The night still tasted of ash and salt. Beyond the blackened pines, the distant sea breathed like a sleeping animal — a low rustle against cliffs and broken shoreline. Soufiane moved along the ridge with the slow, watchful steps of a man who had learned the difference between danger and motion. Spain lay open under a thin moon: fields of scrub and gnarled oaks, whitewashed ruins like bone, and the vague silhouette of a small village far below.
Behind him, Mourad limped but kept pace; Meriem stayed close, her hand on his shoulder. Amal walked with measured, careful steps, the bandage at her arm still damp, but the fever that had nearly taken her was a memory. Abderrazak carried the heavier worries—gunmetal and crowbar—his eyes scanning the dark like a hawk waiting to see what moved.
"We need water, but not a long stop," Meriem whispered. "And food. Our packs are nearly empty."
Soufiane nodded. He had counted everything on the march: rations, bullets, the little bottle of antibiotics that had bought Amal another day. Food could be found in ruined farms, or in a lucky pantry, but every shelter was a risk. Ayoub's men had spread warnings—torches, bodies on poles, the language of raw power. The pirates and gangs of Spain's ruined countryside had their own mercies. They were few, but precise and brutal.
They crept down the ridge, staying in the shadow of a stand of cork oaks. The ground smelled faintly of smoke and rosemary. The village below was small, a handful of collapsed roofs and stacked stones that might once have been a market. Someone had kept a light: a single, steady flame at the far edge of a square. The sight of it made Soufiane's throat tighten. A flame in the night could mean a welcoming hearth—or a hand stretched to claim what it lured.
"Lookouts," Abderrazak muttered. "Hardened. No children, no laughter. Too careful."
Soufiane raised a hand. Silence folded over them. They moved like shadows stitched to the ground, two at a time, keeping the ridge between them and the light. As they slipped closer, he could make out figures hunched around a low fire; one moved with the slow, practiced confidence of a person who'd learned to kill quietly. Another tended a pot, stirring the broth for a handful of metal platters. There was food, yes—but it was guarded.
"You want to talk to them?" Meriem asked, voice tight. The idea of stepping into another group's circle felt like stepping into a net. "We don't know if they take or give."
"We test," Soufiane said. "Two words, two hands. If they host, we barter. If they ambush, we fall back to the ridge and don't give them the chance to follow." His plan was lean, simple—deception, measured generosity, eyes wide open. He'd been forging survival from the smallest margins for so long he no longer trusted anything that smelled like mercy.
Abderrazak slid down a foot, a narrow path between olives and shattered tile. Soufiane followed with Mourad at his side. They came to the edge of the square, feet silent on loose gravel. The nearest man glanced up as if by habit — and the world tightened. That glance carried recognition and caution, offered Soufiane the tiny ruthless question: friend or threat?
"Who goes there?" a voice called, worn but steady. Spanish lilt at the edges. Not Ayoub's voice, not yet, but a voice that had been on the wind too many times before. The man by the fire stood and stepped forward: broad shoulders beneath a battered jacket, a scar across his jaw. He seemed to measure Soufiane with a precise eye.
Soufiane kept his hands visible, slow. "We are hungry. We mean no harm. Trade? Work?" he said in halting Spanish, borrowed from weeks listening at markets and roadblocks. His words were small, honest, and always dangerous.
The scarred man watched him for a breath too long. Then he smiled—no warmth, only business—and nodded toward the pot. "Sit. Eat. Speak."
Soufiane let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He stepped forward. For now, a thin scrap of safety. For now, food and a fire, the smell of warm broth filling his lungs. But behind the cracked houses, along the rim of the square, movement shifted—quiet scouts, unnoticed until now. One figure lingered near a ruin, a shadow that didn't belong. It separated from the wall, lifted its head, and in the weak moonlight Soufiane saw the flash of a badge — not soldier, but a mark he knew all too well. Ayoub's emblem, crudely carved on a piece of leather.
The man had seen them. The circle turned. The bench creaked. Footsteps answered in the dark. The night had given them a small warmth — and somewhere, a hunter had just smelled blood.