Dawn broke faintly over the rolling hills, painting the vineyards with muted shades of gold and green. Soufiane led the group through the narrow paths between the grapevines, every footstep deliberate, every breath measured. The mist clung to the leaves, a living veil that hid them from prying eyes—and from Ayoub's scouts, who could be anywhere.
"Keep low," Soufiane whispered, pausing at the edge of a sunlit clearing. "The villagers are waking. We can't afford to be seen."
Amal's hand brushed against his arm, steadying herself. "How long before we can stop?" she asked quietly. Her voice held a note of exhaustion, but her eyes were alert, scanning for movement in the shadows.
"We don't stop," Soufiane said, his tone sharp, unyielding. "Not until we reach the old farmhouse near the northern ridge. It's defensible, and it gives us vantage over the roads ahead. One wrong step, and we give Ayoub a chance to strike."
Abderrazak adjusted the strap of his pack, his bulk moving silently among the rows of vines. "He's smart," he muttered. "Ayoub won't make it easy. But neither will we."
Meriem shivered, pulling her jacket tighter. "I hate this," she said softly. "Hate moving through open ground where anyone could see us."
Soufiane's gaze swept over the valley below. Every stone, every patch of shadow, every rising column of smoke was a potential risk. "Fear is a tool," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Use it. But don't let it use you. Eyes forward, hearts steady. We move as one."
They passed abandoned farmhouses, the doors swinging slightly in the wind, the smell of earth and decay heavy in the air. Every so often, a crow took flight, wings flapping in the gray light, startling the group but giving no real threat. Soufiane noted each movement, calculating, predicting, shaping the path ahead.
By midday, they reached a small stone wall at the edge of a vineyard that overlooked a winding dirt road. Soufiane crouched behind it, scanning for movement. "They'll have patrols," he muttered. "We need to time this right. Too soon, and we're exposed. Too late, and we lose sight of them entirely."
Mourad's eyes, still marked by bruises, caught the distant glint of sunlight on metal. "Do you think they know we're here?" he asked, voice low. "Do you think Ayoub can smell us already?"
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He leaned closer to the wall, sighting along the row of vines. "He'll try," he said finally. "But he's chasing ghosts now. We move smart, we move together, and we stay alive. That's all that matters."
Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, the vineyards alive with the quiet stirrings of farm life. The group remained hidden, moving only when shadows provided cover, communicating with hand signals and quiet gestures. Soufiane's knife stayed at the ready, eyes sharp, mind calculating every possible scenario.
As the afternoon wore on, they reached a ruined farmhouse perched at the northern ridge. Soufiane led them inside, noting the sturdy walls and small windows that offered sightlines over the valley below. "Here," he said. "This is where we stop. Short rest, dry wounds, catch our breath. We can watch the roads, track patrols, and plan the next leg—toward Germany."
The group sank against the stone walls, exhaustion pressing down. But Soufiane remained on edge, knife in hand, eyes scanning the distant vineyards. Somewhere out there, Ayoub Essouibrat was moving too, tracing the paths they had left behind, waiting for a chance.
"And Mourad?" Amal asked softly. "We keep him safe?"
Soufiane's eyes hardened. "Always. We survive together. No one left behind. That's the rule."
Outside, the wind rustled through the vines, carrying the faint scent of earth and grapes. The shadows moved with it, stretching long as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. In the quiet, Soufiane's resolve hardened further. Every step northward, every path through France, brought them closer to their goal—but closer too to the reckoning with Ayoub that was inevitable.
The forested hills beyond France waited silently, a dark promise of challenges to come. And Soufiane knew, with every fiber of his being, that the real fight was only just beginning.