12th Day of the Eleventh Moon, Year of the Iron Boar
The heavy iron gates of the northern fortress groaned open, bleeding fifty horsemen into the slate-grey gloom of pre-dawn.
They rode in double file, dark silhouettes cutting through a swirling cloud of frost. At the head of the vanguard, Möndör rode stoic and unblinking, his heavy fur cloak whipping behind him against the bitter gale. At his flank, Yongyee sat sharp in the saddle, his eyes sweeping the jagged granite cliffs with predatory precision. Beside them, Hye sat bundled tight in dark leather and fox fur—knuckles pale on the reins, jaw locked against a sub-zero chill that turned every breath into a dense plume of white smoke before the wind tore it away.
Deep in the mountain passes, the northern winter showed no mercy. Ice crusted thick over the trail, iron stirrups froze to leather boots, and the rhythmic crunch of fifty iron-shod horses echoed like gunfire against the canyon walls.
18th Day of the Eleventh Moon
By the sixth day, the screaming gale died down to a quiet, rustling hum as the column wound down the steep switchbacks of the southern ridge.
The brutal, blinding white crust gave way to dark, damp soil and dense pine forests. The sharp, lung-searing freeze softened into a thick, lingering mist that smelled of wet earth and thawed pine needles. Weathered faces lost their frozen tightness, and the horses dropped their heads, snorting softly as the air warmed around them.
24th Day of the Eleventh Moon
Crossing the ancient stone boundary posts, the last remnants of the northern winter dissolved into the vast, sun-drenched lowlands.
Golden warmth baked the valley soil, glinting off sword hilts and brass tack. Soldiers leaned back in their saddles, unbuckling heavy fur collars and rolling up their wool cloaks to let the humid lowland breeze wash over their skin. Green shoots pushed through the earth, and the oppressive silence of the mountains was replaced by the gentle rustle of tall grass.
At the front of the line, Möndör halted his horse on the crest of a low hill. Sunlight washed over his face as he looked south toward the hazy, rolling horizon—where the distant road to Tailin awaited.
Yongyee pulled his horse alongside Möndör's, glancing back over his shoulder at the forty-seven Paayasian soldiers trailing behind them. The men were visibly exhausted, their shoulders slumping after days of nonstop riding.
"Möndör," Yongyee called out. He glanced sideways, checking to see if Möndör's face had softened at all now that they had left the freezing northern winter behind. But the young captain's sharp, stone-cold expression—like a hawk locking eyes on its prey—had not changed with the warmer weather.
"The men are worn out," Yongyee continued, keeping his voice steady. "We should set up camp here for the night. Even if the men can push through, the horses need rest."
Möndör didn't answer immediately. His dark eyes scanned the surrounding terrain, taking in the small creek winding at the foot of the hill, the lush grassland, and the massive granite boulders scattered across the landscape. Positioned together, those rocks would shield them from sight and offer solid cover if ambushed.
"Over there," Möndör said, pointing his spear toward a dense grove of trees near the boulders.
Reining his warhorse around, he turned to face the forty-seven tired soldiers. "We camp here for tonight and resume the march at dawn."
As the sun dipped behind the jagged outline of the southern hills, a quiet hush settled over the camp. Down near the creek, the horses drank greedily from the clear water, their heavy breathing slowing as the evening chill crept into the tall grass. A small, controlled fire crackled beneath the shelter of the massive granite boulders, casting long, dancing shadows across the campsite.
The forty-seven Paayasian soldiers were already settled around the outer fires, their quiet murmurings blending with the soft rustle of the leaves. For the first time in weeks, the air carried no scent of ash or bitter frost—only damp earth and pine.
Near the main fire, Yongyee sat on a low stone, methodically sharpening the blade of his long hunting knife against a smooth river rock. Across from him, Möndör rested back against a boulder, his heavy spear leaning against the stone beside him. Resting not far away was Hye, who appeared to be fast asleep. Möndör watched the flames with that same unblinking, predatory focus, his dark eyes reflecting the orange embers.
"It feels strange," Yongyee said quietly, his voice low enough not to carry toward the men. He didn't look up from his blade. "Riding south without iron around my ankles. Riding beside a Magoli captain toward the old alliance city."
Möndör's gaze drifted slowly from the fire to Yongyee. "You chose this path, Captain. No one dragged you south."
"I chose to protect my people," Yongyee corrected softly, bringing the knife edge up to inspect it in the firelight. "There is a difference." He paused, setting the sharpening stone aside. "Tailin is not like the northern outposts, Möndör. It is built upon the high crags of the river valley. Even if you take Tailin City, General Houva is not a fool—he will lead his fifty-thousand-strong army straight into Tailin's northern gates the moment word reaches him that Ntsua-Ntu refused to send reinforcements."
Möndör let out a soft, low hum in his chest. "No fortress is impenetrable. Every wall has a seam where the stone was laid poorly, and every commander has a flaw in his pride."
"Houva's flaw is not pride," Yongyee said, his expression darkening. "It is paranoia. He will burn the grain fields outside the walls before he lets a single Hmagol soldier eat from them. He will turn his own citizens into meat shields if it buys his archers another hour."
Möndör sat up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Then how do we take it without burning the city to ash? Chinua does not want a mountain of rubble—she wants a staging ground."
Yongyee met Möndör's dark gaze across the crackling fire. "The lower water gates," he said firmly. "Tailin draws its water from the subterranean channels beneath the eastern cliffs. The iron grates are submerged during the spring floods, but this early in the season, the water is low enough for a small unit to scale the culverts."
A faint, sharp smirk touched the corner of Möndör's lips. "You want to take forty-seven men through a sewage grate?"
"I want to take forty-seven men who know the layout of those tunnels into the heart of the lower ward," Yongyee replied without a flinch. "Why do you think I chose these men to come along with us? These men know those corridors—they helped build them."
"What do you have in mind?" Möndör asked, staring straight into Yongyee's eyes.
"We open the eastern gates from the inside before Houva realizes the vanguard has even crossed the river," Yongyee explained.
Möndör stared at the veteran commander for a long, quiet moment. The crackle of the wood was the only sound between them.
"Chinua gave you one chance, Captain," Möndör said, his voice dropping into a solemn, dangerous quiet. "If you lead us into those tunnels and it turns out to be a trap..."
"If it were a trap, Möndör, I would have left you drowning in the frozen river," Yongyee said smoothly, his eyes steady and calm.
Möndör chuckled—a short, genuine sound that cut through the night air—and picked up a branch to poke at the dying embers. "Fair enough, old man. At dawn, we map the culverts."
"There is no need to keep watch," Yongyee said with a soft chuckle, his voice relaxed in the night air. "There is nothing and no one roaming this part of the valley at night." He sheathed his knife with a quiet clink, stood up, and walked over to lie down beside one of his sleeping men.
Möndör watched through the dim embers as Yongyee closed his eyes, his breathing slowing as he drifted into sleep less than twenty yards away.
"So, what do you think?" Möndör asked quietly, his eyes never leaving the resting commander. "Should we trust him or not?"
Beside him, resting his back against a smooth granite boulder, Hye didn't even open his eyes, though a faint, knowing smile spread across his face.
"What are you afraid of, boy?" Hye asked softly from the shadows.
"Payapasa and Zasra have a long history together, and they still share deep ties," Möndör voiced his concern, his dark eyes fixed on the resting commander. "Everything might seem smooth right now, but what about the day we take Tailin? I honestly don't want my men stuck inside a narrow tunnel in the middle of a slaughter."
"Therefore, boy, you must know your men," Hye said with a soft chuckle, resting his head back against the boulder. "If you use men correctly, they become your most loyal asset. But if you handle them poorly, they turn into your greatest enemy. I don't believe you need an example—besides, his family remains behind in Ngabo."
"His family may be there, but his heart might not be with us," Möndör countered quietly.
A knowing smirk touched Hye's lips at the young captain's persistent caution.
"That is why you should never provoke a tigress with cubs," Hye murmured softly into the quiet night. "Let me teach you the first rule of a great commander, boy: always step into the trap of the man beside you. Because only by stepping into their trap will you truly learn whether they speak truth... or falsehood."