The steam tanks were built generations ago from the designs of Leonardo of Miragliano, and the full secret of their making died with him. Fewer than a dozen survive, each an irreplaceable relic of genius: a rolling fortress of riveted plate, driven by boiler pressure, steered by a sweating engineer-commander who is half soldier and half priest of gauges and valves. When one is lost, the Empire mourns it like a slain hero — because it cannot make another.
In battle, the steam tank simply refuses the Old World's rules. Arrows glance off. Charges break against it. It grinds through packed infantry at a walking pace, cannon booming from its hull, scalding steam shrieking from its vents, while its enemies discover they have no word for what is killing them. Dwarfs have their runes and elves their ancient arts; the steam tank is the Empire's retort — no gods, no dragons, just men, mathematics, and pressure.
Order of battle
