The ridge above the pass could not contain them all, so the clans spread across the broken stone in layered ranks, filling every flat surface, every narrow ledge, every stretch of ground that could hold a man with a weapon. Painted Dogs stood closer together, their warbands forming naturally around experienced fighters, while the Stone Crows occupied the outer edges in looser clusters, shifting more, speaking more, but watching just as closely. From above, it would have looked like the mountain itself had grown dark with movement.
At the center of this gathering, where the pass widened just enough to allow men to stand without brushing shoulders, the leaders came together.
No fire burned there.
No ritual marked the moment.
This was not a sacred meeting.
It was a necessary one.
Harrag stood among the Painted Dogs' elders, his posture steady, his face streaked with the dark red lines of weirwood sap that had dried against his skin. Across from him stood the chief of the Stone Crows, broader in stance, less still, his gaze moving constantly between faces, terrain, and the shifting mass of warriors behind them. His son stood slightly behind his right shoulder, watching everything with the sharp attention of someone who intended to remember it all.
Torren remained just behind Harrag, close enough to hear every word, far enough that no one bothered to question his presence. He said nothing. He only watched.
The Stone Crows chief was the first to speak.
"We are many," he said, his voice carrying without effort across the open stone. "More than enough to break anything in the valleys if we go together."
A few of his warriors nodded in agreement, their confidence easy, almost eager. To them, strength in numbers meant simplicity. One force. One direction. One overwhelming strike.
But the Painted Dogs did not react the same way.
One of their older warriors, a man whose jaw carried a long, pale scar from ear to chin, shifted slightly and shook his head. "If we go as one, they see us before we reach the first field," he said, not raising his voice, but making sure it carried. "And if they see us, they don't stand. They scatter. They burn what they can't carry. They send riders."
Another added, "And riders mean knights."
That word settled heavier than the others.
The Stone Crows chief's son gave a short, dismissive laugh. "Let them send knights. We'll have more men."
"That's not the point," the scarred man replied. "You don't fight knights when you're trying to carry grain uphill."
The conversation sharpened after that.
The Stone Crows chief folded his arms loosely across his chest and looked from one speaker to another, measuring rather than reacting. "Then what do you suggest?" he asked.
A Painted Dogs elder stepped forward, placing the butt of his spear against the stone. "We split," he said. "Ten warbands. A hundred each. Ten villages. Same time."
The idea moved quickly through the group, not as agreement, but as recognition. It was a familiar kind of thinking—spread the damage, multiply the fear.
The Stone Crows chief's son frowned slightly. "That leaves each group smaller," he said. "Easier to break if they meet resistance."
"It also means the valleys don't know where to look," the elder answered. "Fear spreads faster than riders."
A Stone Crow warrior shook his head. "Or they focus on the closest threat and crush it before the others do anything useful."
The discussion did not descend into chaos, but it pressed in that direction. Voices overlapped, not in shouting, but in insistence. Each side spoke from what it knew best. The Stone Crows leaned toward impact—speed, force, overwhelming presence. The Painted Dogs leaned toward control—timing, positioning, and the quiet understanding that hunger was not solved by noise, but by results.
Torren watched the shift carefully.
No one here was stupid.
But not everyone was thinking the same way.
Another Painted Dogs warrior stepped forward, offering a variation. "We go in stages," he said. "Outer farms first. Small targets. Quiet. Then we move deeper once the valleys are already breaking."
The Stone Crows chief shook his head immediately. "Too slow," he said. "By the time you reach the deeper stores, they've hidden what matters."
He stepped forward then, placing his boot on the open ground between them, as if claiming the space for his own argument. "We strike hard," he continued. "One place. Fast. Take everything. Leave nothing."
"That's a raid," someone from the Painted Dogs muttered.
"That's survival," a Stone Crow answered.
The tension did not explode, but it thickened.
Torren shifted his gaze toward Harrag.
His father had not spoken yet.
He had listened through every suggestion, every objection, every shift in tone. He had watched the terrain. He had watched the men. He had let the others lay their thoughts bare first.
Then he moved.
It was not a dramatic step forward.
But it was enough.
"None of that works," Harrag said.
The words were simple.
But they landed hard.
Silence followed, not forced, but natural. The kind that comes when something cuts cleanly through everything that came before it.
Harrag crouched and dragged the edge of his axe across the dirt, carving a rough line.
"This is the High Road," he said.
He marked several points along it.
"Villages."
Then he drew smaller shapes around them.
"Farms. Storage. Livestock."
He did not rush.
He did not look up.
"The valleys are not blind," he continued. "And they are not slow. If they see one fire, they react. If they see ten…" He paused briefly, then finished, "…they hesitate."
That word hung in the air.
Hesitation.
Not fear.
Not strength.
Confusion.
Harrag tapped two of the marked villages, pressing the blade slightly deeper into the dirt at those points. "These matter," he said. "Grain. Enough to carry. Worth fighting for."
Then he gestured outward to the smaller marks.
"These don't. Not the same way."
Now he looked up.
"We don't split evenly," he said. "We split by purpose."
The Stone Crows chief leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing with interest now, not resistance.
Harrag continued, "Most of us strike here," tapping one of the larger points again, then the other. "Strong targets. Fast. We take what matters."
He then swept his hand across the smaller markings. "The rest spread out. Burn farms. kill animals. Make smoke. Make noise. Make them choose."
The Stone Crows chief's son tilted his head. "So we lie to them," he said.
Harrag met his gaze. "We let them lie to themselves."
That was the moment the balance shifted.
The Painted Dogs had already begun to understand. Now the Stone Crows did too.
If ten villages burned, the valleys would not know which one mattered.
If riders were sent, they would split.
If knights came, they would come late.
The Stone Crows chief looked down at the markings for a long moment.
Then he straightened.
"This plan," he said slowly, "feeds more than pride."
Harrag said nothing.
The chief looked at his warriors.
Some nodded.
Others did not need to.
Finally, he turned back.
"We do it your way."
There was no announcement.
No cheer.
But something changed in the way the men around them stood.
The plan had been chosen.
And it had not been chosen by chance.
Torren felt it clearly.
This was not just agreement.
This was recognition.
He glanced at Harrag.
His father did not look pleased.
He did not look proud.
He looked ready.
And below them, beyond the ridge, the valleys still lay untouched, quiet under the fading light—completely unaware that they had just been divided into targets.