The horn's call echoed through the valley like the voice of some ancient spirit, awakening every man, woman, and child in Kiranti. The sound was deep, mournful, and urgent a warning that the peace of the morning had shattered.
From the eastern watchtower, the first signs of movement broke the tree line. Flickers of torchlight swarmed like fireflies gone mad, and the dark shapes beneath them moved with unsettling precision. The Chyarung were here.
Captain Tsering's voice thundered across the palace courtyard.
"Arm yourselves! Shields to the front, spears in the second rank! Archers, to the walls!"
Within minutes, the quiet heart of the capital transformed into a war machine. Armor plates clanged into place, leather straps tightened with practiced hands, and blades rang as they slid from scabbards. The crisp morning air was replaced by the scent of oil, sweat, and steel.
Yalamber stood among the soldiers, the weight of his own armor pressing on his shoulders. It wasn't ceremonial garb this time it was the iron-smelling truth of battle. His heart beat fast, and for a moment he thought of retreat, of slipping back into the safety of the palace. But Bhavik's earlier words echoed in his mind: "A king's strength is not the absence of fear. It is the will to stand despite it."
King Balambha emerged from the council hall, wearing the deep crimson cloak reserved for wartime command. His eyes swept over the assembled warriors from seasoned veterans to boys barely old enough to grow beards.
"They come in numbers we have not faced in a generation," the king declared. "But this is our land, our blood, our mountain. Today we show the Chyarung that Kiranti does not bow!"
A roar erupted from the ranks, shaking the courtyard stones.
From the ridge, the first arrows whistled in black-shafted missiles that struck shields and walls with vicious thuds. The Kiranti archers answered instantly, their bowstrings singing, sending feathered shafts into the advancing horde.
Yalamber found himself at the wall, bow in hand, following Tsering's shouted orders. He loosed an arrow into the mass below and saw it strike a shield. The enemy line didn't falter; they advanced in perfect formation, shields locked, spears jutting forward like the teeth of a great beast.
The first impact came at the southern gate. The Chyarung ram slammed into the wood with a sound like thunder. Each strike sent shudders through the ground beneath Yalamber's boots.
"Reinforce the gate!" Tsering ordered. "Yalamber, with me!"
The prince followed, stumbling down the stairs into the chaos of the lower courtyard. The air was thick with shouting, the clang of metal, the hiss of arrows. Smoke began to rise the Chyarung had set the outer storehouses aflame.
At the gate, Kiranti warriors threw their shoulders against the wood as the ram struck again. Yalamber took position beside them, pressing with all his strength. He felt the vibration of the next blow rattle through his bones.
A cry rang out above a breach on the western wall. The Chyarung had brought ladders.
Tsering's jaw tightened. "Hold here," he barked to the gate guards. "Prince, with me to the west!"
They sprinted through narrow stone passages until the clash of steel grew deafening. On the wall walk, Kiranti soldiers hacked at climbing enemies, kicking ladders back into the void. But for every one that fell, two more seemed to rise.
Yalamber's blade flashed, clumsy but determined. The first Chyarung warrior he met swung with brutal force; their blades locked, and Yalamber's arms shook under the weight. A push, a desperate strike, and the man toppled backward into the dark.
The prince stood there, chest heaving, staring at the body far below. The noise of battle pressed in again there was no time to think. Another climbed up; Yalamber met him with a shout, striking harder than he thought possible.
Hours seemed to pass in minutes. When at last the Chyarung withdrew to regroup, the walls dripped with blood, and the courtyard was littered with the dead.
From the watchtower, the enemy's war drums began again louder this time, faster. This was not over.
King Balambha stood at the center of the courtyard, surveying the damage. His gaze fell on Yalamber, blood-smeared but unbroken.
"This was your first taste of war," the king said. "The hardest taste to swallow. It will get worse before it gets better."
Yalamber met his father's eyes, no longer with the uncertainty of morning, but with a quiet, burning resolve. "Then let it come."
Far beyond the ridge, the Chyarung banners multiplied, a black sea swallowing the horizon.
The storm had only begun.