Then, from the ridge, a flicker of light caught Soufiane's eye—distant flames moving like a line of torches. His chest tightened.
"They're searching," he whispered.
Abderrazak joined him, following his gaze. "Ayoub won't forgive this. He'll sweep the forest clean."
Meriem's hand shook as she held Rachid, but her voice remained steady. "Then we keep moving. At dawn."
Soufiane turned to her. "You understand what that means? He'll chase us until he has blood for blood."
"I don't care," she snapped. "He had Rachid in a cage. He was dying. What else were we supposed to do?"
No one answered. The truth was carved into every face: they had chosen to strike, and now there was no undoing it.
Soufiane closed his eyes briefly, then looked at the rescued group—six souls who owed their lives to this gamble. Broken, but alive. That was their victory, and their curse.
The forest creaked and whispered around them, alive with unseen eyes. Soufiane gripped his knife tighter. Sleep was already a stranger. Somewhere beyond the trees, Ayoub Essouibrat was gathering his men.
The reprieve of this night would be short. Dawn would bring more than light—it would bring the first shadow of war.
Ayoub Essouibrat's boots crunched against the dirt as he stalked through the clearing where his men had camped the night before. Fire pits were cold, the ground churned with the marks of struggle. He crouched, fingers brushing a broken length of rope, still stained with blood. His jaw tightened.
"They're gone," muttered one of his men, shifting nervously.
Ayoub rose slowly, towering over him. His heavy frame cast a long shadow in the dawn light. "Of course they're gone," he said, voice low and sharp, like a blade scraping stone. "Someone helped them."
The prisoners who had remained were gone too—every last one. Chains lay discarded like snakes in the dirt, cut clean through. Ayoub's broad chest rose and fell, fury mounting behind dark eyes.
"Who did this?" one of the men asked, fear threading the words.
Ayoub scanned the trees. He could feel it—the presence of those outsiders who had dared interfere with his order. Scouts had whispered the day before of a small group moving quietly through the forest, rogue, desperate… and now bold enough to cross him.
"Find me their trail," he barked. His voice cracked through the clearing like a whip. The men scattered, combing the edges of the camp.
Ayoub turned toward the forest. Thick hands flexed at his sides, knuckles scarred from too many fights. These woods were his. Every path, ridge, hollow—his. For strangers to come here, to steal from him—it was more than defiance. It was war.
"They think they can hide," he muttered, lips twisting into a grim, warmthless smile. "But the forest has a way of feeding me what I want."
A scout returned, breathless. "Tracks. Heading north. Fresh."
Ayoub's eyes lit with cruel satisfaction. He motioned for the others to gather. "Good. We'll run them down. Slow them. Break them. Make an example so no one else forgets who owns these woods."
The men nodded, unease lingering. Ayoub's punishments were not rumor—they were certainty.
He adjusted the rifle slung across his back, though he preferred closer work. Nothing sang to him like the sound of a blade against bone, the rush of power when another life bent under his strength.
He fixed his gaze on the trail disappearing into the pines. For a moment, the forest itself seemed to flinch beneath his stare.
"Run as far as you like," Ayoub whispered, almost tender. "When I catch you—and I will—you'll beg for the mercy you denied me."
With that, he motioned forward, and his band of men fell into line.
The hunt had begun.