The tower room quaked around them, loose stones clattering down the walls. Through the narrow arrow slits, Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper could see fires raging in the fortress courtyard below. The once-proud ramparts were teeming with orcs, their guttural howls echoing in the night. From somewhere high, a fresh crash shook the tower—another wall must have crumbled under assault.
Marcus "Saint" Miller bent over the wounded robed man in the corner, trying to see if he was conscious enough to move. The man's eyelids fluttered, but his strength was nearly spent. Their small group of freed captives huddled nearby, terrified. The battered fortress was falling fast.
"There's no holding this place," Marcus said grimly, glancing at Jason and Derek "Hawk" Hawkins. "We're about a hot minute from getting pinned under the rubble—or overrun."
Jason's mind raced. The massive stone ring in the center of the chamber—the one that had to be some kind of portal or gateway—stood silent and useless. The robed man had tried to communicate that it wasn't functional. Meanwhile, the swirling Rift that brought them here had vanished.
Derek peered down the spiral staircase. "So, Plan B: We get the hell out? Because I'm fresh out of Plan A, and this tower's about to come down."
One of the freed prisoners, a stocky man in tattered armor, tugged at Jason's sleeve and pointed to a narrow passage on the far side of the tower room—a small postern gate exit leading who-knew-where. Jason nodded. "That's our route."
Marcus slung the robed man's arm over his shoulder, guiding him gently. The man mouthed a few breathless words, gaze flitting between them as if urging them not to abandon the ring. But with orcs beating down the fortress walls, staying was suicide.
"We'll come back for it if we can," Jason said, voice taut. "First, we survive."
Derek led the way down a cramped hallway. The noise of the siege reverberated overhead—crashes, inhuman roars, panicked cries. Thick dust choked the air. Every so often, the ground jolted as if some beast slammed against the ramparts.
When they reached the postern gate—a narrow wooden door half-buried in debris—Derek took point, gave it a shove. It groaned open, revealing a dark tunnel. Moist air wafted up, carrying scents of wet leaves and loamy earth.
"Better than orc breath," Derek muttered, forging ahead.
The tunnel sloped downward, twisting beneath the outer walls. The captives followed in a nervous line, aided by the flicker of a single torch one of them carried. Now and then, stones tumbled from the ceiling, prompting the group to flinch and hurry faster. Finally, after a good hundred yards, the tunnel opened onto a small wooden hatch that, once unbarred, led them into the open night.
Two moons hung overhead, their pale light spilling across a dense forest of towering pines and gnarled oaks. A far cry from the desert where the SEALs had begun their ill-fated mission. The sudden chorus of nocturnal insects hummed all around—alien chirps and warbles.
They emerged into a clearing, inhaling the crisp scent of pine needles and damp moss. The fortress rose behind them on a rocky bluff, half-obscured by drifting smoke and the flicker of flames. Cries and shouts were faint now, distant enough that they weren't immediately pursued. But none of them felt safe.
Marcus eased the robed man down by a mossy log. The poor guy clutched at his side, breathing in ragged spurts. Another captive—a young woman who seemed to know some basic healing—knelt beside him, rummaging through a pouch of herbal poultices.
Jason surveyed the group: maybe a dozen frightened souls, all looking to him and his teammates for guidance. These people spoke not a word of English, but the gratitude in their eyes was unmistakable.
Derek, rifle slung across his chest, stared up at the twin moons. "Man, if my old gaming buddies could see me now. It's official: we're in fantasy land."
Jason gave him a half-smile, though his eyes were grim. "We keep watch. We get these folks sheltered. Then we figure out next steps. We can't ditch them out here, not with orcs roaming around."
"Speaking of," Marcus murmured, scanning the tree line. "No sign of pursuit yet. Either the orcs are busy looting, or they don't know about this escape route."
The robed man coughed, then beckoned Jason closer. Mustering the last of his strength, he managed a few halting words that sounded like "Mal-a-char," while gesturing vaguely at the sky. Jason recognized that name from earlier—the robed man had used it when that terrible wail echoed. Malachar. Possibly the warlord or "Dark King" behind these armies.
A hush fell over the clearing. The only sound was the rustle of branches in the night breeze and the nervous shuffling of the captives. It struck Jason that they'd come full circle: from a war-torn region on Earth to a war-torn fortress in another realm. They might have escaped immediate slaughter, but the danger was far from over.
An Unlikely Refuge
Marcus set down his med kit. "Let's patch up who we can. We should also find water. You see a stream on the way in, Hawk?"
Derek shook his head. "Nah, but the ground's soft. Bet there's a creek somewhere close."
Jason signaled them to form a small perimeter while the captives huddled near the robed man. Two other men in battered armor tried to help keep watch, though their arms trembled from exhaustion.
"We can't stay put indefinitely," Jason said quietly to Marcus and Derek. "Orcs might do a sweep once they realize some prisoners escaped. We have to find a safer spot or link up with any surviving defenders."
Derek swept his flashlight around, the beam slicing through the gloom. "This forest is bigger than anything we saw near the fortress walls. Could be days of trekking."
The robed man, hearing their low voices, lifted his head. He managed an unsteady stand, wobbling for a moment. Then, leaning against a thick branch as a makeshift cane, he gestured deeper into the trees. His expression was resolute, as though telling them, Follow me. We have somewhere to go.
Jason and Marcus shared a look. "He must know about a safe place," Marcus murmured.
"He'd better," Derek added, "'cause I'm not keen on building a log cabin out here."
They gathered the group, moved out into the forest, picking their way through moonlit undergrowth. The robed man led as best he could, determined. Quietly, the other captives formed a ragged line behind the SEALs.
Branches creaked in the wind, casting shifting shadows across the ground. The forest was eerily alive with night creatures. Once or twice, a distant howl made the group freeze. The robed man ushered them forward faster, whispering urgent, calming words to the others.
Eventually, the group's fatigue overwhelmed them. The robed man nearly collapsed, and the battered refugees looked ready to drop. Jason called a halt in a small hollow bordered by thick-trunked evergreens. They had no tents, no comfort, just exhaustion pressing down like a lead weight.
They set a minimal watch rotation, the rest collapsing onto the soft pine needles. Overhead, the double moonlight filtered through branches that seemed to sway in a surreal dance.
Derek and Marcus were the last to settle, checking the perimeter one last time. A swirl of adrenaline still pumped through Derek's veins. "We hopped from an insurgent hideout to a fortress out of some medieval nightmare, and now we're in an enchanted forest."
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "And you're still crackin' jokes. I'd say we're coping just fine—for about five more minutes before we all pass out."
Derek gave a tired laugh. "We'll figure it out. Hell, can't be worse than that time we got pinned by mortar fire in Syria. Right, Grim?"
Jason hovered by the edge of the hollow, scanning the darkness with his rifle across his chest. He didn't answer right away, but eventually he allowed a quiet grunt. "Right. We adapt or die. That's the job."
When at last they stretched out to rest—still in gear, weapons within arm's reach—the hush of the forest loomed, equal parts menacing and strangely peaceful. After the chaos of the fortress, the quiet felt surreal.
Strange Forest Awakening
Dawn, or whatever passed for dawn under two suns and a swirling cosmos, found the trio stirring to the scent of dew and the mild chirrup of alien birds. Jason blinked awake, mind reeling as memory crashed in. They were still here, in this bizarre reality.
Derek sat up with a groan, rolling his neck. "Slept like a rock… on rocks. My back's gonna riot."
Marcus was already checking on the robed man, who dozed against a tree trunk. A brief check of vitals suggested he'd stabilized, though he was still weak. The rest of the captives stirred, exchanging uncertain glances.
But the real shift came when they noticed an elf—or what looked like one—standing a good twenty yards away, partially hidden behind a massive cedar. Tall, lean, with pointed ears peeking from braided hair, the figure watched them intently.
"Uh, guys," Derek breathed, pointing.
Jason's heart kicked up. "Friend or foe, we find out."
But before they could call out, the elven figure vanished back into the trees, silent as a ghost. A second later, a faint birdcall echoed—some sort of signal?
Marcus let out a dry sigh. "Welcome to the dawn, boys. Our forest neighbors just rang the doorbell."
Jason gathered his gear. "Everybody up. Let's see who else wants to say hello in these woods."
So began their first full day in this strange land: the forest bright with a rising pale sun, the robed man still hoping for a path to fix the broken portal, and new, mysterious watchers lurking among the trees. Whatever challenge awaited them next, the SEALs had no choice but to face it head-on—armed, exhausted, and determined to find a way home. But for now, it was just them, a handful of refugees, and a vast unknown forest that promised wonders and perils beyond their wildest reckoning.