The wind howled across the high passes, carrying with it the scent of pine smoke and thawing snow.
From his perch on a jagged outcrop, Chieftain Dorje of the Chyarung clans watched the valley far below, where the Kiranti border posts stood like stubborn stones against the cold.
His second-in-command, a scarred veteran named Nyima, joined him.
"They've been reinforcing the watchtower," Nyima said. "More patrols, better discipline. They're expecting us."
Dorje's jaw tightened. "They should. We gave them peace for five winters. That was their chance to pay tribute, to honor the mountain's law. Instead, they dig deeper into our lands."
Below, in the camp, the Chyarung tents swayed in the wind. Horses stamped and snorted, their breath misting in the dawn air. Warriors sharpened their curved blades, their songs echoing through the valley half prayer, half battle cry.
But Dorje was not reckless.
"The plains are stirring," he told Nyima. "The southern tribes talk of uniting, the eastern merchants buy loyalty with gold, and the Kiranti grow wary. The mountain does not rise for one storm alone."
Nyima frowned. "Then why now?"
Dorje's eyes followed a hawk circling high above. "Because the snows are melting. And the hunger in the clans grows faster than the grass."
He turned to the council fire, where elders waited. Around them were maps made of stitched hide, marking passes, grazing lands, and river crossings.
"We do not strike for plunder," Dorje said to the gathered warriors. "We strike to remind the valleys that the mountains still speak."
Far below, in the Kiranti watchtower, Yalamber's men would see only a few scattered riders in the distance.
They would not yet know that behind the ridge, hundreds of Chyarung warriors waited for the signal.