The forest seemed to breathe with them as the prisoners vanished into the distance. The hush that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the trees themselves were reluctant witnesses to what they had just seen.
Soufiane lowered himself from the ridge, crouching in the dirt. His knife gleamed faintly in the scattered light, but he wasn't looking at it—he was staring toward the path the column had disappeared into, jaw tight, muscles coiled like a man ready to spring.
"They're not going far," Abderrazak muttered, adjusting the crowbar strapped to his shoulder. His eyes were sharp, scanning the path below. "Men like that don't drag captives through the woods unless they've got a camp close by. And camps… camps mean trouble."
Meriem hugged her arms close, shivering despite the still air. "They're just like us, aren't they? Survivors. Maybe they—"
"Survivors don't chain each other up," Soufiane cut in, voice low and harsh. "They don't march people like cattle."
The silence that followed pressed harder than the shadows around them. Amal leaned against the trunk of a pine, pale but steadier now, her bandaged arm cradled close. She watched Soufiane with the quiet strength she had always carried—the kind that could hold him in check when his temper pulled him too far forward.
"We're not in a position to strike at them," she said softly. "But we can't ignore this either. If we let people vanish into those trees, we're no better than the ones dragging them away."
Soufiane met her eyes. For a heartbeat, the forest seemed to fade, and all he saw was the fire in her gaze, returned after fever and near-death. It steadied him, but it didn't cool the storm that had been building inside him since Morocco.
Abderrazak spat into the dirt, shaking his head. "You're talking about playing heroes again. Look around, Soufiane. Four of us. Half a rifle. Barely enough food for two days. You charge in there, we'll end up chained next to those poor bastards—or worse."
Soufiane didn't argue. He didn't need to. His face told them he was already weighing the risk, balancing it against the thought of doing nothing.
The group moved back from the ridge, slipping deeper into the cover of the trees. Each step was measured, cautious, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on them. Somewhere, not far away, a crow screamed and then fell silent, as if swallowed by the forest itself.
They found a hollow near a fallen log where they could rest. The earth smelled of damp pine needles, a scent that might have been calming once, in another life. Now it only reminded them how far they were from safety.
Meriem crouched beside Amal, checking the bandage on her arm. "It looks better," she whispered, relief softening her features.
Amal gave a small smile. "Better is relative. But it will hold." She looked past Meriem, back toward Soufiane, who paced like a caged animal. "What won't hold," she added under her breath, "is him."
Soufiane's mind raced. Every step, every decision since Casablanca had been about survival. But survival without purpose was nothing. He thought of Younes, of Zahira, of the faces of those who had fallen along the way. He couldn't watch more innocents vanish while he stood by.
"They're heading east," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Toward the valley. If there's a camp, it'll be near water. Somewhere defensible. We follow at a distance. Learn how many there are. What weapons. If there's a chance…" He let the words hang in the air like a blade.
Abderrazak swore under his breath. "You're going to get us all killed."
Soufiane turned to him, eyes hard, voice steady. "Or we'll find a reason to keep living."
The forest thickened around them, shadows twisting in the fading light. Each of them felt the weight of the choice pressing in. To follow meant danger. To turn away meant surrendering others to a fate they all knew too well.
No one spoke as Soufiane tightened his grip on the knife. The path eastward lay dark and uncertain, but the decision had already been made.
In the pines, shadows waited—and the forest held its breath.