The trek into the heart of Ourea's jungle chewed them up and spat them out.
The air was thick enough to drown in, heavy with moisture and the sour stink of rot. Every breath tasted like wet leaves and old decay. Vines clawed at their ankles. Roots coiled across the ground like sleeping snakes, waiting to trip the careless. Even the men dragging them along—hardened, armed, used to violence—looked worn down by it.
Sweat soaked their collars. Boots and sneakers sank into dead leaves.
Even their abductors were suffering and grumbling.
Sandro stumbled again.
He'd been lagging for the past hour, small legs trembling, each step slower than the last. The leader finally snapped, muttered a curse, then barked an order.
"Joshua. Carry him."
The teenager groaned but obeyed, hoisting Sandro onto his back like extra baggage.
Maybe it was luck.
Sandro was seven, but he looked five—thin wrists, narrow shoulders, light as a sack of rice. Any heavier and Joshua would've thrown a fit.
