The morning light filtered softly through the dense canopy, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of gold and green. Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper adjusted his rifle strap as he followed the slender elf deeper into the woods. The elf moved with uncanny grace, his leather boots barely disturbing the mossy ground. Behind Jason, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins and Marcus "Saint" Miller kept pace, scanning silently for any sign of danger.
The robed man they had rescued—a wizard, or so the elves seemed to imply—still clung weakly to Marcus's shoulder, though his eyes remained shut most of the time. A handful of battered knights and peasants followed, their footfalls heavy with exhaustion. Despite the forest's tranquil beauty, every snap of a twig set them on edge.
Jason couldn't shake the tension in his gut. This place felt alive with some kind of magic—subtle vibrations in the air that reminded him of static before a thunderstorm. He brushed sweat from his brow and tried not to think too hard about the twin moons overhead or the swirl of runes that had pulled them into this realm. Right now, the mission was simple: stay alert, protect their people, and figure out where—or how—they were supposed to go next.
"Boss," Derek murmured, voice low but wary. "You trust this guy? He hasn't said a word since we started following him."
Jason exhaled. "We don't have a lot of options. If these elves were hostile, they'd have attacked us already—or led us into an ambush." He paused, glancing at Marcus, who carefully shifted the robed man's weight. "We need intel. If that translator staff can help us talk, maybe we'll finally learn what's going on with Malachar."
Marcus nodded, his gaze roving the tree line for threats. "I'd kill for a proper map right now—or a working comm link," he muttered. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "And more ammo wouldn't hurt either."
The elf guide brought them into a modest clearing—a cluster of huts woven from living branches, nearly camouflaged by thick undergrowth. Additional elves seemed to materialize from the foliage like ghosts, bows in hand. Their eyes flicked warily over the SEALs' black rifles.
At a low command from the guide, the other elves stood down, though they remained watchful. Jason raised a hand in what he hoped was a universal gesture of peace, then tapped his rifle lightly. "We're not here to hurt you," he said, though he doubted they understood his words.
The elf with the staff approached—an older figure with silver hair braided tightly around pointed ears. He eyed Jason's rifle as though it were a slumbering dragon, then slowly activated the crystal atop his staff. Its glow flickered, and the translator—another young elf—winced slightly, bracing himself as if the spell took real effort.
"You… men of thunder… strange power… help fight… Malachar?" the translator managed in heavily accented English, sweat beading on his brow.
Jason didn't lower his guard entirely, but relief washed through him. At least there was some way to communicate. "We don't know who Malachar is yet," he replied carefully, "but if he's behind those orcs that tried to kill us—and you—we're on your side."
The older elf's expression darkened at the mention of orcs. Through the translator's strained efforts, Jason caught fragments: something about "Dark sorcery," "portals," and "Avalion in danger." The old elf gestured at Jason's rifle again and spoke with a tone of mingled hope and worry.
"Your thunder-weapons… strong against orcs… but limited supply?" the translator asked.
Jason grimaced, nodding as he held up an empty magazine to demonstrate. "We can't make more of these here," he explained, trying to convey urgency. "Ammo is finite. Once it's gone, our guns are useless."
A ripple of apprehension went through the elves who were listening. They had witnessed how quickly Jason's team had cut down attacking orcs; now they realized that power had an expiration date.
Marcus stepped forward, carefully lowering the robed man to a spot by the nearest hut. "He's hurt. Can you help him?" he asked, gesturing at the unconscious figure. "If he wakes up, he might have answers about the portal."
The elves conferred softly, then one of their healers—a slender woman carrying a pouch of herbal vials—knelt beside the robed man. She eyed the swirling glyphs on his scorched sleeves, brow furrowing as she recognized the same style of runes rumored to be tied to Malachar's dark arts.
Through the translator staff, the older elf explained that they would attempt to heal him, but it might require time and energy they could scarce afford. Jason thanked them, though the language barrier made sincerity hard to convey.
In halting phrases, the translator relayed that these elves wanted an alliance—that Malachar's sorcery threatened the entire realm, and the arrival of Jason's team might be a sign that Avalion still had hope. "Together… stand against shadow," he concluded, looking exhausted.
Jason exchanged a look with Derek and Marcus. They each shouldered the knowledge that their advanced firepower was both an asset and a ticking clock. "We'll do whatever we can," Jason finally said, voice firm. "But we need information—about this world, about Malachar, about how to get home."
Slowly, the old elf inclined his head. The translator's crystal dimmed, ending the magically bridged conversation for the moment. Around the camp, more elves and a few human refugees gathered to stare at these strange newcomers with their "thunder-weapons." The tension was palpable: hope mingled with fear, as no one knew if modern bullets and medieval swords would be enough to stop the evil overshadowing Avalion.
Night fell softly, a gentle twilight under the two moons. Orb-lamps, hung from branches above, glowed like miniature stars, illuminating the campsite with an ethereal sheen. Jason settled beside a modest fire pit with Derek and Marcus. They watched as elves prepared a makeshift sleeping area for the robed man, weaving branches into a cot and placing it near a small enclosure.
Hawk sipped from a wooden cup of herbal tea, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste. "This place is gorgeous," he muttered, gaze drifting to the luminescent mushrooms sprouting under ancient oaks. "But it feels… fragile."
Marcus nodded, carefully laying out their few remaining rifle magazines. "If we can't find a way to push back Malachar soon, we'll be overrun. And we can't rely on these guns forever. We've already burned through more ammo than I'd like."
Jason stared into the flickering flames. "We'll train these people," he said firmly. "Show them modern tactics, how to set ambushes. Maybe we can share knowledge—whatever they used to treat him"—he jerked his thumb toward the robed man—"could help us if we're wounded."
He looked to where elves silently patrolled the clearing's edge, bows ready. "And in return, they guide us through Avalion," he added. "They have to know the land better than we ever could."
Quiet settled over the group as they contemplated all that lay ahead. The thick forest hummed softly in the background, as though listening to their plans.
Derek broke the silence, raising an eyebrow at the luminescent orb-lamps. "First contact could've gone worse," he said, half-joking. "At least these folks didn't try to shoot us on sight."
Jason gave a short nod, exhaling slowly. "We'll see how it goes when we're fighting side by side." He paused, eyes flicking again to the unconscious robed man. "Something tells me that if he wakes up, we'll get a lot more than we bargained for."
As the camp settled for the night, the two moons shone overhead—silent witnesses to an unlikely alliance forged in desperation. And though no one spoke it aloud, each of them understood this was only the beginning of the real battle yet to come.