Élodie couldn't bring herself to look back. Luc's body had been left behind, his life hanging by a thread, but the war had no mercy. Henri's grip on her arm was iron-tight as they ran through the forest, the sound of distant gunfire fading with every step.
The convoy was in sight—shrouded in the rising smoke from the battle, the trucks lumbering forward, their wheels kicking up dirt. She could feel her pulse hammering in her throat, the fear gnawing at her insides, a constant reminder that survival meant sacrifice.
"Élodie, stay focused," Henri's voice sliced through the chaos. His eyes were sharp, his features drawn tight with the weight of command. But his words didn't reach her completely. The image of Luc's fallen form haunted her every step.
They reached the trucks just as the last few Resistance members climbed aboard. She barely heard the shouted orders, the scuffle of boots, the clatter of weapons. Henri pushed her toward the rear of the convoy, his face grim, his hand still holding hers with an urgency that bordered on desperation.
"We can't afford to slow down. Not now," Henri said, his voice low, his breath ragged.
Élodie nodded, too numb to argue, and climbed onto the back of the truck. Her mind was a whirlwind, her thoughts tangled in the smoke of battle, in the fear of what might happen next.
As the truck lurched forward, Élodie looked back over her shoulder. The village of Saint-Céleste, the place that had been both refuge and cage, was now receding into the distance. A flash of something—someone—moved near the edges of the forest, but it was gone before she could make out the shape.
She turned away, sinking into the truck's dark interior.
Henri took a seat beside her, his eyes watching her with a quiet intensity. They had both been through so much, had seen the ugly face of war and survival, yet here they were again—fighting, running, not knowing where the end would be.
"Élodie," Henri's voice broke through her thoughts, rough with unspoken emotions. "You did what you had to do back there. You fought with everything you had."
She glanced at him, his face shadowed in the dim light. "But Luc…" Her voice cracked. "He's still out there. I couldn't save him."
Henri's expression softened for a moment, but only for a moment. "The war doesn't give us the luxury of saving everyone. We make choices. And we live with them."
The truck lurched over another bump, sending Élodie's stomach into a spin. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push the images of Luc's fallen body from her mind, trying to focus on the present.
The convoy was heading into the Pyrenees, toward a secret Resistance stronghold, a place hidden from the Gestapo's watchful eyes. It was their last chance for regrouping—perhaps even their only chance to continue the fight. But the road ahead was fraught with dangers of its own, and Élodie couldn't shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.
The truck rattled over the uneven road, and Élodie settled back against the wood of the truck bed, staring up at the darkening sky. The stars were barely visible through the haze of smoke and clouds. It felt as if the whole world were on the brink of collapse, teetering between light and darkness, life and death.
Henri leaned back, his gaze never leaving her. "We'll keep fighting," he said, the words heavy with resolve. "We won't let them win. We owe it to those who've fallen."
Élodie nodded, her heart still twisted in grief. But Henri was right. They had no choice. The fight would continue.
As the truck jolted forward into the night, Élodie closed her eyes once more. The battle was far from over. But so too was the fight within her—the fight for what was left of her own soul, caught between the brutal demands of the Resistance and the ghosts of the love she had lost.