The first light of dawn barely pierced the canopy, casting long, pale streaks across the forest floor. Soufiane crouched at the edge of the hollow, eyes scanning the ridge and valleys below. Every movement, every sound seemed amplified in the stillness. The forest was alive, and it was watching.
Amal moved beside him, her bandaged arm tucked close. "Do you think he knows we're here?" she whispered. Her voice carried a tension that matched the tight knot in her stomach.
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He traced the faint tracks leading from the valley toward the east. "Ayoub Essouibrat knows more than most men. He'll sense that we've moved, that we've survived. But he won't find us unless we make a mistake." His voice was calm, almost surgical, but the weight behind it was undeniable.
Abderrazak, leaning against a boulder with his crowbar across his knees, grunted. "Mistakes are all we've got left, then. One wrong step, one careless breath, and he'll be on us in an instant." His eyes swept the surrounding trees, calculating, analyzing. "We need a plan. Not just movement. A strategy."
Meriem adjusted her rifle, her knuckles whitening around the stock. "He's wounded from the sawmill clash," she said softly, almost to herself. "Maybe that slows him down, but… not for long. He's alive, and that's worse for us than if he were dead."
Soufiane's gaze flicked toward Mourad, who was sitting slightly apart, massaging the stiff marks left by his bindings. The young man's eyes met Soufiane's, silently conveying a mixture of relief and exhaustion. "We keep him safe," Soufiane murmured. "Alive. Not just for now. Alive until we can make the next move. Until we force the scales back in our favor."
Amal nodded, tracing a line in the dirt with her finger. "The sawmill ruins. That's their next stop. They need shelter, and it's defensible for them—but we know the terrain. We know where to strike, where to hide, where to wait." Her voice grew firmer, carrying the determination of someone who had survived more than her share of close calls.
Soufiane crouched, knife balanced across his knees, eyes narrowing. "We strike only when we have full advantage. Not out of anger, not out of desperation. When they least expect it, we hit. Mourad stays with us. Nothing else matters right now."
Abderrazak's jaw tightened. "And if Ayoub comes after us while we move?" His dark eyes were sharp. "He won't hesitate to track us. He'll send scouts. He'll test our patience. He'll… he'll bring hell down on all of us."
"That's why we don't move blindly," Soufiane said. He traced a rough path in the dirt with a stick, showing Amal, Meriem, and Abderrazak. "We use the forest. Every ridge, every hollow, every shadow. We force them to make mistakes. We turn their numbers against them. And when Ayoub comes—he'll survive this encounter. He must. But we'll control the terms. Our war is far from over, and we will dictate its pace."
The group fell silent, each member absorbing the reality of what lay ahead. The forest held its breath, as if anticipating the storm to come. Even Mourad, still recovering, sensed the gravity in the air. His fists clenched as he looked at Soufiane. "I trust you," he said simply.
"Then stay close. Watch the shadows. Listen to the wind," Soufiane replied, voice low and steady. "We survive this. Then we plan the next move. Ayoub Essouibrat is alive, yes. Dangerous, yes. But that danger will serve us, if we are careful."
Hours passed with slow, deliberate quiet. They moved through the hollow, mapping paths, identifying vantage points, rehearsing silent approaches. Amal traced guard patterns she had observed from a distance. Meriem kept watch over the ridge. Abderrazak practiced signals and diversions. Every movement, every whispered word, was part of a larger strategy.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, the forest seemed to lean in closer, shadows lengthening and blending with the underbrush. Soufiane stood at the edge of the hollow, knife in hand, eyes scanning the distant sawmill ruins. "Tomorrow," he said, voice carrying over the quiet, "we move. We scout. We strike. And Mourad… we bring him home."
Mourad's eyes met his, a spark of hope lighting the darkness. Amal and Meriem exchanged tense nods. Abderrazak's grip tightened on his crowbar. The forest, silent and watchful, seemed to approve.
In the distance, faint smoke curled from the valley. Somewhere out there, Ayoub Essouibrat nursed his wounds, plotting, surviving. The war was far from over. But in that hollow, among shadows and embers, Soufiane's group had resolved themselves. Every choice carried the edge of a knife—and every step forward would demand courage, patience, and precision.