Master Caliburn stood atop the ramparts, the wind lashing his robes, as monstrous shapes seethed across the courtyard below. Shadows flickered against the torchlit stone walls of the ancient fortress, revealing snarling orcs and twisted beasts. The clang of steel on steel reverberated through the night. Behind him, a pair of exhausted young mages chanted in quavering voices, clutching rune-inscribed staffs. The reek of blood and brimstone clung to the crumbled battlements.
He pressed both palms flat against the smooth surface of a massive stone altar. Etched across it were lines of glyphs centuries old, lines that glowed faintly in the gloom. Our last chance, he thought, swallowing the dread that threatened to consume him. Avalion's armies had withered, battered to the brink by the Shadow King Malachar. Reinforcements were too far away. The fortress walls were already torn in places, letting the shrieks of orcs echo from within. And so Master Caliburn had made the terrible decision: an untried, forbidden summoning.
He closed his eyes and began to chant. Low, rhythmic words in a tongue that even the oldest elves seldom dared to speak. A swirling pinprick of light flickered above the altar, shifting in color from pale blue to violet, then roiling into something impossibly dark. Sweat beaded on his brow. The orcs poured through the gateway below, capturing or killing any last defenders who stood in their path. He could hear them barking commands in guttural tones, searching for the fortress's leadership—searching for him.
Caliburn forced his voice louder, deeper. Blood pounded in his ears. The swirl of arcane power at the altar's center grew into a ragged portal like a wound in the air. It crackled with electricity. The swirling essence whipped at the mages' robes, rattling the battered iron braziers on the rampart. One of the younger mages gasped, his staff slipping from trembling hands.
In that moment, a savage roar burst from the stairwell. Caliburn glanced over to see three heavily muscled orcs crest the top step, one of them brandishing a crude war-axe still smeared with gore. Their eyes locked on Caliburn and his swirling conjuration, and they bounded toward him with feral snarls.
"Hold them off!" Caliburn cried to the two mages. They nodded fearfully, raising staff and trembling hands. Fire crackled in the air—some half-formed spell intended to keep the orcs at bay.
But their meager effort sputtered almost instantly. The orcs surged forward. A staff shattered. One mage toppled to the ground. Blood stained the rampart stones.
With a trembling breath, Caliburn shifted every last shred of concentration to the portal. The runes around him glowed bright as molten steel, searing the edges of the altar. He had no illusions that he would survive the night. All that mattered was finishing the invocation and summoning a champion—any champion—who might save his people.
He thrust out his arms in final supplication. "Hear me," he roared in the Old Tongue, voice echoing across worlds, "Hear me and answer! By the ancient pacts, by the lifeblood of Avalion, I call upon the RIFT!"
A detonation of light and force slammed across the ramparts. The orcs were hurled backward in a spray of shattered stone. Caliburn's ears rang as the portal ballooned into a twisting maelstrom. For an instant, it flared bright enough to banish all shadows—then the center yawned open, pitch-black as an endless void. Caliburn lurched forward, the wind tugging at his hair and beard. Something, or someone, was coming through.
He had expected shining paladins or maybe a winged war-angel. Perhaps an armored champion of legend, brandishing a flaming sword. Instead, he saw three silhouettes clad in dull, angular garb, shoulders laden with bizarre equipment, weapons unlike anything he'd ever beheld. They stumbled into the fortress keep, adrenaline and confusion etched into every line of their stances. Men of war, but not from Avalion.
The last thing Caliburn registered was the glint of polished steel in the hands of one of the new arrivals—something shaped like a short black staff with a hole at the end. Then darkness washed over him, and he collapsed to the stone floor.
Six Weeks Earlier – Helmand Province, Afghanistan
In a world leagues and centuries removed from Caliburn's doomed fortress, the sun had not yet risen over the desert. Everything was silent in the pre-dawn chill, punctuated only by the hushed scrape of boots and the occasional gust carrying sand across concrete. Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper led the way, weapon at the ready, scanning the perimeter through the emerald tint of his night-vision goggles.
Behind him moved CPO Marcus "Saint" Miller, the team's medic and demolitions man. He was chewing on a piece of gum and brimming with that quiet irreverence that kept the others grounded. Marcus kept glancing left and right, ensuring their flank was secure.
Taking the rear was PO1 Derek "Hawk" Hawkins, sniper and comms specialist. Twenty-something, brash, and occasionally too witty for his own good. He flicked his gaze across rooftops, scanning for sentries. The only sign of motion was a limp washing line, fluttering in the breeze.
They were DEVGRU—Navy SEAL Team 6—on a covert mission to infiltrate a suspected arms cache in an abandoned compound. Their intel suggested insurgents might be stockpiling chemical weapons. The team had performed dozens of night ops in the region, though usually with better backup.
"Saint, you got eyes on that guard tower to the west?" Jason muttered through his mic, voice low.
Marcus paused behind a half-broken wall, the muzzle of his rifle trained at an empty watch post. "Looks deserted. Either these guys are sloppy, or they've booby-trapped the place."
Derek couldn't resist a snort. "Or maybe they're all inside, having a slumber party. S'mores and AK-47s."
Jason's response was as dry as the dust underfoot: "If they hand out graham crackers, Hawkins, you can fill your pockets. But keep your head on a swivel."
They advanced deeper into the compound, stepping over rubble and passing sun-baked walls riddled with bullet holes. Some graffiti scrawled in Arabic hinted at local militant slogans. The tension was tangible.
Rounding a corner, they arrived at a heavy metal door, rusted but still intact. Marcus crouched by the hinges, rummaging through his pack for a small block of C4.
Derek kept watch down the corridor, whispering, "I've got a bad feeling about this. It's too damn quiet."
"That's your spidey-sense talking," Marcus joked, pressing the explosive into place. He attached a detonator with nimble fingers, as if performing a practiced surgery. "Give me five seconds. Then we breach."
"Copy," Jason said. "Let's see what these guys were cooking up in here."
Marcus counted down under his breath. The explosion was crisp, controlled. The door flew inwards with a metal clang. Smoke and dust billowed out in a cloud, leaving the air thick and acrid. Immediately, Jason swept his weapon's sights inside the room.
A flurry of confusion greeted them. Instead of the typical stash of rifles or crates of munitions, they found…stone pillars? Strange, carved objects half-buried in the floor? The space was lit by a single flickering bulb overhead, revealing arcs of bizarre symbols chiseled into the walls.
Derek's voice rose with a note of disbelief: "Am I seeing this right? We got ourselves a discount museum exhibit here, or what?"
Marcus stepped over a small chunk of rubble, scanning for tripwires. "I've been in some weird ops. But this…" He gestured at the tall stone slab in the center of the room. At first glance, it resembled an ancient tombstone, etched with swirling lines. "It's older than my grandma's dining set."
Jason stayed alert. "Heads on a swivel, guys. Intel said chemical shipments. This is way off script, but it could be a front for something."
He edged around the perimeter, tapping the butt of his rifle against the slab. Solid. The faintest hum of air teased at his ears.
Hawkins pointed to an array of symbols near the top. "I can't read that. Looks like some Indiana Jones nonsense."
"Yeah, well, don't touch anything. For all we know, it's rigged with an IED or a nerve gas container," Jason muttered.
Marcus set down his pack near a dusty table, rummaging for a small sensor device that tested for chemical particulates. "Reading's negative for toxins. No radiation spikes either."
Jason peered more closely at the stone. That faint hum grew louder, though no obvious source existed. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle—an intangible sense of being watched.
"This place makes me want a shower," Derek said quietly. "And a beer. Not necessarily in that order."
Marcus snorted. "You always want a shower and a beer. Let me guess, you want a burger too, Hawkins?"
"Hell yeah," Derek whispered back, eyes flicking around. "Double cheeseburger, no pickles."
"Focus," Jason snapped, though a hint of a grin tugged at his mouth. This was how they kept from going crazy—gallows humor.
They pressed on, stepping deeper between the stone pillars. Oddly, the further they went, the cooler the air felt. The overhead bulb flickered again, struggling. Shadows danced across carvings that might have depicted strange beasts, figures in cloaks holding staffs.
Marcus's boots kicked something metallic. A battered assault rifle on the floor, not quite modern, not quite antique. "Whose is this?" he murmured, picking it up. The brand was unrecognizable.
"Could be a custom job," Derek offered, though he sounded unconvinced.
A dull thump-thump-thump rumbled from somewhere below them. Jason raised his fist in a signal to freeze. They listened. The floor vibrated faintly.
"That's not artillery," Marcus whispered. "Feels more like…some kind of generator? Or a subsonic pulse?"
Before Jason could respond, the overhead bulb cut out entirely. For half a second, darkness reigned. Then a harsh violet glow erupted from the largest stone. Lines of energy traced themselves over every swirl and glyph, lighting the chamber in a pulsing pattern.
Derek let out a sharp expletive. "What in the hell is that?"
"Back up," Jason hissed, flicking his NVGs up. The glow was bright enough to see without them. He had the distinct sensation the stone was breathing, as if awakened.
A high-pitched whine rose, building pressure in the room. Dust rained from the ceiling. The swirling patterns coalesced into a spinning vortex near the slab's center. It resembled a shimmering portal of purplish-black energy, its edges crackling like tiny lightning bolts.
"It's a trap, maybe. Some new advanced tech?" Marcus said, eyes wide with alarm.
"Get your asses back!" Jason barked. He pushed Derek toward the door. But as they turned, the ground heaved with a violent tremor that threw them all off-balance.
Concrete buckled. A massive chunk of the ceiling slammed down, blocking the exit. Smoke choked the corridor.
"Shit, we're pinned!" Derek coughed, dropping to one knee.
The swirling energy in front of them expanded in frantic pulses. Loose papers and debris whipped into the air. Marcus shielded his face from the gusts.
Jason tried yanking at the rubble blocking the exit—too heavy. "We gotta find another way out!"
But the only other opening was that swirling mass in the stone slab, flickering ominously. The pressure in the air mounted as if the entire room was about to implode.
"Saint, got any charges left to blast us a path?" Jason asked.
"Used my last block on the door," Marcus yelled, struggling to keep upright in the maelstrom. "We got grenades, but that won't clear this. This place is coming down!"
Derek gritted his teeth, scanning with a flashlight that threatened to be sucked into the vortex. "We either get crushed or we roll the dice with the spooky gateway…"
"Hell of a choice," Marcus said. "Grim, your call."
Jason shot a desperate look at the stone slab. He never believed in superstitions—he was a soldier of flesh, blood, training, and discipline. Yet here it was, an impossible phenomenon. The building quaked, more fragments crashing down.
He clenched his jaw. "Screw it. We do not die in some stinking hole. Move!"
The trio advanced into the swirling breach. The wind howled with a ferocity that threatened to peel their gear right off them. Derek shouted something about this being a messed-up version of "Stargate," but the words were lost in the roar.
In a flash, arcs of purple lightning danced around the SEALs' bodies. The entire compound seemed to vanish. Jason felt as if he'd been yanked through a freezing undertow. His vision went black, and the roar turned silent.
The next moment, they were falling—a short, disorienting drop. They landed hard on cool stone, the impact rattling bones and bruising limbs. Jason coughed, blinking away spots of color.
Gone was the desert. Gone was the stifling heat. All around them, a storm of battle raged. Torchlight and the clash of steel, bestial roars, the tang of blood in the air. High walls loomed. In the sky, two unfamiliar moons glowed, partially obscured by swirling clouds.
Marcus rolled onto his back, wincing. "I didn't sign up for the LSD dimension of The Twilight Zone," he muttered.
Derek clutched his rifle. "Someone explain why that big dude over there has…green skin and tusks?"
Sure enough, an orc—massive, snarling, draped in ragged furs—stood just yards away, having just recovered from a nearby blast. Its eyes flickered between the SEALs and the unconscious mage in robes on the ground.
Jason forced himself to his feet. The adrenaline hammered his senses. "Contact front," he barked, raising his M4.
The orc roared, charging with a heavy war-axe. Jason squeezed the trigger, muzzle flash lighting up the gloom. The orc jerked mid-stride, grotesque confusion flickering across its face as it collapsed under the unstoppable hail of modern gunfire.
Marcus yelped as a second orc sprinted forward. He pivoted to deliver a short burst from his rifle, dropping it with brutal efficiency. The retort of gunshots echoed unnaturally against the fortress walls.
Across the courtyard, shapes scrambled away in terror. Others bellowed war cries, uncertain what manner of new magic had appeared. The swirl of steel, horns, and savage roaring hammered the SEALs' ears.
"Oh, you want some?" Derek snarled under his breath as he braced his sniper rifle against a chunk of rubble. He snapped off a shot that caught another orc mid-torso. "That's what you get for skipping courtesy class."
A scattered cluster of defenders—ragged humans in battered armor—gawked from behind broken barriers. Their wide eyes shone with disbelief, as if they couldn't comprehend the impossible thunder-weapons in the SEALs' hands.
Jason noticed an older man in robes sprawled facedown on the rampart. "Cover me," he ordered, rushing to check the old man's vitals. Next to him lay an ornate staff and battered spellbook.
Marcus and Derek formed a perimeter, picking off orcs that tried to rally. The few that survived retreated in confusion, howling curses in an unfamiliar language.
"Kinda feels like we just crashed a Halloween party," Derek said, adrenaline weaving humor through his words. "Except those costumes are a little too real."
"Focus," Jason snapped—though a faint smirk twitched his mouth. The old man was alive but unresponsive, pulse flickering under Jason's fingertips.
A pitched battle raged below the rampart—some last stand, by the looks of it. The fortress was nearly lost. Fires burned in multiple spots. Corpses of men, orcs, and monstrous creatures littered the cobblestones. The distant crash of a siege engine indicated the gates had already fallen.
Marcus spat dust, then scanned the courtyard. "You're telling me we fell out of the sky into the middle of this?"
Derek exhaled, attempting levity. "Good news: at least we know we're not in Kansas. Bad news: I think we traded terrorists for orcs."
Jason took a grim breath, forcing calm. "We adapt. We overcome. Let's secure the area, find out who or what the hell just happened."
Below them, the fortress keep door burst inward, and half a dozen orcs charged out, slavering for battle. But the defenders, emboldened by the sudden arrival of these thunder-armed strangers, mustered a final rally. They hurled themselves forward with desperate ferocity. Steel clashed, roars reverberated. The orcs were beaten back yet again.
The defenders cheered, though many were badly wounded. Some gaped up at the ramparts—at the three men with uncanny weapons. They shouted in a language the SEALs couldn't understand, but the gratitude was plain on their faces.
Marcus knelt next to the unconscious mage. The old man's eyes fluttered, lips parted in a weak exhale. "He's in pretty bad shape," Marcus said, pressing a hand to the man's forehead. "Feels like a fever. Maybe shock or blood loss."
Derek slung his rifle, scanning for any more immediate threats. "We got hostiles pulling back, but I doubt they'll stay gone. This place is a warzone."
Jason nodded curtly. "We hold here, top of these walls, until we figure out next steps." Then, with that grim calm that earned him his nickname, he added, "And we better hope to God this wizard can tell us how to get home. Because, fellas…we're definitely not on Earth anymore."
Marcus tried to help the old man, rummaging in his med kit for anything that might stabilize him. "Man, next time we get stuck on an op, let's pick the one with air conditioning and door prizes, not swirling death portals."
"Copy that," Derek quipped. "Then again, maybe we'll get hazard pay."
Jason snorted under his breath, then surveyed the chaotic courtyard, the battered defenders, the monstrous corpses. "We figure it out," he said, quieter this time, "just like we always do. We're Team Six. If the devil himself wants to pick a fight, let's remind him we're not a fair matchup."
With that, the three modern warriors braced for a siege in a medieval fortress in a far-flung realm. Unsure of what new horrors or wonders lay beyond the broken gates and blood-soaked courtyard, they did what SEALs do best: survive, adapt, and stand beside each other—no matter what world they found themselves in.
Little did they know, their presence would reshape the fate of Avalion. Nor did they guess how profoundly this realm's magic and war-torn struggles would reshape them in turn.
Far below, an orcish horn bellowed anew. The battered defenders braced. Jason, Marcus, and Derek set their rifles, exchanging a single look that conveyed every bit of the unspoken bond they shared.
They were alone, out of place, and in a conflict not of their choosing. But they had each other—and, for now, that would have to be enough.
They took aim, hearts pounding with the grim excitement that came every time they faced impossible odds. Somewhere beyond the fortress walls, the forces of the Dark Lord Malachar gathered like a storm. And high on the ramparts, Master Caliburn's unconscious form lay as a mysterious key to the swirling Rift that had plucked the SEALs from one warzone and thrust them straight into another.