The forest thinned as dusk bled into night, the air heavy with smoke that drifted through the pines. Soufiane crouched low at the edge of a ridge, his eyes narrowing at the faint glow flickering in the valley below. Not campfires—controlled burns. Someone was claiming this forest as their territory, and the deliberate pattern of light and shadow made it clear: this was no random band of survivors.
Behind him, Amal shifted carefully, her movements steadier now though her arm was still wrapped in thick bandages. She followed his gaze, lips pressed tight. "That's not a camp of survivors," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hiss of the wind through the pines. "That's… something else."
Abderrazak adjusted his grip on the crowbar, his bulk solid in the shadows. "We'll never know unless we get closer," he muttered, his tone calm but edged with steel.
"Or," Amal said sharply, "we stay alive by keeping our distance."
Soufiane didn't answer. His knife rested in his palm, gleaming faintly in the twilight, catching every last ray of dying light. Silence from him was never hesitation—it was calculation. He rose slightly, crouching low, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, the forest itself bending around his presence. The others followed, each step measured, every movement deliberate. Tension was thick as sap, sticky and suffocating.
---
They moved like ghosts through the underbrush, circling carefully until they had a vantage point over the valley. Below, the camp revealed itself: sheets of corrugated metal hammered into walls, barbed wire strung like spiderwebs, and torches burning with a controlled ferocity. Armed men patrolled the perimeter, rifles slung loosely across their shoulders, but always ready.
And in the center—prisoners. A dozen of them, bound at the wrists, forced to kneel in the dirt, their faces hollow, eyes wide with fear, ribs showing beneath sunken skin.
Amal drew in a sharp breath. Meriem covered her mouth with trembling hands. Even Abderrazak, hardened by scars both seen and unseen, muttered a curse under his breath, his jaw clenched tight.
A shout cut through the valley. The guards stiffened. From a makeshift tent near the fires, a man strode into view. Broad-shouldered, imposing, and carrying himself with a terrifying calm, Ayoub Essouibrat's presence filled the camp like a storm. His eyes swept the prisoners and guards alike, a predator reading every weakness.
Soufiane felt the air shift around him. This was no scavenger clinging to survival. This was a man who ruled—not with fear alone, but with an iron certainty that left no question of who held the power.
They listened as Ayoub barked orders. One of his men hesitated—too slow, too cautious. Without warning, Ayoub backhanded him, the crack echoing across the valley like a whip through the night. The soldier stumbled but did not retaliate. None of them did. Fear held this camp tighter than the barbed wire ever could.
A prisoner collapsed, unable to remain on his knees. Guards dragged him upright, but Ayoub stopped them with a single gesture. He stepped closer, voice sharp and cold enough to slice through the night: "Weakness," he snarled, "spreads like disease." He shoved a rifle into the trembling hands of another prisoner. "Show me you're stronger. Prove your loyalty."
The man wept and begged. The men forced him to obey. The crack of the rifle rang out. Silence fell, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the distant trees. The kneeling man lay lifeless in the dirt, a grim lesson etched into the ground.
Soufiane's grip tightened on his knife until the edge pressed into his palm, drawing a thin line of blood. Amal whispered, horrified, "We can't fight them. Not like this."
"And if we don't?" Soufiane's voice was raw, guttural. "He'll keep killing. Keep building."
Abderrazak's eyes burned with reflected firelight. "He's right. Men like that don't stop. They only get stronger."
Meriem, pale and trembling, shook her head. "We'll die if we charge in. All of us."
The argument hung between them like a blade, sharp and unavoidable. Soufiane's chest rose and fell in heavy silence, his tattooed forearm burning as if Younes's name itself demanded justice.
Then Amal's hand shot forward, pointing. "Wait… do you see that?"
They followed her gaze, and Soufiane's stomach dropped. Among the bound prisoners, gaunt and beaten, was a face they knew.
Soufiane froze, air leaving his lungs in a slow hiss. It couldn't be. Not here. Not alive.
The prisoner lifted his head, eyes dull but unmistakable. Recognition and disbelief collided in the four watchers on the ridge.
Soufiane's whisper was barely audible. "No… not him."
The group exchanged terrified glances. The man wasn't just a survivor—he was a piece of their past ripped from them, someone they thought lost forever.
Ayoub Essouibrat was not simply a warlord. He had taken someone precious from them, and the choice stretched before Soufiane's group like a yawning chasm: retreat into safety—or plunge into war with no certainty of return.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, shadows creeping closer, waiting for the answer.
And the first move, whether of courage or desperation, would change everything.