The morning mist clung to the forest floor like a veil, curling around moss-covered roots and glowing mushrooms. Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper crouched near a cluster of stones etched with faintly shimmering runes. His rifle rested across his knees, but his attention was fixed on these odd symbols, which gave off a soft glow in the early daylight. They seemed to pulse like a heartbeat—radiating a subtle energy Jason could almost feel in his chest.
Behind him, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins adjusted his helmet and scanned the treeline. "This place is alive," he muttered, voice hushed. "Feels like the air's watching us."
Marcus "Saint" Miller knelt beside Jason, inspecting one of the stones with equal parts curiosity and unease. "You think these runes are tied to that portal we found in Afghanistan?" he asked quietly.
Jason nodded slowly. "They look similar. Same swirling patterns. If Malachar's magic opened that rift, these might be connected to how this whole realm operates."
The robed mage they had rescued from the fortress stirred weakly nearby, propped against a fallen log. Although still pale and feverish, his breathing had steadied thanks to the elves' herbal treatments. An elven healer crouched beside him, murmuring softly in her melodic tongue as she applied another glowing poultice to his wound. Watching her work, Jason couldn't help but think it all looked strangely methodical, almost like a field medic administering advanced first aid—except with shimmering green salve instead of gauze and antibiotics.
The elf leader approached them, translator staff in hand. The crystal atop it glowed faintly, and the young elf who served as translator winced as though the effort drained him. He spoke in halting English:
"Echoes… of magic," he said, sweat beading on his forehead. "These stones… mark leylines… ancient power flows beneath."
Jason frowned, signaling he was listening intently.
"Malachar… twists leylines," the translator continued, voice trembling slightly. "Dark sorcery… disrupts balance. Rift… tangled power… summoned you."
Marcus folded his arms, eyeing the runes warily. "So this energy—these 'leylines'—fuel magic here. And Malachar's hijacking them for… war?"
The translator nodded weakly, then pointed to the robed mage. "He… tried to stop Malachar's rift… but failed. He knows secrets of… rift magic… if he recovers."
Jason glanced at the unconscious man. Questions churned in his mind: Was this the same wizard who'd pulled them in? Or did he just get caught up in Malachar's scheme? Either way, if he held answers, they needed him awake.
"Damn," Derek muttered, crouching beside one of the stones. He tapped its surface with his glove. The runes shimmered faintly under the contact but didn't flare. "Feels like static electricity. You think our gear interferes with it?"
Jason considered for a moment. "Could be why our weapons still work. Mechanical systems might not be as affected by magic as advanced electronics. But we've already seen radios glitch out." He glanced over at Marcus. "We need to stay on top of how many magazines we're burning through, too."
Marcus nodded. "No resupply on the horizon. Another couple of firefights, and we're down to sidearms." The tension in his voice was evident.
Just then, the elf leader spoke again through the translator: "Your thunder-weapons… strong against orcs… but limited supply?" He gestured at Jason's rifle.
Jason nodded grimly. Holding up an empty magazine, he explained, "Once these are gone, that's it. We don't know how to make more here."
The elf's expression darkened at that revelation. Elves and a few human refugees nearby exchanged worried glances; clearly, they had hoped these strange newcomers' "thunder" was limitless.
Marcus attempted a reassuring tone. "We're teaching your people what we can—basic defenses, patrols, how to spot ambushes. But we'll need allies—more soldiers—if we're going to stand against Malachar."
The translator relayed Marcus's words slowly. Murmurs rippled through both elves and human refugees, though some looked heartened by the idea of learning new tactics.
By midday, Jason felt a small sense of accomplishment despite the constant anxiety. The camp was no longer mere survivors but was shaping into a rudimentary defensive force—knights practicing flanking maneuvers, elves learning how to track orcs more systematically, and even a few peasants armed with crude spears.
As dusk fell over the glade, Jason, Derek, and Marcus gathered near a small fire. Elves patrolled silently among the trees, and the robed mage dozed fitfully under a healer's watchful gaze. Occasionally, he murmured something in a language they didn't understand, voice hoarse with fever.
"'Echoes of magic,'" Jason said quietly, staring into the flames. "Leylines fueling spells and rifts. If Malachar corrupts them further, we might see more portals—or worse."
Derek exhaled, gaze shifting to the dark forest. "So there's a clock ticking. He's growing stronger every day, opening new gateways for monsters."
Marcus sipped from a wooden cup of fragrant tea. "We can't just barge in with guns blazing, not when we could be outnumbered and out of ammo. We need a strategy—and maybe some magical backup of our own."
Jason nodded, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. "We find out what this robed man knows, and we unite with whoever else opposes Malachar. It's our best shot at both surviving and finding a way home—if that's even possible."
A hush settled over them as night deepened, broken only by the quiet footfalls of patrolling elves and the distant croak of nocturnal creatures. In that stillness, the faint hum of Avalion's hidden leylines seemed to pulse through the air—a subtle reminder that they were guests in a realm on the brink of darkness.
"Tomorrow," Jason murmured, "we keep pushing. Find out more about Malachar's armies and these leylines. We owe that much to ourselves—and everyone else trapped in this war."
Unspoken, each man wondered whether they truly had enough time and firepower for the battles yet to come. And as the final glow of daylight gave way to the twin moons rising, the forest around them seemed to echo an unspoken promise: in Avalion, magic and war were two sides of the same coin.