The wind howled through the narrow pass like a living thing, tearing at cloaks and carrying with it the sting of ice. Veer stood over the map in the dim glow of a single oil lamp, tracing the narrow eastern ridge with a gloved finger.
"This is the weakest part of Virath's siege line," he said. "It's where they've placed their supply depot — grain, salted meat, firewood, even fodder for their horses. If it burns, they'll have no choice but to withdraw or starve alongside us."
Bhairav's eyes gleamed. "A single cut to the throat instead of hacking at the limbs."
Arivan frowned. "That gap is guarded by at least three hundred men. It's narrow enough to defend with fifty. We'd have to pass through in the dark without raising alarm."
"We won't go as an army," Veer replied. "We'll go as shadows. Thirty men — the fastest and quietest we have. In and out before dawn."
That night, the chosen thirty gathered in silence at the eastern edge of camp. No torches, no banners — only blackened armor and pale strips of cloth tied around their wrists to identify each other in the dark.
Veer checked each man's gear himself. "We take nothing we cannot carry at a run. No heavy armor. No spare weapons. And remember — the depot is the target. Not glory, not revenge. Once it burns, we vanish into the mountains."
The men nodded, their breath forming ghostly clouds in the frigid air.
They set out just after moonrise, hugging the cliff shadows and moving single file along a goat trail that wound above the siege lines. The snow crunched faintly under their boots, but the wind swallowed most of the sound.
Every now and then, Veer glanced down into the valley. He could see the enemy's campfires scattered like embers across the white. Somewhere among them, Virath slept — or waited.
The first obstacle came halfway to the ridge gap: a pair of enemy sentries pacing a narrow ledge. Veer raised a fist, and the column froze. Two of his scouts melted into the shadows, circling behind the sentries. A heartbeat later, there was the faintest sound — like cloth tearing — and the sentries crumpled silently into the snow.
As they neared the ridge gap, the wind grew sharper, knifing through cloaks and numbing fingers. The pass below was lit by three large fires, each surrounded by enemy soldiers huddled for warmth. Beyond them loomed the depot — a cluster of wooden structures piled high with supplies, the smell of tar and smoke drifting even through the cold.
Bhairav leaned close. "They're more alert than I thought."
"They're hungry too," Veer murmured. "It makes a man guard his food with his life."
He signaled for the group to split. Ten men circled high above to take the cliff overlooking the depot. Another ten crept down to the left, moving through deep drifts toward the far side of the camp. Veer kept the last ten with him, inching forward through the rocks until they were only thirty paces from the nearest fire.
A sudden gust carried a spark from one of the enemy's fires into the snow — a harmless flicker, but it caught Veer's attention. All they needed was a single moment of chaos, and that depot would burn like dry grass.
He waited, counting the sentries' movements. When the two nearest guards turned their backs in unison, Veer raised his hand and dropped it sharply.
The high cliff team struck first, rolling heavy stones down into the camp. The boulders crashed into the fire, scattering embers and knocking two soldiers off their feet. Shouts erupted.
At the same instant, Bhairav's men on the left ignited their pitch-soaked arrows and fired into the depot's thatched roofs.
Flames licked upward, slow at first, then with hungry speed as the tarred wood caught.
The enemy scrambled in confusion — some grabbing buckets of snow to douse the fire, others charging toward the cliff, not knowing where the attack came from. Veer and his group surged forward, cutting down the few guards who still blocked the path to the depot.
One enemy officer, broad-shouldered and snarling, swung an axe at Veer. The king ducked under the blow, slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, and drove his sword up under the ribs. The man fell with a choked gasp.
"Fire the rest!" Veer shouted.
Bhairav hurled a clay pot of oil against the nearest wall, and it shattered, sending flames racing along the wood. The depot roared like a living beast as barrels of grain and crates of dried meat fed the inferno.
The heat was intense, even in the freezing night. Sparks leapt high into the air, visible for miles. Veer knew Virath would see them from his western camp — and he also knew it was time to vanish.
"Fall back!" he ordered.
The thirty men scattered into their preplanned escape routes, melting into the dark. Behind them, the depot collapsed with a crash, sending a wave of sparks into the night sky.
The retreat was not without cost. Two men were struck down by arrows as they climbed the ridge. Another, wounded in the leg, insisted the others leave him, drawing his dagger to face the oncoming enemy alone. Veer paused only a moment — the hardest moment — before obeying. To turn back would mean losing them all.
By the time the survivors slipped back into the alliance camp, the eastern horizon was glowing faintly with pre-dawn light. Veer's cloak was scorched in several places, his breath ragged, but his eyes were alight.
Rudra met them at the gate. "Did you…?"
Veer nodded toward the sky, where a distant black column of smoke still rose above the mountains. "Virath will eat snow before he eats from that depot again."
Bhairav grinned despite his cuts. "And if he wants food, he'll have to haul it from days away. Which means his siege lines will thin."
Far to the west, in his red-silk tent, Virath stood over his own map, the air thick with the scent of charred wood brought in on the wind.
A general entered, bowing low. "The eastern depot is gone, my lord. At least a month's supplies lost."
Virath's jaw tightened, but his voice was calm. "Tell the men we hold the pass regardless. And send word to the southern caravans — we will need grain."
He stared at the map for a long moment after the general left, his finger tracing the narrow goat trails above the siege line.
"So," he murmured, "you're not just a wall, Veer. You're a blade."
That day, for the first time since the siege began, Virath's western camp was restless. Columns of soldiers moved out, some heading south for supplies, others reinforcing the eastern ridge.
Veer watched from the high watchtower. "He's bleeding men to feed himself," he said quietly. "If we keep the pressure, the noose will loosen."
Arivan, standing beside him, gave a rare smile. "Then we'll turn the hunter into the hunted."
The siege was far from broken, but for the first time in weeks, the alliance camp felt the spark of hope again.