The cold wind whipped fiercely across the rocky ridge, carrying with it the scent of pine smoke and wet earth. Flames flickered in the twilight, casting long shadows over the faces of gathered warriors.
Chieftain Dorje stood tall among them, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Kiranti watchtower nestled below. Around him, the mountain clans moved with practiced urgency sharpening blades, tightening leather armor, and whispering in low tones.
A young scout approached, breathless from a long run. "Chieftain, patrols report increased Kiranti troop movements near the pass. They are fortifying the watchtower."
Dorje nodded slowly. "They prepare for war, but so do we."
His second-in-command, Nyima, stepped forward. "The southern clans send envoys for alliance, yet here we stand ready to fight a kingdom divided."
Dorje's lips curled into a grim smile. "The world shifts beneath our feet. If Kiranti and the southern clans unite, the mountains will be squeezed from both sides."
He turned to the warriors gathered around the fire. "Remember this we are not merely raiders. We are the voice of the mountain. Our ancestors carved these lands with blood and stone. We fight to protect our home, our honor."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the clan.
Far below, faint lights twinkled from the watchtower. Dorje's eyes narrowed. "Tonight, the winds carry whispers. Soon, they will carry the roar of battle."