The mountain paths existed at the intersection of nightmare and necessity, carved by generations of goats too stubborn to accept that some places weren't meant for passage. Nasic Ironwood confidently led them along these impossible routes. He’d spent sixty winters learning every handhold, every treacherous turn, every spot where the stone would hold weight and where it would betray.

  Kaelen came second, close enough to catch Nasic should the old man falter, far enough back to avoid taking them both down if he did. The headman navigated the brutal terrain with surprising competence, placing each foot with careful precision, maintaining his balance when loose stones shifted beneath his boots. Whatever Magnus had been before choosing peace, it had included training in difficult terrain.

  Lyraleth, Seraphine, and Thessamon followed behind them. The path was less a trail and more a suggestion of possibility along the cliff face. To their left, rough stone rose into darkness. To their right, nothing - a drop so profound that kicked pebbles disappeared without sound, swallowed by the hungry dark. The only noise was the wind whispering through the peaks and the careful scrape of boots on stone.

  “Quiet here,” Mangus whispered, the words barely more than shaped breath. “These heights do strange things with sound. A whisper can carry for miles, or a shout might die three feet away. The mountain decides.”

  They edged forward, bodies pressed against the cliff face, fingers finding holds in cracks and crevices. The stone was cold enough to burn, making joints stiff and movements clumsy. Ice lurked in shadowed spots, invisible and deadly, waiting to send the unwary plummeting into the abyss.

  The path led them through a natural tunnel carved by wind and water over millennia. Inside, the darkness was absolute, pressing against them like a physical thing. Sound died here, muffled by the stone until even their breathing seemed to come from far away. They moved by touch, one hand on the wall, the other on the shoulder of the person ahead, trusting Nasic's knowledge and each other's stability.

  Emerging from the tunnel was like being born into a world of stars and vertigo. The path continued along a ledge so narrow they had to shuffle sideways, backs to the stone, facing out into emptiness. Below, so far down it seemed like another country, tiny fires marked the Bloodfang camp. From this height, the enemy looked insignificant, their tents like scattered embers, their movements antlike and inconsequential.

  But distance lied. Each of those fires represented warriors who'd killed without conscience. Each tent sheltered raiders who'd turn Thornhaven into a charnel house come dawn. The scale was deceptive, making manageable what would be overwhelming at ground level.

  They reached a place where the path ended at a chasm that was only eight feet wide but with a bottomless drop that would turn bodies into broken dolls. A natural bridge of stone spanned the gap, wind-chiseled into an arch that looked both eternal and ready to crumble.

  Mangus crossed steadily, eyes fixed on the far side, refusing to look down. His feet knew this stone, had crossed it in summer heat and winter storm. There was a metaphor there, Kaelen thought - the headman walking above an abyss, focused on the goal, ignoring the death that waited below. The others followed one at a time, the bridge too narrow for anything but single file. Wind howled up from below, tugging at cloaks, pushing and pulling with malicious intent.

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  Beyond the bridge, the path widened into a pass that was almost reasonable. They could walk normally here, though 'normal' was relative when one mistake still meant death. Nasic led them up a series of natural steps, stone worn smooth by centuries of rain and wind.

  As they climbed, the Bloodfang camp spread out below them in terrible clarity. The main fire pit dominated the center, large enough to roast whole animals, its light turning the surrounding tents into a sea of shadows and flickering orange. Hide structures clustered in rough organization - not the chaos of rabble but the practical arrangement of an army that expected to be here for a while.

  Magnus moved to Kaelen's side to explain what lay before them in full detail.

  “Beast pens there, eastern edge.” he said. “...separated from the main camp. Probably to keep the smell downwind. Guards here and there. That big tent with the bone totems belongs to Grimfang Bloody-Maw, one of the leaders. Took three villages north of here last winter.”

  Kaelen absorbed this intelligence with professional interest, but his attention had shifted to Magnus himself. “You've done this before,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Another life, Sir Knight,” Magnus's smile held winters and regrets, “before I chose peace.” He didn't elaborate, and Kaelen didn't press. They all had befores they didn't discuss. What mattered was the knowledge Magnus brought to this moment, not how he'd earned it.

  “Six guards,” Kaelen confirmed, studying the beast pens through the darkness. “Two at each end of the ravine, two patrolling between. Passing wineskins.”

  ”Fire will spread fast in this wind,” Thessamon said. “Those hide tents will go up like dried leaves. We'll have minutes at most once the alarm sounds.”

  “Then we work fast.” Kaelen was already running through the approach, calculating angles and timing. “Silent kills only until we're discovered. Priority is the beasts - every one we drop is one less tearing through our walls tomorrow. When stealth fails, we fire everything we can and run.”

  He turned to Magnus, studying the older man's face in the starlight. “You're sure about this? Last chance to wait here, provide overwatch.”

  “My son is dead,” Magnus said simply, his hand finding the hilt of his dagger. My daughter is struggling to keep our people alive. Yes, I'm sure.”

  Kaelen nodded once, decision made. He looked at each of them in turn - the twins with their deadly grace, Thessamon already fading into shadow, Magnus with his awakened warrior's bearing.

  “We go in fast, kill quiet, and get out faster,” he explained. “No heroics, no glory. We're not here to win the war tonight - just improve our odds tomorrow.”

  They began their descent toward the camp, leaving the relative safety of the heights for the hellfire below. The path down was easier than the climb but also more dangerous - loose stones could slide, one of them could lose their footing, and one mistake would send them tumbling into the enemy's midst.

  Below, the Bloodfang camp slept on, secure in their numbers, confident in their victory. They knew how many Thornhaven had lost, what they had left and how soon this would all end.

  They hadn't counted on Magnus Frankheart remembering what he'd been before he'd chosen to be better.

  The night was about to teach them the price of that mistake.