When Gold Met Warpfire, Ogors, and Rats

Zyrr Quickfoot had been on the battlefield long before the Stormcast arrived.

He had come for whispers—rumours of warp-lightning scars in the land, of bells tolling where no bells stood, of gnawholes opening where reality had once been firm. Signs. Always signs. The kind that followed Verminlords. The kind that suggested one might be trapped, wounded… or waiting.

So Zyrr hid.

He wrapped himself in ash-cloaks and shadow, perched high in the twisted ribs of a half-burned tree, his black fur dusted grey, his breath slow, his eyes never blinking. Below him, the Most Secret-Sneaky, Most Fire-Burning Ember-Warp Conclave! picked through the ruins of a previous slaughter, dragging shards of emberstone into piles while warp-engines muttered and rat ogors growled in the tunnels beneath.

Zyrr watched Struk Covenlasher pace and hiss. Watched the Doomwheel crews bicker. Watched the nervous energy of a warband that knew, as all Skaven knew, that blood always followed emberstone.

Then the air changed. Ozone. Thunder. The faint metallic tang of Azyr.

Zyrr’s whiskers twitched a heartbeat before Struk’s did.

Through the smoke came gold.

Stormcast Eternals. Rank upon rank of Liberators, shields locked, lightning crawling over sigmarite. Above them, Prosecutors wheeled like hunting birds. And at their heart strode power made flesh: a Lord-Relictor chanting to his corpse-god, a Lord-Vigilant astride a gryph-charger, a grim Lord-Terminos carrying execution in his hands.

Zyrr’s tail lashed once, slowly.

Good-good, he thought. Kill each other. Bleed. Reveal.

The first miracle came for the Stormcast. With a thunderous prayer, the Liberators were suddenly not where they had been. They were almost among the rats. Zyrr watched the Stormlash Volt-pack vanish under hammerblows, green fire sputtering out as bodies burst. He saw Struk alone for a heartbeat—gloriously, vulnerably alone—before the arch-warlock shrieked a spell and tore himself from reality.

Zyrr filed that away.

Then lightning struck.

Three Annihilators cratered into the ash beside the Scratch-swarm, the impact hurling rats through the air like scraps of fur. At the same time the Lord-Vigilant thundered into the horde, axe sweeping, gryph-charger screaming. But clanrats were not men. They did not break. They drowned him. Zyrr watched them drag the lord from his saddle, pry apart sigmarite, chew down to meat. In a flash of blue lightning, the Stormcast was gone.

“Careless,” Zyrr whispered.

Across the field, gnawholes ruptured. Etoch’s Fist erupted from below, enormous rat ogors swatting Prosecutors from the air like insects. The Doomwheel screamed toward the Lord-Relictor. Warp-bolts stitched the air. When the smoke cleared, the priest of Sigmar was simply… absent.

Liberators surged. Hammers rose and fell like meteors. One ogor collapsed. The rest answered by tearing Stormcast apart, wrenching limbs from torsos, smashing golden helms flat.

The Annihilators turned their slow, inevitable steps toward the Scratch-swarm.

That was when Zyrr smiled.

The swarm flowed forward, impossibly fast. Two Annihilators vanished under a living carpet of teeth and knives. The third raised his hammer— and detonated as Struk reappeared in a flash of green sorcery.

Only one Stormcast remained.

The Lord-Terminos stood alone in the ash, executioner’s axe resting on his shoulder. He did not retreat. He gave the rats a warrior’s nod and stepped forward.

Zyrr was already behind him. He dropped soundlessly from the tree, landing in the Stormcast’s shadow. One step. Two. The world narrowed to the perfect line between armour plates.

His blade slid in.

Green poison kissed divine flesh.

The Lord-Terminos stiffened. Shuddered. And fell forward, dead before he struck the ground.

Silence spread.

Then the rats saw Zyrr. They saw black fur. Night-cloak. The drip of yellow-green venom from a thin, beautiful knife.

Weapons turned. Warpfire hissed. Rat ogors growled.

Zyrr straightened slowly and placed a clawed fist over his chest.

“Great-great Struk Covenlasher,” he called, voice smooth as oiled steel. “I am Zyrr Quickfoot. Deathmaster. Hunter of secrets. Stalker of Verminlords.”

He flicked the blood from his blade.

“I watched your war. I watched your engines. I watched your doom. And I think-believe that you walk the same trail as I.”

Zyrr’s eyes gleamed.

“Somewhere on this coast, a Verminlord Deceiver is trapped, bound, or broken. I hunt him. You gather power.”

He spread his hands, empty now, but for promise.

“Let me walk in your shadows. Let my knives serve your Conclave. And when I find him… what comes after will shake all burrows.”

Zyrr bowed, low and precise.

“I offer my service. My silence. My kills.”

And he waited to see if Struk Covenlasher would be clever enough to accept.

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