The forest wrapped around them like a tomb.
They had dragged themselves deeper into its shadows after the failed ambush, carrying the weight of silence heavier than any wound. The trees loomed tall and unyielding, their roots twisting like the bones of some ancient beast. Ash and smoke still clung to their clothes; the memory of blood hung in the air no matter how far they fled.
The survivors—if they could still be called that—huddled around a dying fire. The flames flickered weakly, offering no warmth against the chill that had seeped into their bones. Kael had ordered them not to risk a larger blaze; light was a beacon, and they could not afford to be found again.
Jamie sat apart, his back against the rough bark of an oak, his leg stretched stiffly in front of him. His wound still throbbed from the desperate retreat, though Derah had rebandaged it with strips of cloth torn from his own tunic.
His eyes were half-closed when the dream came.
It began the way it always did—with the familiar warmth of home, his mother's hands stirring a pot over the hearth, his father's voice low and steady as he shared stories of the old world. Elian's laughter mingled with theirs—no, not Elian. His sister. Her voice, light as birdsong, carried through the small house. For a moment, the ache in Jamie's chest softened.
Then the walls cracked, smoke billowed, and the door splintered beneath booted feet. Regime soldiers flooded in, faceless and merciless. He remembered their shouts, the fire, his family's screams—
But this time, one soldier's mask slipped.
Beneath the helmet was a face Jamie recognized.
The features blurred like water over glass, but the impression was sharp enough to cut him: dark eyes he had seen once before, a scar tracing down the cheek. He had glimpsed that same face during the ambush in the forest, when the convoy had erupted into chaos. For only a heartbeat, their eyes had met across the battlefield.
And in that heartbeat, Jamie swore the past had clawed its way into the present.
He woke with a start, breath ragged, sweat cooling on his skin. The dream clung to him, heavy and suffocating. His hands trembled as he scrubbed his face, trying to shake the memory loose, but the image refused to fade.
Was it real?
Had he truly seen someone he knew—or was his mind breaking beneath the weight of loss?
The thought burrowed deep, leaving him raw and unsettled.
Kael's voice cut through the silence of the camp.
"We strike again," the leader growled, pacing before the small fire. His cloak hung ragged from his shoulders, his eyes burning like coals in the dim light. "Every step backward is another nail in our coffins. If we do not show strength, we will be hunted to extinction."
The fighters stirred, their exhaustion etched into their faces. Some nodded, clinging to his fire because it was all they had left. Others only stared, hollow-eyed and doubtful.
"We had a traitor among us," Kael continued, his voice hard as iron. "That ambush was no accident. Someone tipped them off. And until that snake is rooted out, we are bleeding ourselves for nothing."
His words were a blade in the quiet.
Elian shifted uneasily, his hood casting shadows across his pale face. "It wasn't me," he blurted, the words too quick, too raw. "I—I warned us about the patrols. If not for me, we'd be dead already."
Kael's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "And yet they were waiting. They knew our timing, our traps. Convenient, isn't it?"
Elian's lips parted, but no words came. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I swear, I—I wouldn't—"
His stammering only deepened the suspicion curling through the group. A few fighters glanced at him, their gazes sharp, accusing.
Derah, ever silent, leaned against a tree at the edge of the firelight. His eyes flicked between Kael and Elian, calm but calculating. When Kael's rage swelled, Derah stepped closer, close enough that Kael could feel his presence.
"Accusations won't heal wounds," Derah said evenly. "The regime thrives on our mistrust. We cannot feed it."
For a moment, the tension strained, a bowstring pulled taut. Kael's jaw clenched, but he did not lash out. Instead, he turned his glare away, muttering under his breath.
Jamie watched it all, the unease in his chest growing heavier. His dream lingered at the edges of his mind—the officer's face, the scar, the familiar eyes. Was it possible? Could someone from his past be wearing the enemy's colors now, standing on the other side of the battlefield?
The thought twisted like a knife.
Later, while the others tried to snatch uneasy rest, Jamie drifted toward the edge of camp. The moonlight was pale, painting the forest in shades of silver and shadow. He ran his hand over the rough bark of a tree, and his fingers brushed a groove.
He leaned closer.
There it was—the resistance's mark. A simple symbol, carved shallow into the wood. But it had been slashed through, the cut cruel and deliberate.
The regime had found it.
They were hunting not just people but memory itself, scraping away the language that bound them, erasing the signs that told them they were not alone.
Jamie's chest tightened. He thought of Derah's words, of Kael's suspicion, of Elian's frightened face. Of the officer's eyes in his dream. Every thread seemed to weave into a single, suffocating truth: they were being cornered, stripped of their unity, picked apart from the inside.
He pressed his forehead against the tree's bark, its chill grounding him.
Somewhere out there, an officer bore a face he could not forget. Somewhere among them, trust was unraveling.
And somewhere ahead, Kael's fire would burn too hot, consuming them all if they weren't careful.
Jamie opened his eyes to the darkness and whispered to himself, as if speaking the words aloud would anchor him:
"I'll survive. No matter what face comes out of the shadows, I'll survive."
But even as he spoke, the memory of those eyes haunted him still.