White Feather Canyon.
Wind howled from above, stirring up fine dust.
On a concealed high ground, John lay prone behind rocks, whispering quietly to Vaerik beside him: "Boss... are you sure Snow Swearers will really pass through here?"
They had set out before dawn today, bringing knights and soldiers, bypassing main roads to enter this terrain-complex canyon.
Then they had been busy all day.
Like laying barbed tripwire traps in narrow passages, burying steel cables and iron hooks among grass and rubble.
They also dug rockfall channels on both high grounds, securing boulders at cliff tops, ready to roll down the valley with just a push.
Vaerik personally checked every position, even arranging three retreat routes.
They wanted ambush, not death battles—preferably with no casualties.
Even if accidents occurred, they had to retreat intact.
But until sunset dyed the cliffs red, the canyon mouth remained empty.
Not even a bird had flown in to defecate.
