A crimson dawn lit the high ridges as Chyarung warriors approached the chosen pass. Yalamber's forces lay in wait, concealed among boulders, trees, and cliffside cover. The air was tense, every rustle amplified in the quiet morning.
As the Chyarung entered the gorge, Kiranti archers fired first, arrows raining like deadly hail. Khungri warriors blocked exits, spears poised, while southern hill fighters struck from higher ledges with axes and rocks. The enemy stumbled into a trap, chaos spreading through their ranks.
Dorje's men tried to rally, but the narrow pass made maneuvers impossible. Yalamber led a forward strike, cutting through the enemy lines with the disciplined fury of a united force. His sword sang through the air, each movement precise, inspired by months of preparation and training with his allies.
Hours passed in relentless combat. Smoke from torches and fires mingled with the copper scent of blood. The Chyarung, disoriented and outmatched by coordinated attacks, eventually broke formation. Dorje himself barely escaped with a fraction of his men, retreating to the northern ridges, humiliated but alive.
As silence returned to the gorge, Yalamber surveyed the battlefield. The alliance had fought as one: Kiranti, Khungri, and southern hill tribes bound by strategy, courage, and trust. The cost was heavy, but the lesson clear: together, they could challenge even the fiercest raiders.