The forest east of the ridge grew denser, trees tightening into a labyrinth of bark and shadow. Soufiane led the way, each step a careful negotiation between silence and speed. His knife remained in hand, though he prayed they wouldn't need it—not yet. Behind him, Amal kept close, her breath steady but shallow, her arm clutched to her side.
The others followed in tense quiet, their footsteps muffled against damp earth. Faint traces of the armed column lay before them: broken branches, boot marks pressed into the soil, occasional drag lines where prisoners had stumbled. Each sign pulled them deeper into the forest, closer to answers none of them were sure they wanted.
"Tracks are fresh," Abderrazak muttered, crouching to press his fingers against a print in the dirt. "They're not even half an hour ahead of us."
Meriem swallowed hard. "So we're… we're really doing this?"
Soufiane didn't look back. "We're already doing it."
The afternoon light thinned as they pressed on, turning gold into gray. Through the tangle of trees, the ground sloped downward. The forest opened into a shallow valley, its heart hidden beneath a shroud of mist. The faint tang of smoke reached them before they saw it.
They crouched at the treeline, peering through branches. Below, nestled against a bend of a river, was a camp. Barbed wire strung between posts marked the perimeter. Fires burned in scattered pits, smoke climbing into the canopy.
And inside—cages.
Three of them, built crudely from scavenged steel and wood, each packed with prisoners. Men, women, even children, their faces hollow with hunger and fear. Some sat slumped against the bars, others stared blankly at the ground. Guards in mismatched gear patrolled the perimeter, rifles slung across their backs, machetes flashing in the firelight.
Soufiane's jaw clenched at the sight. He had seen cruelty before—in alleys, in war-torn streets, in the way people turned on one another when everything fell apart. But this—this was a system. Organized, deliberate.
Amal whispered, "They're keeping them like animals."
Abderrazak cursed under his breath. "And we're four people against twenty, maybe more."
Soufiane's gaze fixed on the cages. He could feel the heat rising beneath his skin, the old anger boiling up, the voice that told him to move, to act, to tear it all down. But he forced himself to breathe, to wait. Rushing now meant death—not just for them, but for the prisoners too.
"Patience," he said through gritted teeth. "We learn their routine. When they sleep. Where the weapons are. Then we decide."
For a long while, none of them spoke. The only sounds were the distant cries of the caged and the harsh laughter of the guards.
Meriem tugged at Soufiane's sleeve, her voice trembling. "What if… what if we can't save them?"
Soufiane looked at her, eyes dark but steady. "Then we die trying."
The weight of the words fell over them like a shadow. Abderrazak shook his head, muttering curses, but he didn't move away. Amal pressed closer to the ground, her hand brushing against Soufiane's as she steadied herself. For a fleeting second, he allowed the contact, her warmth anchoring him in the storm.
The group huddled in silence as night deepened. Below, the camp stirred with cruel life. Guards barked orders, prisoners whimpered in fear, and flames danced against the wire.
Soufiane narrowed his eyes at the valley of chains. Every instinct screamed that a reckoning was coming.
And when it did, he intended to be the one holding the knife.