Planting the Bitter Seed

Moving towards the edge of the Ashfang camp felt like walking into the heart of a hornets' nest. Every shadow seemed to hold watching eyes, every gust of wind carried the potential scent of discovery, every crunch of Lunrik's boots on the ice – however soft – sounded deafeningly loud in his own ears. He moved low, utilizing the broken terrain Fendril had identified, hugging the base of ice ridges, slipping through narrow fissures, acutely aware of the patrolling crinos figures silhouetted against the grey sky on the perimeter above and the tense, snarling clusters of werewolves within the camp itself.

The paranoia Fendril had noted was palpable. The Ashfang weren't just alert; they were jumpy, agitated. The mysterious attack in the valley, combined with the earlier disappearance of the scouting party Lunrik had eliminated, had clearly frayed their nerves. They eyed each other with suspicion, low growls rumbling constantly between the rival factions vying for dominance in Grakkus's absence. The air crackled with barely suppressed aggression. It was the perfect environment for the spark Lunrik intended to ignite.

He focused on the target location: a deep, shadowed fissure in the ice floor near the camp's edge, situated almost perfectly between the two largest, most hostile-looking rival factions. Planting the kinetic charge there would make the resulting tremor seem like an attack originating from the space between them, maximizing the potential for mutual blame and conflict.

Getting there required crossing a short stretch of relatively open ice, visible from parts of the camp. Lunrik waited, hidden behind a jagged ice block, observing the patrol patterns, waiting for the precise moment when the nearest sentries turned their backs, when the arguing factions were most engrossed in their own snarling standoff. Alaric's ghost provided a cold, calculating assessment of timing and risk, while Lunrik's Dravenwolf instincts screamed caution.

The moment came. A brief lapse in vigilance as one patrol turned the corner and the rival alphas squared off with renewed ferocity. Lunrik moved. He sprinted across the exposed ice, low to the ground, a fleeting shadow against the grey backdrop. He reached the fissure, heart pounding, expecting a challenge roar at any second. None came. He dropped quickly into the fissure – it was about chest deep, offering excellent cover – and landed silently on the snowy bottom.

He fumbled slightly with the kinetic pulse charge, his fingers numb with cold and adrenaline. He recalled Fendril's instructions: find a stable spot, activate the pressure seal. He wedged the metallic canister firmly between two protruding ice formations within the fissure, ensuring it wouldn't shift. He pressed the designated seal on its surface – it clicked softly, and a tiny indicator light glowed briefly, confirming it was armed and ready for remote detonation.

Phase one complete. Now for the most dangerous part: withdrawal.

He peered cautiously over the lip of the fissure. The camp remained oblivious, still caught up in its internal tensions and nervous perimeter scans. The path back towards Fendril's observation post required crossing another open patch, then navigating the ice ridges again.

He took a deep breath, signaled Fendril with a single pulse from his communicator – charge planted, withdrawing – and vaulted silently out of the fissure. He hit the ice running, pushing his body hard, ignoring the protest from his ankle.

He was halfway across the open patch when a sharp howl went up from the camp perimeter. Not directed at him, initially, but a general alarm. Had someone finally noticed the dead scouts? Or had Fendril been spotted?

Then, a different howl, closer, filled with accusatory rage. One of the rival alphas, perhaps noticing Lunrik's fleeting movement near the fissure between them, leaped to the conclusion that the other faction was making a move. He roared a challenge, lunging towards the other group.

Instantly, the fragile truce within the camp shattered. The second alpha roared back, meeting the charge. Other werewolves piled in, siding with their respective leaders. The simmering paranoia exploded into open conflict. Snarls, roars, the clash of claws on armour echoed across the ice as the two factions turned on each other with savage fury, forgetting the external threats, forgetting their mission, consumed by internal strife.

Lunrik didn't stop to watch the chaos he had helped unleash. He used the sudden, violent distraction to cover the remaining distance to the ice ridges, scrambling into their concealing shadows just as the sounds of full-blown battle erupted behind him.

He navigated the ridges quickly now, adrenaline lending him speed, heading towards the pre-arranged rendezvous point – a distinctive, weathered rock spire Fendril had pointed out earlier. He reached it moments later, breathless, collapsing behind its sheltering bulk.

Fendril was already there, peering intently through his scope back towards the now-chaotic Ashfang camp. A grim smile touched the corners of the dwarf's lips.

"Excellent timing, werewolf," Fendril murmured without looking away. "Your assessment of their paranoia was… accurate. They tear each other apart." He held up his communicator, hovering a thumb over the trigger stud for the kinetic charge. "Shall I add… fuel to the fire?"

Lunrik hesitated. The fight was already escalating savagely. Adding a tremor now might seem like an external attack, potentially reuniting them against a common foe. But maybe… a small tremor… just enough to cause further confusion, collapses, make it seem like the very ground was betraying them?

"Small pulse," Lunrik decided. "Localized to the fissure. Make it seem like unstable ground giving way under their fighting."

Fendril nodded, adjusting settings on his communicator with practiced ease. "Localized pulse, intensity three, targeting planted coordinates. Triggering… now."

He pressed the stud. Lunrik watched the distant camp. He didn't hear anything over the sounds of the Ashfang battle and the wind, but he saw a section of the ice floor near the fissure suddenly heave upwards, then collapse inwards, sending several battling werewolves tumbling into the newly opened chasm. Panic and confusion rippled through the remaining fighters. Accusatory howls intensified as they likely blamed each other for the ground collapsing beneath them.

The internal battle raged fiercer now, fueled by paranoia, losses, and the unstable environment. Their search for the Whispering Ice Pass was forgotten, their mission completely derailed by internal conflict.

"Objective achieved," Fendril stated with satisfaction, lowering his scope and communicator. "Significant disruption inflicted. Ashfang operational capacity severely degraded. High probability they will withdraw entirely once casualties are assessed." He looked at Lunrik, his sharp eyes holding a grudging respect. "Your plan was… effective. If unorthodox by dwarven standards."

Lunrik felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, the adrenaline leaving him shaky. They had done it. They had turned the Ashfang against themselves without a direct fight, using dwarven tech and werewolf psychology. It was a victory, of sorts, but the cold-blooded manipulation left a bitter taste in his mouth. This was the kind of strategy Alaric would have employed, would have relished.

"Let's report back to Borin and get out of here," Lunrik said wearily, pushing the discomfort down. "Before stragglers realize what happened, or before those hunters decide to investigate the commotion."

Fendril nodded. "Agreed. Optimal extraction window is now." He sent the three-pulse signal requesting Gate reopening.

They began the trek back towards the towering cliffs hiding the Cog Gate, moving quickly but cautiously, constantly scanning their surroundings. The sounds of the Ashfang civil war faded behind them, replaced once more by the lonely howl of the wind.

As they approached the Gate ledge, Lunrik felt a familiar prickle of unease. He scanned the area where the hunters had appeared and vanished. Nothing. The rock face looked solid, undisturbed. But the feeling lingered. Were they being watched even now? Was their departure being monitored by unseen eyes?

The grinding sound of the Cog Gate opening was a welcome relief. It slid open to reveal Borin and two Gate Wardens waiting, their expressions impassive but alert.

"Report?" Borin demanded as they stepped inside.

Fendril delivered a concise summary: Ashfang camp located, numbers confirmed, Grakkus deceased, internal conflict observed. Kinetic charge deployed strategically between rival factions, triggering significant infighting and further casualties. Ashfang force effectively neutralized as a cohesive unit. Mission objective achieved. He subtly omitted Lunrik's direct role in planting the charge, framing it as a joint tactical decision.

Borin listened intently, stroking his beard, a faint glimmer of grim satisfaction in his eyes. "Effective disruption. Acceptable collateral damage." He looked at Lunrik. "Your insights into their pack mentality proved… useful." He gave a curt nod. "Return to your quarters. Rest. Await further instructions."

As the Gate sealed behind them once more, Lunrik felt a complex mix of relief and disquiet. They had succeeded, fulfilled their part of the bargain again, perhaps even strengthened their precarious position within Grimfang Deep. But the methods used, the manipulation, the cold calculations… it felt like walking deeper into shadow, not towards the light. He had planted a bitter seed of discord amongst the Ashfang, but he feared similar seeds were being sown within himself, blurring the line between Lunrik, the reluctant hero, and Alaric, the ghost king who thrived on such chaos.