By late morning, the rocky coastline emerged from the haze. The small boat bobbed cautiously toward the shore, waves lapping softly but unpredictably. Soufiane's stance was steady, muscles tensed and eyes sharp. Though his frame was robust rather than muscular, every motion betrayed the reflexes of someone trained in combat. He guided the boat with careful precision, aware that one misstep could spell disaster.
Amal adjusted their supplies, keeping her athletic yet slightly rounded body balanced against the rocking of the vessel. Meriem followed silently, her gaze flicking nervously between the water and the distant rocks.
A flicker of movement along the shoreline caught Soufiane's attention. Shadows shifted, figures armed with makeshift weapons. His dark eyes narrowed. He stepped forward deliberately, exuding calm and authority shaped by the streets of Hay-Mohammadi and years of fighting.
"We mean no harm," he said, voice steady and firm. "We seek safety… and passage north."
Amal and Meriem stayed low, alert, ready to react. Soufiane's gaze brushed his tattoo of Younes, and he felt the familiar surge of protective determination. The figures hesitated, then one stepped forward, reading the silent message inked on his arm.
"Your son?" the man asked cautiously.
Soufiane nodded. "He's why I survive. Everything I do, everything I fight for, is because of him."
A tense silence followed, then the leader lowered his weapon slightly. "Fine. But beware—this coast is dangerous. Not everyone here is human… or sane."
Soufiane exhaled slowly, muscles relaxing just slightly. Amal placed a reassuring hand on his arm, while Meriem absorbed the lesson: the world was harsh, but their strength, determination, and the love for those they had left would guide them.