The Iron Dominion crashed into the canyon floor with the sound of a dying god.
Maxwell von Pontes pulled himself from the wreckage of his command center, red blood trickling from a gash across his forehead where a piece of shrapnel had found its mark. Around him, the mighty flagship's hull groaned and twisted, its once-pristine corridors now a maze of sparking electronics and buckled metal.
The crash that would have killed a dozen lesser men was merely an inconvenience to someone of his caliber, though the humiliation burned far worse than any physical wound.
"Status report," he growled, activating his emergency communication device as he stumbled through the debris.
Static answered him initially, then broken voices began filtering through the chaos.
"...eastern squad completely eliminated..."
"...ice blossoms everywhere, can't advance..."
"...shadows, they're coming from the shadows..."
