When dawn slid through the tangled emerald canopy of the Ourea jungle, it didn't arrive gently. It cut through the dark like a blade, thin shafts of gold slicing into the second-floor room where Amante stood motionless.
The jungle outside hummed—thick, alive, unforgiving.
Inside, the air felt heavier.
He swept the room again.
No blood. No overturned furniture. No bullet holes.
Just a single pillow lying on the floor like it had been knocked loose in a hurry.
Too clean.
Amante's jaw tightened. His boots thudded against the wooden planks as he paced once more, eyes sharp, mind racing. This wasn't a chaotic grab. This wasn't amateurs. Whoever had come through here moved like ghosts—silent, surgical, disciplined.
He stepped out into the early morning mist and walked toward the hut where the hostages had been kept the night before.
The deputy leader trailed beside him, face tight, hand hovering near his weapon. Around them, rebels whispered in low, nervous murmurs.
