The forest was quieter now, though the air still trembled with the echoes of the sawmill chaos. The night pressed in around Soufiane's group, heavy with smoke, sweat, and the lingering scent of burned wood. They moved slowly, each step measured, each breath shallow, as if sound itself might betray them to Ayoub Essouibrat.
Mourad stumbled at first, then found his footing beside Soufiane. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, bruises blooming across his skin, but his eyes held the stubborn spark Soufiane remembered from their childhood. "You… you came for me," he said, voice low but shaking. "I thought…"
Soufiane didn't answer, only kept his hand firm on Mourad's shoulder. Words were unnecessary. Survival, action, and instinct had spoken for them all.
Amal moved closer, bandaged arm aching but still steady. "We can't stop now," she whispered. "He's hurt, but he's alive. That's what matters. For now."
Abderrazak, silent until this point, wiped his brow and scanned the darkened treeline. His eyes, reflecting a fire that wasn't there, were sharp. "We hit their camp. We saved him. But Ayoub… he's wounded, yes. But he's alive. And that's dangerous."
Soufiane's gaze didn't waver from the shadowed path ahead. "Exactly. Alive means he'll come back. Stronger. Smarter. Vengeful. And next time, he won't just be defending his men—he'll be hunting us."
Meriem shivered, pulling her rifle closer. "Then we need to be ready. We can't let him recover, not fully. Not ever." Her voice was trembling, but there was steel beneath it. She had seen too much to deny the truth.
The group pressed deeper into the forest, the glow of the sawmill fading behind them. They moved with practiced caution, knowing every snapping twig could announce their presence. Even the rescued prisoners walked in silence, exhaustion and fear heavy in their bones. Yet, Mourad's steps were steadier with each moment, buoyed by the knowledge that he wasn't abandoned.
Soufiane paused briefly at a ridge, surveying the darkened valley below. No torches burned, no movement hinted at immediate pursuit, but he knew better than to trust absence. Ayoub Essouibrat was alive, wounded and furious, and he would not forget.
"We'll need a base," Soufiane said finally, voice low but decisive. "Somewhere to regroup, to heal, to plan. Ayoub will be watching every pass, every ridge, every clearing he knows. He'll strike when we least expect it."
Abderrazak nodded, the weight of leadership settling on his broad shoulders. "There's a network of caves near the old quarry. Hidden, defensible. We can hold out there for a few days, gather strength, and decide our next move."
Amal traced her fingers along the map etched in memory. "We can also set traps along the paths he's likely to scout. Force him to take risks. Make him hesitate."
Soufiane's dark eyes gleamed, reflecting the faint moonlight. "Good. He'll survive this encounter, yes—but every step he takes toward vengeance will bring him closer to the edge. And when he comes for us…" His voice hardened. "…we'll be ready."
Mourad's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "I owe you everything. I don't know how I can ever repay this."
Soufiane looked at him, expression unreadable. "Stay alive. That's enough. Fight with us. That's how you repay us."
As the group disappeared into the shadowed trees, the faint glow of the sawmill still flickered in the distance. Somewhere beyond the ridge, Ayoub Essouibrat licked his wounds and nursed his pride, the anger and humiliation coiling inside him like a living thing.
He had survived. And that meant the war between them was far from over.
The forest whispered around them, the night heavy with anticipation. Both hunter and hunted had retreated, but only temporarily. The next move would be decisive—and deadly.