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"Silvershadow. I want a trap pit from the foothills to the western arches. No farther than five kilometers. We do not reveal range. You will place silent marks at choke points and map wind behavior on the approach paths. I want a layered reading of footfall patterns long before they can smell the stone. No engagements. No contact. If you are seen, you failed."
The scout bowed his head. "Understood."
"Shadeclaw."
His blades unfolded a finger's width, a nod in steel.
"You will seed the outer gullies with traps that will not look like traps to trained eyes. Deadfall shelves. Sand slides anchored into release carves. If we must break a formation, I want to break it on our slope, where their lines stumble and ours rise. Hidden only. No blatant pits. If they come as guests, I do not want them to feel insulted by a field of bear holes."
Shadeclaw's voice was quiet. "They will not see them. We will."
"Skyweaver."
She shifted from the vent, eyes bright.
