The fire had burned down to glowing embers, painting their faces in shifting shades of red and black. The night pressed close around them, heavy and suffocating, thick with silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind in the branches or the distant cry of a lone owl. The group sat in a loose circle, but no one truly rested. Every muscle, every nerve was taut with anticipation. They were all waiting—for Soufiane to speak, for someone to suggest the impossible.
Soufiane sat a little apart, knife balanced across his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. His dark eyes glimmered in the firelight, sharp and calculating. There was no softness in them, no hesitation—only the weight of decision, a storm gathering behind the calm surface. The others had learned by now: when Soufiane fell silent like this, it meant that danger was already taking shape in his mind, forming precise edges and deadly intent.
Meriem broke first, her voice a whisper, raw with tension she could barely control. "If we go after them… it's suicide. Ayoub's men—there must have been twenty. Rifles, blades, armor. And we're—" she paused, glancing at each of them in turn. "We're five, held together by scraps and luck."
Abderrazak shifted, firelight glinting off his scarred features, jaw tight with both anger and dread. "And Mourad?" he hissed, voice low but sharp. "You want to just leave him there? Let him rot in chains?"
The name hit harder than any weapon. Mourad Hamani. Their friend from childhood, the one who had left for Spain years ago, chasing work and a future that had seemed bright and unbroken. And now, in this broken world, he had been captured before they could reach him, dragged along by Ayoub's men like so many others. To abandon him was unthinkable, but to charge headlong into Ayoub's camp seemed like a path straight to death.
"No," Meriem said quickly, eyes burning. "I don't want to leave him. But if we charge in blind, we'll end up chained beside him—or worse. Dead."
Amal leaned forward, voice calm though a tremor of exhaustion undercut her words. "She's right. We can't fight them head-on. But if we move smart—if we hit where they're weak, strike when they don't expect it—maybe we have a chance. One chance. That's all we get."
The silence that followed was thick, pressing. Then Soufiane lifted his head slowly, eyes sweeping each of them in turn. His voice was low, cold, and edged with steel, every word a weapon. "Ayoub's camp," he said. "We find it. We learn their guard patterns, their routines, their blind spots. Then we strike when they least expect it."
Abderrazak leaned forward, fists curling, nails biting into palms. "And Mourad?"
Soufiane's gaze narrowed, eyes burning like coals in the firelight. "We get him out. No matter what."
A pause. The only sound was the faint hiss of cooling embers and the distant whisper of wind through the pines. Then Amal unfolded a torn scrap of fabric from her pack, smudged with charcoal marks—a crude map.
"They're heading east," she said, spreading it on the ground. Her fingers traced a jagged line of trees and broken roads. "If they keep moving this way, they'll hit the old sawmill ruins. It's the only solid shelter left in that direction. That's where they'll stop."
Soufiane leaned closer, knife tip tracing the spot she had indicated. "Then that's where we go," he said, tone final, unyielding.
Meriem's breath caught. She shook her head, gripping her rifle tighter. "And if they see us first? If we're wrong—"
Soufiane's gaze locked with hers. Calm. Merciless. "Then they'll regret it."
The words landed like hammers, silencing even the restless wind.
They spent the next hour whispering over possible strategies. Amal suggested scouting the ridge above the sawmill first, using height to count guards and weapons. Abderrazak offered to draw attention if needed, to act as bait while the others slipped inside. Meriem said little, but the whiteness of her knuckles around her rifle betrayed the tension in her chest. None spoke against the plan; beneath all their fears, one truth bound them together: Mourad wasn't just another prisoner. He was family.
Finally, Soufiane rose, his shadow stretching long behind him as the knife caught a sharp glint from the dying embers. His face was unreadable, expression carved from stone, and his words carried the weight of inevitability.
"We end this tomorrow night."
No one argued. There was no choice left. The decision had been made by circumstance, by blood, by the unbroken ties of loyalty and friendship.
Far away, in the ruins of the sawmill, Ayoub Essouibrat's booming laugh carried through the darkness as he sat among his men. Flames roared behind him, casting monstrous shadows over his prisoners, bound in the dirt like broken dolls. One of them lifted his head just enough to catch the glow of the fire—Mourad. His eyes, hollow yet defiant, glimmered with stubborn life.
The world tightened around both groups, winding them toward collision, toward a night where survival and vengeance would meet on the same razor's edge.
And as the embers in Soufiane's camp finally faded to ash, the forest itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the storm to break.