Where, exactly, were Enciodes and his main contingent hiding at this moment?
The answer lay at the base of Kjerag's second-highest peak, the Maiden's Crest, nestled within a secluded, snow-draped basin rarely trodden by mortal foot.
Enciodes stood near the edge of a snow-dusted ridge, his long mantle stirring in the icy breeze as he gazed out toward the distant valley—the very direction from which Ratatos and her march were advancing.
He had received word of their departure long ago, and he was simply waiting here for his guests to arrive.
"Master Enciodes," Courier reported, stepping up beside him with a crisp salute. "Our vanguard scouts have spotted their search parties. Shall I order the men to..." He made a swift, subtle gesture across his throat, the meaning abundantly clear.
"Not yet," Enciodes instructed quietly, turning his gaze back to the snowdrifts below. "Let their scouts gather what little they can. Instruct our patrols that if they are spotted, they should feign a slight panic upon retreating. Misdirect them."
Courier hesitated for a moment. "Master, if I may speak freely... wouldn't it be far simpler to concentrate our forces and sweep them up directly? Isn't playing this game of misdirection a bit..."
"Unnecessary?" Enciodes finished smoothly, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Forgive my overstepping, Master," Courier immediately inclined his head, falling silent to resume filtering the incoming intelligence reports and presenting only what was vital.
"Your suggestion makes logical sense from a tactical standpoint," Enciodes murmured, watching a distant plume of loose snow blow across the pass. "Unleashing our full strength to crush them in a single stroke is certainly the most straightforward path."
"Yet the most direct path is rarely the wisest. As I have said before: if there is any way to avoid it, I have no desire to plunge this nation into a bloodbath."
His restraint was not born of squeamishness or a sudden dread of casualties. His reason was far more practical: he could not afford to let Kjerag suffer catastrophic losses.
Suppressing defeated nobles and pacifying the populace in the aftermath of a bloody civil war was a grueling, messy affair—a task made doubly difficult for a force of only three thousand men.
More importantly, Enciodes knew Kjerag was a tiny, fragile realm. Small nations cannot endure heavy losses during rapid modernization; every life squandered today would become an insurmountable hurdle on the path toward tomorrow.
And above all, open warfare meant losing his own soldiers. The three thousand disciplined troops under his command had been painstakingly recruited and trained over years of quiet preparation. Every soldier saved was a asset preserved for Kjerag's future.
"Do you truly believe the other families will share your vision, Master?" Courier asked softly. "Especially the monks of the Vine-Bear Court and the leadership of the Paleroches Clan... they are notoriously stubborn."
Having grown up in this mountain realm, Courier knew all too well how deeply ingrained traditionalism was. Comparing those reactionaries to the solid granite of the sacred mountain was practically an insult to the granite.
Among the younger generation, a popular joke claimed that the road up the sacred mountain ought to be paved with the skulls of those traditionalists—that way, no one would ever have to worry about the path wearing out.
"I cannot guarantee they will change willingly," Enciodes replied calmly. "Yet when faced with total collapse, even the most stubborn mind is forced to adapt. At least, that is what I choose to believe."
He recalled the latest intelligence sent by his informants: Ratatos had begun modifying her approach, showing signs of pragmatic flexibility. That was a welcome development.
As for Arctosz, Enciodes had never expected the old bear to change on his own initiative. But he was confident that events would soon force the man's hand.
And if Arctosz refused to budge even then? Confining the man until the transition was complete—or taking more drastic measures if forced—were all outcomes Enciodes had already factored into his calculations.
So long as one planned for the worst-case scenario, no loss, however tragic it might seem to outsiders, would derail the ultimate goal.
"Master, fresh report from the scouts," Courier interrupted, checking his Terminal. "Their advance search party made contact with our outer patrol. Rather than pursuing into deep terrain, they confirmed our retreat direction and pulled back to report. Their main body has halted to make camp and rest. They show no signs of pushing forward in the immediate future."
"Understood," Enciodes nodded slowly. "It seems our opponents are treading with commendable caution. Choosing to consolidate their lines rather than rushing blindly ahead or retreating..."
Across the snowy valley, Ratatos sat back against a wooden crate, letting out a frustrated sigh as she stared out at the silent white forest.
"I was convinced that fool would send skirmishers to harass us while he held the high ground," she muttered, clearly disappointed by the lack of action.
"You're far too impatient," Arctosz grunted, leaning against a weathered stone boulder as he methodically ran a whetstone along the broad edge of his battleaxe.
In a field environment, the Ursus chief displayed a quiet, practiced patience that stood in stark contrast to his usual hot-headed temper—leaving one to wonder if he had poured every single point of his innate talent into the art of war while completely neglecting civil governance.
Otherwise, it was impossible to explain how a man who lacked the patience to let a cup of tea cool down could show such absolute, unbothered composure at a critical moment like this.
"Look at you, suddenly playing the patient general," Ratatos shot him a sour look. "What happened to the man who wanted to smash everything in sight?"
"Whether you're hunting mountain beasts or waging war, patience is the single thing you cannot afford to lack," Arctosz replied, his tone surprisingly devoid of its usual booming hostility. "Expose your position too early, and your prey slips into the crags before you can draw your bow."
He paused, running a thick thumb along the polished steel edge. "You might think I'm a brainless brute—and when it comes to ledger books and politics, I'll freely admit you have me beat. But when it comes to blood and iron, you still have a long way to go, girl."
Perhaps enjoying his rare moment of holding the upper hand in their banter, the old chief actually looked almost cheerful as he worked the whetstone.
"He's only cheerful because a straightforward, head-on clash is the one language he fully understands," Valais interjected smoothly from nearby, taking a sip from a tin flask. "He genuinely believes that swinging an axe hard enough can resolve any problem."
Though Arctosz usually exploded at the slightest hint of disrespect, he acted completely deaf to the young woman's ribbing, continuing to polish his weapon as if she hadn't spoken at all.
Valais glanced up at the pale sun hanging above the jagged ridges, her brows knitting slightly. She still hadn't mastered the ancient art of telling time by solar angles—how Arctosz managed it with such precision remained a mystery to her.
In her heart, she preferred the precision of pocket watches used in the grand nomadic cities outside Kjerag. Unfortunately, her own timepiece had broken weeks ago, and finding a craftsman in these mountains to repair delicate clockwork was a pipe dream.
"Chief, how long has it been?" Valais asked.
"Roughly forty minutes," Arctosz answered without looking up from his axe. "The second scouting rotation should have returned by now. They may have run into trouble along the pass."
Upon discovering the well-drilled patrol wearing specialized armor earlier, the joint force had wisely refrained from charging blindly toward the coordinates. Instead, they had dispatched multiple scout teams to fan out and gather detailed intelligence on the surrounding terrain.
Yet up to this moment, not a single scout from the second wave had reported back. The worst-case possibility—that every man had been intercepted and quietly eliminated—weighed heavily on Arctosz's mind.
Just as the leaders began preparing for the grim reality of a total ambush, a small squad of figures stumbled out of the blowing snow in the distance, scrambling frantically toward the main camp.
The guards leaped to their feet, weapons drawn—it seemed the situation wasn't entirely hopeless after all.
Yet as the runners drew near, the relief in the camp evaporated instantly.
The returning scouts were drenched in dark, freezing blood, their armor battered and torn. They looked less like a patrol and more like survivors crawling out of a meat grinder.
"What happened?!" Arctosz surged forward, catching the lead scout by his chest collar before the man could collapse into the snow. "Did you break contact?! How many were they, and how hard do they hit?!"
"We... we ran into one of their standard fireteams," the scout gasped, coughing violently as he clutched a shattered shoulder guard. "We lost half our men in seconds... only the four of us managed to cut our way out. Their weapons... their coordination... we didn't even have time to form a line before the engagement was over!"
Despite taking a brutal beating, the scout managed to deliver vital details: the enemy wore heavily reinforced composite armor with extraordinary defensive capabilities, and their unit tactics were executed with terrifying, mechanical precision.
Even with a distinct numerical advantage, the local scouting party had barely managed to inflict minimal harm while suffering near-total destruction. The stark reality of what awaited them in a full-scale clash hung over the camp like an iron shroud.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the leaders. If a routine patrol required sacrificing half a squad just to send back a handful of battered survivors, facing Enciodes's main force head-on was going to be an ordeal beyond anything they had anticipated.
Yet despite the terrifying disparity in combat efficiency, not a single warrior among the Paleroches Clan showed a hint of cowardice. They stood in the freezing wind, hands gripped tight around axe handles and spear shafts, eyes burning with quiet, unyielding resolve as they awaited the order to march.
"..." Arctosz remained silent for a long moment, slowly letting go of the scout's battered armor. He turned to face his gathered men, his broad chest rising and falling as he drew a deep breath of the frigid air.
"Sound the assembly," Arctosz commanded, his voice deep and resonant. "Tell the men to ready their steel. We strike at a moment's notice."
Grasping his heavy battleaxe in one hand, the Ursus chief turned his gaze toward the towering snow peaks in the distance.
Miles away, across the frozen expanse, Enciodes stood on his high ridge, looking out across the exact same valley. Though neither man could see the other through the blowing ice, their stares locked across the mountain expanse in silent, inevitable challenge.