The forest had become their only home.
After hours of skirting the edges of patrol routes, the survivors gathered beneath the crooked arms of an ancient oak, its bark carved deep with the marks of those who came before. The air was damp, heavy with moss and the faint sweetness of decaying leaves. Every sound—every crunch of boot or snap of twig—seemed to carry farther than it should have.
Elian was the one who had guided them here. He had spotted the regime's patrol before it could cut across their path, warning them in a sharp whisper that saved them from discovery. It was enough to win Kael's nod of approval, though Jamie noticed the boy's hands trembling when he lowered them from the gesture.
"Sharp eyes," Kael said. His voice carried the weight of command even in a whisper, calm and precise. "Keep them that way, boy, and you'll live long enough to matter."
Elian ducked his head in acknowledgment, his face hidden beneath his hood. Jamie wondered if the boy flushed at the rare praise—or if it was something else entirely.
They pressed deeper into the woods, following the faint trail marked by old symbols carved into trees. Each symbol was a guidepost left behind by earlier resistance scouts, markers that whispered safety or danger to those who knew how to read them.
But tonight, some of those whispers were silent.
Jamie slowed as they passed a trunk where the carved sign of a rising sun should have been. Instead, he found a jagged slash running through the wood, the gouge raw and recent. A few paces farther, another mark had been burned out entirely, the scorch blackening the bark.
"They're erasing them," Jamie muttered under his breath.
Derah, walking at his side, caught the words. His jaw tightened. "The regime learns fast. Every time we adapt, they adapt faster." His eyes flicked toward Elian, who was striding ahead, pointing toward a narrow deer path curling between the trees.
The boy seemed to know his way better than anyone else. He called out subtle turns, reminded them of streams hidden in thickets, even corrected Kael once when the leader nearly steered them into a dead-end glade. It was impressive—almost too impressive.
"Take this bend," Elian said at one point, gesturing toward a sunken trail cloaked in brambles. "It'll cut the distance by half. No one patrols here."
Kael paused, studying him. Then, with a grunt of approval, he signaled the group forward. "Good instincts. Keep it up."
Derah fell back toward Jamie, his expression unreadable. When they were just far enough behind, he muttered, "He's been asking questions."
Jamie glanced at him. "Questions?"
"About where supplies are cached. Where we keep weapons. Where we retreat if things go wrong." Derah's tone was sharp as a blade's edge. "He's too curious."
Jamie frowned. It wasn't unusual for new recruits to ask, but the timing sat wrong. He remembered Elian's evasive answers before, his nervous glances when pressed. A seed of doubt lodged itself in his chest, uncomfortable and persistent.
The trek wore on. Jamie's leg wound, though mostly healed, began to throb with a dull ache that spread through his thigh. Each step on uneven ground sent fire lancing through old scar tissue. He stumbled once, his knee buckling beneath him.
Derah was there in an instant, slipping an arm under Jamie's shoulder, steadying him.
"Easy," Derah said quietly. His strength was casual, effortless.
Jamie clenched his teeth. "I'm fine."
"Fine doesn't stumble like that," Derah replied, but he didn't press further. He simply bore some of Jamie's weight until the pain dulled enough for him to walk alone.
The gesture grounded Jamie, tethering him to the present. Trust, fragile as it was, still existed here—in small acts like this one.
By the time they reached the clearing, the night had thickened, draping shadows over everything like a veil. Kael called the group together, his figure a dark silhouette against the moonlight filtering through the canopy.
"We've run long enough," he said, his voice low but carrying. "Hid long enough. This isn't just about living another day—it's about proving we can strike back. That we're still more than rats in the dark."
Heads lifted, eyes fixed on him. Even the younger fighters, their faces hollowed by hunger and fear, seemed to find strength in his words.
"Our mission isn't survival," Kael continued, the steel in his voice undeniable. "It's a message. If we cut them here, if we bleed them, others will hear. They'll remember the regime can be hurt. That's worth more than food or rest."
The fire in his tone was infectious. Jamie felt it pulling at him despite the unease curling in his gut. Kael's authority was absolute; in moments like these, it was easy to believe.
But belief was dangerous. Jamie remembered his family's downfall, how quickly confidence turned into ruin. Too perfect, his father had said of plans that left no room for failure. And this—this ambush they had built in the shadows—was starting to sound too perfect.
Kael drew a rough map in the dirt, outlining the road, the choke point, the traps they would spring. Fighters leaned in, nodding, murmuring agreement. Elian crouched near the edge of the circle, his eyes sharp, his questions precise—almost rehearsed.
Jamie watched him, the unease gnawing deeper. Elian was useful, yes. But was he loyal? Or was his usefulness a mask, a way to worm deeper into their trust until the blade could be slipped between their ribs?
The thought lingered as Kael finished his speech, his voice ringing in the silence of the clearing:
"This mission will remind the world we are not broken. We will not bend."
The group murmured their assent, fists tightening around blades and bows.
Jamie said nothing. His leg ached, his doubts burned, and in the shadows at the edge of the firelight, Elian's face was unreadable.
The plan was set.
And Jamie's instincts told him it would cost them more than they could bear.