The forest swallowed them in a cloak of mist and shadow, each step muffled by the damp pine needles underfoot. The night pressed close, heavy and watchful, as Soufiane led the group into a hollow beneath jagged cliffs. Boulders jutted from the earth like broken teeth, forming a crude shelter. A faint trickle of a nearby stream offered water, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of wet pine that clung to their clothes and hair.
Inside the hollow, the small fire they managed to light cast flickering, uncertain light across their faces. Soufiane crouched beside it, knife in hand, sharpening it slowly. Each rasp of steel against stone echoed like a heartbeat in the hollow, a reminder that survival required both patience and precision. Around him, the others tended to their wounds. Amal adjusted her bandaged arm, wincing with each movement, while Meriem moved among the rescued, offering sips of water and quiet words of comfort. Mourad sat a little apart, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had left marks, but the spark in his eyes—the stubborn defiance Soufiane remembered—remained unbroken.
"They'll come for us," Meriem said quietly, glancing toward the ridge that overlooked the valley. Her fingers twisted nervously around the edge of her coat. "Ayoub… he won't rest."
Soufiane's gaze lifted toward the tree line, dark and unreadable. "He will find us if we make mistakes," he said simply. "He has the patience to wait. The senses to sniff out fear. But we hold the advantage as long as we stay sharp."
Abderrazak leaned back against a boulder, crowbar across his knees, eyes scanning the forest. "Mistakes are all that could kill us now," he muttered. Every shadow, every whisper of the wind held a threat. He flexed his fingers, knuckles white. "We cannot underestimate him. Not for a second."
Amal's lips pressed together, her jaw tight. "Then we stay alive. We heal. We plan. One wrong step, one carelessly drawn breath, and it's over." Her eyes flicked to Soufiane, who still worked the edge of his knife with slow, methodical precision. His silence spoke louder than words, his mind already leaping ahead, weighing strategies, escape routes, and contingencies.
Hours passed. The fire dwindled to glowing embers, and the forest held a heavy stillness around them. Finally, Soufiane spoke, voice low and deliberate. "We rest only enough to move. At first light, we scout the path east. The sawmill ruins—they'll stop there. That's where we consolidate. That's where we regroup."
Meriem's breath caught. "And Ayoub? He'll be waiting." Her voice wavered, but determination cut through the fear. "We can't let him gain ground while we recover."
Soufiane met her gaze, eyes hard as flint in the firelight. "He'll survive. He must survive—for now. But we strike later, on our terms. He's a part of this war, not the end of it. Every move he makes will bring him closer to the edge, and we'll be ready when that time comes."
Mourad shifted, meeting Soufiane's eyes. "I owe you," he said quietly. "For finding me. For not leaving me behind."
"No one gets left behind," Soufiane replied, hand resting briefly on Mourad's shoulder. "Not us. Not anyone." His tone was steady, a promise heavier than any weapon they carried.
The group rotated watches as the night deepened, each breath measured, each movement cautious. Outside, the wind whispered through the pines, carrying distant, mocking echoes—perhaps Ayoub's laughter, perhaps not. Each crack of a branch and rustle of leaves tightened their nerves.
In the hollow, strategy and survival intertwined. Soufiane traced patrol patterns in the dirt with sticks, mapping out guard shifts and potential approaches. Amal suggested contingencies, traps along likely paths, and careful scouting before any engagement. Abderrazak offered himself as bait if necessary, his presence alone a deterrent against careless pursuit. Every plan held threads of hope and danger, each participant acutely aware that one misstep could cast them all into the shadows.
By the time the first pale light of dawn crept through the trees, the group had done what they could. Wounds were bound, weapons ready, and minds sharpened like the blades in Soufiane's hands. They sat together for a brief, quiet moment, embers glowing faintly between them.
"Tomorrow, we move," Soufiane said finally, voice low and precise. "We stay alive. We keep Mourad safe. And Ayoub… he waits, but we are ready."
The forest seemed to exhale with them, holding its breath for the coming storm. In that hollow of shadows and stones, Soufiane's group forged their resolve, preparing for the enemy, knowing that every choice carried the edge of a knife.