Five hundred soldiers stood assembled outside the heavy iron gate. These men were the elite of Ladakh, skilled in all forms of combat. They wore black leather armor, each armed with a standard glaive in hand, a sword at their waist, and arrows slung across their backs.
Ahead of them, Commander Jigmet stood, his gaze fixed on Prince Tsewang, who was similarly attired. "Your Highness, please reconsider. Taking only one hundred elites is a dangerous risk. Take at least three hundred. I'm confident I can divert the Bhargavian troops with two hundred alone."
Tsewang placed a steady hand on Jigmet's shoulder. "Worry not, Commander. Where a needle fits, a sword can only make things worse. Besides, you'll need those soldiers to cover our retreat."
Jigmet was taken aback by the prince's determination. The mission was almost impossible, bordering on suicidal.
