken only by the crackle of burning promethium and the low groans of the wounded.
"We finally won, though it was a close-run thing," Leo muttered. He sat slumped atop a pile of rubble and pulled off his helmet. Sweat soaked his hair, and his face was a mask of blood and soot. He looked into the distance and saw Raynor jumping down from the hull of the Cold-Front, walking toward him.
Their eyes met. Raynor gave a hearty, battle-worn smile, walked over, and extended his hand. Leo grasped it firmly. "Leo St. Gallus."
"Raynor," the Governor replied, using his chosen name. "Well done. If you hadn't held that gap for ten hours, I would have arrived only to collect your corpses."
"The credit is shared," Leo said sincerely. "Of the nine Governors I have met, you are the first to lead from the front of the formation."
"Maybe I'm just a bit stubborn," Raynor joked. They both shared a rare, tired laugh.
Suddenly, Raynor flinched, feeling a phantom sensation biting at his shoulder.
"Is something wrong, Your Excellency?" Leo asked, puzzled.
"Haha, it's nothing..." Raynor smiled, though internally he was busy comforting Sarah through their mental link.
Hammond Walker approached them then, his right arm bound in a simple bandage that was already seeping red. He saluted Raynor with stiff discipline. "Governor, thank you for the relief."
"Commissar Hammond," Raynor returned the salute. "You and your Brontë Longswords fought with the tenacity of the Guard. The Imperium will remember this stand."
After the brief exchange of pleasantries, the various officers and noble scions began to gather. Every one of them bore injuries, but their spirits were high, fueled by the adrenaline of a hard-won victory.
Raynor scanned the survivors. "Clean up the battlefield. Tally the casualties and get the wounded to the field hospital immediately. We hold a war council tonight."
The temporary command post—originally a reinforced supply warehouse—was now furnished with long metal tables and crates used as chairs. On the table lay a modest spread: synthetic protein blocks, nutrient paste, and a few precious bottles of amasec brought from the Hive Spire.
The atmosphere was electric. Officers took turns toasting Raynor, offering the kind of flattery usually reserved for Sector Lords. Raynor responded to each with a humble yet authoritative air. He knew, however, that only two people in this room truly mattered for the future of the front: Leo and Hammond.
After a few rounds of drinks, Raynor set his glass down. The room fell silent.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying clearly without needing to shout. "I have two objectives for coming to the Forbidden Wall." Everyone leaned in.
"First, we must assess the Greenskin threat to prepare for a protracted war. When fighting Orks, time is measured in months and years, not days. We must be prepared to hold this line for the long haul." The officers nodded; that was grim common sense.
"Second," Raynor continued, his gaze sweeping the room. "I want to give Brevis a victory that matters. You know the state of the Hive: nobles bickering, the commoners starving, and a sense of doom hanging over every spire. I want to shatter that defeatist mindset. To do that, I need your absolute cooperation."
"You have it, Governor," Leo was the first to speak. "I will give my full support to the defense of Brevis."
Hammond nodded. "The Brontë Longswords are at your command." The other officers quickly echoed the sentiment.
Raynor smiled and pulled up a tactical hologram, highlighting the jagged breach in Sector C8. "It takes time to properly repair a gap this size, and the Orks won't give us that luxury. My plan is this..." He zoomed in on the terrain behind the breach. "Instead of fighting them head-on at the gap every time, we will construct a secondary 'Kill-Zone' wall behind Section C8."
The room erupted into quiet murmurs. "Your Excellency, building a new wall from scratch? Isn't that a waste of resources when we have the main wall?"
Raynor didn't take offense. Only Hammond seemed to immediately grasp the tactical essence of the plan—it was about creating a funnel where the Orks' numbers would work against them. Hammond glanced at Leo, who caught the look and chose to trust Raynor's judgment. With the three core leaders in agreement, the dissenters wisely fell silent.
Raynor then looked at the Knight pilots sitting in the corner. "However, this plan requires the support of House St. Gallus's Knights."
Leo looked at the pilot in the corner—a scarred, middle-aged man. "Knight Aiden is up for it, aren't you, Aiden?"
Aiden sighed with weary resignation. "Since the Young Master has already volunteered me, I suppose I have little choice." The room chuckled, but the laughter died when it reached the other Knight pilot, Quinn St. Gallus. He remained leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a faint, mocking sneer on his lips.
Raynor saw it but didn't press the issue. He raised his glass. "Then it's settled. We finalize the battle plan tomorrow. Rest well tonight."
Late that night, Raynor returned to his lodging—a reinforced shipping container. He locked the door, drew the heavy curtains, and pulled a data slate from his gear.
According to Sarah, the Inquisitor wasn't monitoring his signal at the moment. He opened a file he had been eager to examine. The footage was shaky, recorded at high speed during the height of the daytime battle. It focused on a silver figure moving through the chaos.
It was a woman clad in form-fitting silver armor that rippled with an active cloaking field, making her a blur in the air. She appeared behind a Gretchin scavenger who was busy looting teeth from a corpse. A flash of green energy—a blade moving so fast it left only a trail of light—split the scavenger in two.
As the surrounding Orks turned to look, the silver figure vanished. The scene shifted: two coalition soldiers were pointing toward her previous position when their heads suddenly imploded. There was no bullet trail, no muzzle flash. As their bodies hit the dirt, black flames erupted from their wounds, charring the flesh to obscure the cause of death.
Raynor replayed the frame of her appearance, zooming in until the pixels blurred. The armor was sleek, alien, and lacked any Imperial markings.
"Aeldari," Raynor whispered. "That stealth field... it's a Shadowshade suit from a Craftworld." He paused on the green blade. "An Executioner blade, used by Striking Scorpions or perhaps a more specialized warrior."
He looked at the black flames consuming the soldiers. "That's not technology. That's psychic manipulation—or a weapon infused with Warp energy to hide the evidence."
He squinted at the woman's breastplate. Despite the interference of the cloaking field, he caught a glimpse of a sigil. A rose, rendered in red and silver.
"The Red and Silver Rose." Raynor's mind raced through his knowledge of the Inquisition. Most "Orthodox" factions within the Holy Ordos wore the rose as a symbol of their purity and adherence to ancient codes. They were the ones who burned heretics for even looking at xenos tech.
"An Orthodox Inquisitor," Raynor leaned back, a cold, playful smile on his face. "Yet she wears Aeldari armor, wields a xenos blade, and uses forbidden psychic powers to cover her tracks."
"Inquisitor, you're a walking contradiction. I wonder what your 'Orthodox' colleagues would think of your little secrets..."