Morning's light filtered through the soaring pines, revealing the huddled shapes of the refugees stirring from uneasy sleep. In the heart of the glade, Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper conferred with Marcus "Saint" Miller and Derek "Hawk" Hawkins about the next steps. Both men wore that familiar blend of fatigue and readiness—an all-too-common look for SEALs on extended ops, except these ops involved a realm of elves, orcs, and dark magic.
Nearby, an elf elder and the robed man—still recovering from his injuries—attempted halting conversation in a mix of gestures, partial words, and the occasional phrase from the translator's staff. They agreed that further intelligence was needed about Malachar's forces. The robed man mentioned a distant village to the east, though the word for it remained murky in translation.
"Any sign of the creeper from last night?" Derek asked, eyeing the treeline where the mysterious observer had vanished.
Marcus shook his head. "Not that we can tell. It's too quiet out there."
Jason grunted. "Let's stay alert. If someone's testing our defenses, they'll be back."
At that moment, an elf scout emerged from a brush-covered path near the glade's perimeter, speaking in hurried, urgent tones. The elder's expression darkened. He beckoned the SEALs and pointed deeper into the forest. Through the translator's soft glow, they caught a few words: "Wounded… alone… we bring them."
A few minutes later, the scout returned with a limp figure slung across his shoulders—a skinny, disheveled refugee in torn clothes, clearly not an elf. The scout eased the newcomer onto the ground, and the elves stepped back, letting Marcus and Derek approach with their medical gear. The robed man, sensing a kindred soul, knelt by the stranger's side.
Up close, the newcomer appeared to be a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen. His face was smudged with grime, eyes wild with fear and exhaustion. One side of his shirt was soaked in dried blood, and an ugly scrape ran across his ribs. He flinched at Marcus's outstretched hands, recoiling in panic.
"It's okay," Marcus said gently, using the same calming tone he'd use for wounded civilians back on Earth. "We're here to help." He gestured to his med kit, then his own chest, trying to communicate trust. The boy's breath came in ragged gasps, but eventually he stopped resisting, letting Marcus examine the wound.
Derek knelt on the other side, raising a water canteen to the boy's lips. "Sip, not gulp," he murmured, half to himself. The teen's eyes darted between them and the elves, clearly overwhelmed.
When the robed man placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, the newcomer's eyes flickered with fleeting recognition. He whispered something in a dialect neither the elves nor the SEALs understood fully, but the robed man nodded gravely. Then, in broken words made audible by the translator's staff, the robed man murmured, "Village… burned. Orc raid. Many flee… some taken."
A hush settled over the clearing. It was a painful echo of the fate many refugees had already suffered—caught in Malachar's spreading campaign of terror. The teen's wound, while not mortal, was clearly infected, and Marcus began carefully cleaning it with antiseptic. He also mashed a bit of the elves' herbal salve over the bandage, hoping the combination of modern and arcane remedies would speed recovery.
As the boy drank water and blinked away dizziness, he looked around at the strange assembly: elves in leather and cloaks, three modern soldiers in camouflage, and a scattering of bedraggled villagers. In trembling tones, he repeated a single name—likely his own—though it was hard to catch. The robed man tried to soothe him, repeating the name back with quiet empathy.
Jason exchanged a glance with Derek and Marcus. Another wounded stray. Another life upended by Malachar's advance. They couldn't speak the same language, but they didn't need to. A single glance told them this lone refugee carried only fear, loss, and a flicker of hope that somehow, in this hidden glade, he might find safety.
Marcus finished bandaging the boy's side. "He's lucky to be alive," he said softly. "But if orcs wiped out his village, who knows how many others are in the same boat?"
Jason set his jaw. "All the more reason to gather info. If these raids are spreading, we can't keep sitting here. We have to find a way to protect these people—or help them relocate somewhere safer."
The teen reached out suddenly, grabbing Jason's sleeve with surprising desperation. His eyes shone with gratitude and plea, as if saying, Don't leave me. Jason gently placed a hand over the boy's. "You're safe now," he said, even though he wasn't sure how true that promise could be. Still, it was the best they could offer.
A lone refugee's arrival often portended bigger waves of displaced survivors or fresh threats on the horizon. For the SEALs, it was yet another reminder of how high the stakes were in this war-torn fantasy land. Their mission—unasked for yet undeniable—was clear: protect the vulnerable, rally whatever allies they could, and stand firm against Malachar's onslaught.
The hush in the glade seemed to deepen as the group processed the newcomer's story, told through broken words and silent pain. Another day in this realm, another thread in a tapestry of conflict and hope. And with each life saved, the bond between modern soldiers and embattled fantasy folk grew a little stronger.