The faint rustle of wind passed over the grassy plains outside Suno City. Two scouts from the Kingdom of Loos lay prone in the tall weeds, blending almost perfectly with their surroundings. Their uniforms, specially treated and patterned, gave them the look of nothing more than uneven patches of grass swaying under the sun.
One of the scouts raised his binoculars, eyes narrowing as he studied the distant enemy camp. Black smoke curled faintly from cooking fires, and the sound of orc voices drifted with the breeze. "Tch," he muttered, his voice no louder than a breath. "Seems our bombardment wasn't thorough enough. There are still plenty of orcs stationed outside the city."
His companion shifted slightly beside him, careful not to break their cover. "That's not surprising. The artillery fired from thirty kilometers away. Even at maximum range—forty kilometers—the accuracy's terrible. At that distance, it's little better than random bombardment." His tone was pragmatic, but there was frustration beneath it. For all their firepower, long-distance artillery could not completely wipe out a determined foe.
Before they could say more, the sharp, chilling cry of an eagle tore through the skies above. An orc griffin rider swept across the heavens, the powerful beast's wings casting a massive shadow over the field. The scouts instantly pressed themselves flat, motionless against the soil.
"Damn it," whispered one, barely moving his lips. "Do you think it saw us? Those griffin soldiers fly so high… their field of view must be enormous."
The other swallowed hard, but forced calm into his reply. "Relax. Look at what we're wearing. These camouflage suits—'auspicious clothes,' the supply department called them—make us blend into the ground. From above, we're just clumps of grass. The griffin riders won't think twice about us." Sweat trickled down his temple despite the assurance. It was the first time either had worn these strange suits, and their faith in them was shaky at best.
But the suits worked. The griffin rider passed overhead without slowing, his sharp gaze sliding past them as if they truly were no more than brush on the plains. The scouts waited until the screeching cry faded into the distance, then finally exhaled.
"They're gone." The first scout clenched his fist with relief. "Good. Let's get back and report their numbers and positions. One day, those bird-riding bastards will regret it. When our kingdom fields its own air units, their dominance will end."
His partner gave a grim nod. "We'll have our time." With that, they slipped silently into the treeline, vanishing into the shadows.
---
The Loos Army Camp
Inside the fortified camp of the Loos Kingdom, Gavin Ward sat at the head of a table, surrounded by his officers. The tent hummed with the low voices of strategists, scouts, and generals, all weighed down by the latest reports.
"The griffin riders are a real menace, Your Majesty," one officer reported bitterly. "Their constant harassment keeps our soldiers on edge."
Gavin's brow furrowed. The problem was obvious: Loos had no aerial troops. Unlike the mighty dragon riders of the Tongsley Empire, they could not counter enemy air cavalry directly. Dragons were large, their wings slow but powerful, their riders wielding destructive flame. But griffins—smaller, faster, far more maneuverable—were perfect for hit-and-run warfare. From above, the orc riders hurled javelins and loosed arrows that pierced armor with deadly precision. More than once, heavily armored knights had been nailed into the very soil by the force of those sky-borne strikes.
"The orc legions would never march without their griffin cavalry," Gavin said at last, his voice steady yet sharp. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "And that fact… is exactly what we'll use against them."
His officers looked up, puzzled. "What do you mean, Your Majesty?"
Gavin leaned forward, his hand curling as though grasping something invisible. "We've deliberately left this camp exposed. The orcs rely on the griffin cavalry's mobility. They always send them first to rain chaos on enemy camps. History shows it again and again—griffin cavalry strike from the skies, throw the defenders into disorder, and then the main orc host charges in with heavy armor and halberds. Their method is effective. Brutal. But predictable."
He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before finishing: "When they descend upon us, we'll be ready. Their arrogance will drive them straight into our trap. Every inch of this camp bristles with anti-aircraft guns. Once they fly within range, we'll blast them out of the sky."
A murmur of excitement swept through the tent. "Brilliant, Your Majesty!" one general exclaimed. Another slammed his fist to his chest. "We'll put your plan into action at once."
"Go," Gavin ordered, his eyes flashing with determination. "Make every preparation. Tonight, we hunt griffins."
---
The Bait
High above the battlefield, a lone griffin rider patrolled the skies. His griffin's wings beat steadily, the wind whistling in his ears as he scanned the forests and plains below. Fury burned in his chest. His younger brother, an orc warrior, had died during the earlier skirmish at Suno City. To this day, they had no clear answer who had carried out the sudden, devastating attack. Hatred drove him to scour the lands below with relentless eyes.
Then something caught his attention. A faint trail of smoke curled into the sky in the distance. His heart leapt. "Humans…" He urged the griffin forward, wings slicing through the air as he descended toward the source.
Beneath him lay a clearing where human soldiers gathered. They wore black uniforms, helmets glinting, and breastplates marked with the insignia of a red dragon. Several of them busied themselves around a cooking fire, stirring pots and laughing carelessly.
The rider's mouth twisted into a savage grin, saliva dripping between his sharp teeth. "At last," he growled. "The damnable human army."
On the ground, one young soldier frowned. "Squad leader, weren't we ordered not to cook openly? His Majesty commanded we eat only rations, no fires."
The squad leader waved him off impatiently. "Quiet. There's—wait, look up!"
The soldiers froze as the shadow of wings fell over them. A griffin rider circled above, eyes locked on their campfire.
"Don't shoot!" a junior officer barked quickly. "Not yet. Don't scare him away. Bring out the bows—yes, the old ones. Hurry!"
Confused but obedient, the men lowered their rifles and picked up weak, outdated bows. They loosed a few limp arrows skyward, the shafts wobbling and falling long before they reached their target.
The orc rider sneered, heart swelling with triumph. "Pathetic," he laughed. "Utterly pathetic." With mockery thick in his tone, he pulled his griffin higher, well out of reach, then deliberately allowed the beast to drop a foul pile of dung upon the camp below. Laughing, he wheeled away. He would report this to his legion commander—a human camp spotted, weak and ripe for slaughter.
---
The Trap Closes
From a shadowed corner of the command tent, Gavin Ward parted the flap just enough to watch the rider disappear into the distance. His smile was calm, measured, and utterly confident.
"The prey has taken the bait," he murmured.
The officers around him straightened, resolve hardening. Every man knew what this meant. The orcs would return in force, sending their griffin cavalry ahead, certain of victory. But instead of finding weak soldiers with campfires, they would dive into a storm of anti-aircraft fire.
The trap was set. The prey was hooked.
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