The Pyrenees rose ahead, dark and jagged against the dying light. Soufiane crouched low at the ridge's edge, eyes scanning the valley below where the first villages of southern France lay scattered like forgotten stones. Smoke from chimneys curled lazily into the sky, a deceptive serenity that promised nothing. Behind him, the group followed silently, feet brushing over dry grass and loose rocks, every step measured, every breath a test of restraint.
"They're not far behind," Abderrazak murmured, voice low but tense. His grip on the crowbar tightened. "I can feel it in the air."
Soufiane didn't reply immediately. He let his gaze sweep over the landscape, taking in the winding paths, the thickets that could hide them, the distant movement of a horse-drawn cart along a narrow road. Ayoub's reach was long; his shadow had followed them across Spain, and now, crossing into France, that shadow threatened to tighten like a noose.
Amal shifted beside him, her bandaged arm cradled protectively. "Do you think they know we've crossed the border?" she whispered.
"They'll sense it soon enough," Soufiane said, his jaw tight. "We move quickly, quietly. No mistakes. One misstep, and it's over." His knife glinted in the last rays of sunset, the edge catching light like a warning.
Meriem glanced toward the distant villages, then back at Soufiane. "Do we risk getting help from the locals? We need food, maybe medicine. We can't survive on scraps forever."
Soufiane shook his head. "Help brings eyes we can't see. We do this on our own. Keep moving, keep hidden, and keep alive. That's the only way."
The group descended the ridge cautiously, the terrain steep and unyielding. Below, a narrow dirt road snaked through olive groves and vineyards, golden in the evening sun. Soufiane's mind raced, calculating the paths, estimating distances, the position of every potential lookout. He could almost feel the distant presence of Ayoub's scouts—somewhere in the hills, somewhere in the villages, tracking, waiting, hunting.
Hours passed, the shadows lengthening and merging with the mist that crept down from the higher peaks. The group paused only once, behind the cover of an abandoned barn, the smell of hay and rotting wood thick in the air. Mourad, still pale but steadier now, leaned against a post, his eyes tracing the horizon. "I never thought… I'd see France like this. Free, but not safe," he said quietly, voice carrying the weight of disbelief and lingering fear.
"Freedom isn't the same as safety," Soufiane said, tone low, commanding. "We've learned that. Every place we step, we leave a trace. And every trace has someone following."
Abderrazak's gaze hardened. "We'll find a spot to rest, a short one. Just enough to eat and regain strength. Ayoub won't stop until he finds us, but we can use the night to our advantage."
As darkness fell, they pressed on through narrow forest tracks, vines brushing against their shoulders, roots threatening to trip the weary travelers. The sounds of the villages—dogs barking, distant laughter, the clatter of carts—reached them, but none dared risk drawing attention. Every rustle of leaves, every snapping twig made hearts pound faster, reminding them that even in a foreign land, danger was never far.
Finally, they reached a ridge overlooking a small valley, the houses scattered, the lights faint and unwelcoming. Soufiane crouched, letting the group catch their breath, eyes scanning the distant roads. "Tomorrow, we move through the villages at dawn," he said. "Keep low, keep quiet, and remember why we're here. Mourad, Amal, Meriem—we survive together. No one left behind."
The group nodded, tension coiling in their shoulders like living vines. Soufiane's eyes, dark and unyielding, held the horizon as if challenging the night itself. Somewhere beyond, Ayoub Essouibrat lurked, and every passing hour brought them closer to inevitable confrontation.
But for now, in the quiet of the French hills, they were free enough to breathe—and just long enough to plan the steps that would lead them north, toward Germany, and toward the family Soufiane had yet to find.
The forest seemed to hold its breath with them, waiting for the storm to come.