The last rays of the sun bled across the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of bruised purple and orange. Below them, the forest canopy was a sea of deepening shadows. For three days, they had walked, pushing themselves. The pace was taking its toll.
Leonotis paused, resting his hand against the rough bark of an ancient baobab tree. He watched the others catch up, their exhaustion plain in the slump of their shoulders and the weary drag of their feet. Zombiel stumbled slightly, and Low's hand shot out to steady him, her expression a familiar mask of fierce protectiveness. Jacqueline offered Zombiel a small, tired smile, her own face laced with fatigue.
"We should make camp," Jacqueline said, her voice soft but strained. "Zombiel needs to rest."
"We all do," Low grunted, her eyes scanning the darkening woods around them. "But we're too exposed here. We need to find better cover."
Leonotis pulled a nearly empty water skin from his belt and took a small sip before passing it to Jacqueline. "She's right. And it's not just cover we need." He nodded toward their meager supply packs. "Our water skins are nearly empty. We have maybe one more day of dried meat and stale bread."
Zombiel, who had been quiet, looked up, his voice small. "The bread is gone."
A heavy silence fell over the group, punctuated by the chirping of insects waking for the night. The reality of their situation settled over them, colder than the evening air. They were young, alone, and running out of everything.
It was Low who saw it first. She had climbed a small, rocky outcrop to get a better vantage point, and she suddenly stiffened. "Hold up," she called down, her voice tight. "Over there."
Leonotis and Jacqueline joined her, following her pointing finger. In the distance, nestled in a valley just as the forest began to thin, was a pinprick of light. Then another. Smoke curled lazily into the twilight sky from what looked like a dozen different cookfires. A village.
Hope, fragile and dangerous, flickered in Leonotis's chest. "Food," he breathed. "Water. A place to rest for a night."
"Or a trap," Low countered immediately, her gaze sharp and suspicious. "We don't know who lives there. It could be a bounty hunter outpost."
"We can't assume every person we meet is an enemy," Jacqueline argued gently, though her eyes were also wary. "They're just villagers, Low. Trying to survive, same as us." She glanced meaningfully at Zombiel, who was watching the distant lights with a kind of hollow longing. "We can't keep this pace. He's pushing himself too hard."
Low's jaw tightened. She knew Jacqueline was right. Zombiel's use of fire, even days ago, had left a deep drain on him that sleep and meager rations couldn't fix. But the thought of walking into another unknown danger made her stomach clench. "It's a risk."
"Everything we do is a risk," Leonotis said, his voice firm. He felt the weight of leadership settle on his shoulders, a familiar burden. Pushing on meant they would be weaker tomorrow, easier prey for anything that found them. Turning back was not an option. The village was the only path forward. "We'll be careful. We approach from the woods, watch from the tree line. If anything feels wrong, we leave. Agreed?"
Jacqueline nodded immediately. Low hesitated for a long moment, her gaze flicking between the distant, welcoming lights and Zombiel's tired face. Finally, she gave a short, sharp nod. "Agreed. But I'm going in first."
"We go in together," Leonotis corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument.
With their decision made, a renewed, if tense, energy filled them. They gathered their sparse belongings, their movements quiet and purposeful. With the last of the light fading from the sky, they began the descent toward the village, each step taking them closer to the promise of sanctuary, and further into the unknown shadows that lay in wait.