The forest pressed close around them, shadows tangling in the pines as Ayoub's men followed the trail north. The tracks were clear: five sets of prints, lighter than the boots of soldiers, but fresh. The outsiders weren't far. Each step Ayoub took seemed to press the ground beneath him, marking territory as much as following the trail. The wind whispered through the needles, carrying the faint, almost imperceptible scent of smoke and sweat—a warning that the prey ahead had survived the first strike.
Ayoub marched at the front, shoulders squared, each step pounding the earth as if daring the forest itself to resist him. His dark eyes scanned the undergrowth, the lines of pines, the shadows between branches, always searching, always calculating. Silence clung to the men behind him like a shroud, and Ayoub thrived in it. Silence meant control. Silence meant fear. He understood better than anyone that a whisper of doubt could fracture even the strongest men.
One of his scouts stumbled over a root and cursed under his breath. Ayoub stopped, slowly turning his head. The scout froze, wide-eyed, before quickly lowering his gaze.
"Do you know why I hate noise?" Ayoub asked, voice calm but heavy, carrying over the cold air. He drew the long hunting knife from his belt, its edge dulled from overuse yet gleaming with menace, catching the faint sunlight that filtered through the pines. "Because it means carelessness. And carelessness is what feeds the enemy."
The scout's lips trembled. "I—I didn't mean—"
Ayoub moved before the words finished. In one fluid motion, he slashed across the man's cheek. The scout yelped, clutching his face as blood streamed through his fingers. His knees buckled slightly, but Ayoub did not flinch. The other men froze, their breaths shallow, too afraid to intervene.
Ayoub leaned close, voice low, meant only for the wounded man:
"Every mistake you make doesn't just hurt you—it hurts me. And I don't forgive pain."
Then, with a sharp shove, he sent the scout sprawling backward into the dirt, leaving him groaning as blood dripped onto the fallen needles. No one helped him. That was Ayoub's law: weakness was a sickness, and sickness was contagious.
"Pick him up," Ayoub barked at another, his tone not requesting but demanding. "If he slows us, cut his throat and leave him for the crows."
The men obeyed instantly, eyes lowered, faces pale. Not daring to question, not daring to move with even the slightest hesitation. Ayoub straightened, the knife returning to its sheath with a metallic whisper. His expression hadn't shifted once—not a flicker of guilt, not a hint of anger. It was discipline, cold and absolute. Fear sharpened men far more efficiently than loyalty ever could.
"Listen well," he said, raising his voice so that all could hear, even from behind the dense line of men. "Someone thinks they can take what belongs to me. They think they can undo my order, my rules, my control. Do you know what happens to people who defy me?"
The men stayed silent, though each knew. They had seen Ayoub's punishments—bodies hung as warnings, screams cut abruptly in the night, men and women left to rot as lessons to anyone who dared defy him.
"They become lessons," Ayoub said, his lips curling into a faint, cruel smile. "And soon, these strangers will be my loudest lesson yet."
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves as he sheathed the knife and pressed forward again. Behind him, his men followed in perfect, silent formation—every eye lowered, every step careful, every mind focused on survival. But Ayoub's thoughts weren't on them anymore. They had served their purpose: obedience enforced. His mind was on the outsiders—faces he hadn't yet seen, names he didn't know, but lives he intended to fracture.
He pictured them moving through the woods, thinking themselves clever, thinking themselves safe. And he imagined breaking them piece by piece, forcing the forest itself to echo with their pleas, each cry a mark of his dominance.
Fear was his weapon. It coursed through his men, through the forest, and it would soon reach the strangers. Each snapped twig, each sudden gust of wind, would be a messenger of what was coming. And when they finally understood it, it would already be too late.
Ayoub's steps were relentless, a cadence that promised inevitability. The hunt had begun, and the outsiders would feel the full weight of a man who had mastered terror itself.