The night clung heavy around them, thick with damp air and the resinous scent of pine. From their perch above the valley, the group lay low, eyes fixed on the barbed-wire camp below. Firelight flickered across the cages, throwing jagged shadows against the mist.
Soufiane stayed at the front, chin resting on the crook of his arm, knife still in his fist. He hadn't moved for nearly an hour, though his eyes missed nothing—the way the guards rotated along the perimeter, the two who had lit cigarettes and leaned lazily against a post, the cluster of rifles stacked by a crude wooden shed.
Beside him, Amal shifted. Her bandaged arm brushed against the earth as she lowered herself flat. "They're sloppy," she whispered. "Not soldiers. Scavengers who play at being warlords."
"Sloppy can still kill," Abderrazak muttered from behind them, his voice a low growl. "One mistake, and it's us in those cages."
Meriem hugged her knees, trying to make herself smaller. Her wide eyes never left the prisoners. "Look at them," she breathed. "They're starving."
Soufiane finally moved, just enough to glance at her. "That's why we're here."
Hours bled together. The camp's rhythm revealed itself slowly: guards laughing at their own jokes, shoving bowls of food into their mouths while prisoners stared on in silence; sudden outbursts of violence when someone inside the cages moved too slowly. A boy had been dragged to the wire and beaten with the butt of a rifle before being shoved back inside.
Meriem covered her mouth to stop from crying out. Amal's hand found her shoulder, pressing her down gently. Even Abderrazak, who rarely showed anything but hardened skepticism, shifted uncomfortably.
Soufiane's jaw worked as if he were chewing on his own anger. "They're monsters," he whispered.
"No," Amal said quietly, her voice steady, eyes blazing. "They're cowards. Monsters don't need cages."
Silence followed, thick and brittle.
Then, movement.
A tall man emerged from one of the larger tents at the camp's center. His coat was patched together from leather and canvas, a rifle slung across his back. The guards straightened as he passed, laughter dying instantly. He strode to the cages, dragging something behind him—a sack.
With a flourish, he opened it. Cans of food tumbled out, rolling across the dirt. The prisoners scrambled, weak hands clutching desperately, but before they could reach them, the man kicked the cans away and barked a command. Guards dragged a few chosen from the cage, forcing them to their knees.
The tall man smiled as he handed out the cans—to his men, not the captives.
Soufiane's nails bit into his palm. He wanted to move, to leap down the ridge, to carve through the barbed wire and gut them all. Amal saw the tension coiling through him and pressed her good hand over his wrist.
"Not yet," she whispered. "We strike blind, we die blind. We wait."
His eyes locked on hers, storm against fire. For a long moment, neither looked away. Slowly, Soufiane exhaled. The knife eased in his grip, though it never left his hand.
The group lay in silence until the tall man disappeared again into his tent.
Meriem's whisper was barely audible. "How do we fight something like this?"
Soufiane finally spoke, voice low, a promise carved into the night.
"By knowing them better than they know us."
As the firelight crackled below, the group settled into the long vigil. They would not sleep. Not tonight. The camp had shown them what it was. Tomorrow, they would decide what they would become.