The elven meeting hall smelled of cedar and faint incense, its woven skylights allowing dusty beams of sunlight to dapple the floor. Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper, Marcus "Saint" Miller, and Derek "Hawk" Hawkins stood in a respectful half-circle, flanked by the refugees they'd saved from the fortress. Before them, a small gathering of elven elders listened with rapt attention as the robed man—still weary from his injuries—did his best to explain the trio's exploits.
With no common language beyond gestures and the occasional recognized word, the robed man pantomimed the siege: arms raised overhead as if imitating bombs or magic blasts, stumbling around to show how the SEALs had intervened. He finished by pointing to Jason's rifle and mimicking the "thunder" of gunfire. The elders exchanged whispers, their expressions shifting from alarmed curiosity to cautious admiration.
"Think they're buying the highlight reel?" Derek muttered under his breath.
Marcus patted him on the back. "Try not to spook them about the .50 cal. One miracle at a time."
At the head of the elders, the woman who had greeted them—silver hair bound in an intricate braid—lifted a hand. She spoke a gentle command, and from a side alcove stepped a lean, middle-aged elf carrying a slender wooden staff. Intricate runes glowed faintly along its shaft. He inclined his head toward the SEALs, then touched a small gemstone embedded near the top of the staff. The stone pulsed with a soft luminescence.
A tingle rippled through the air, raising goosebumps on Jason's arms. Marcus felt a subtle warmth around his ears, like static pressure. Derek gave a startled shake of his head, mouth hanging open a moment.
"What the—" Derek began, then blinked. "Wait… can you guys understand me?"
The robed man's eyes lit with recognition, though he clearly understood only some of Derek's words. The staff-wielding elf frowned, concentrating. "Effort… is needed. Magic… bridging words… incomplete." His accent was thick and halting, but it was English—or some approximation of it.
Marcus let out a low whistle. "Translation magic. That's new on the resume."
Jason regained his composure quickly. "We appreciate your help," he said, nodding toward the staff-bearer. "We come from… another realm. Not by choice."
The elf elder who bore the staff pursed his lips in thought. "Another world? The robed one—he says you fell from… a great Rift. Like… the fortress attempted… dark summoning? Dark King's ritual?"
"That's exactly what we're trying to figure out," Marcus said, glancing at Jason for permission to continue. "We got pulled through some kind of portal. Ended up in that fortress, shot our way out. Didn't mean to crash your realm. But we're stuck here unless we can find a way home."
The older elf woman, evidently the matriarch or chieftain, spoke softly to the translator. He turned to the SEALs. "We are… called Elarian folk. The forest enclaves stand… threatened by the Dark Lord Malachar." He stumbled over the name, but the air seemed to darken at the mere mention. "It is said he… tampered with forbidden spells. Summoning doom from beyond. Perhaps your arrival is… sign of prophecy."
Derek lifted an eyebrow. "Prophecy? We're not exactly the shining knights in your storybooks, ma'am."
Jason cleared his throat. "Our only goal is to survive—and help these people," he said, gesturing to the refugees. "And if we can stop this Malachar from throwing an orc army at us again, we'll do what we must."
A noticeable ripple of reaction crossed the elven assembly. Some looked heartened; others seemed uncertain, wary of these strange "thunder-warriors." The staff-bearer's gemstone glowed once more, and he said, "The queen… might wish to see you. If… she trusts your strength, we can unite with other free folk. Fight… Malachar's threat."
Marcus met Jason's gaze. "Sounds like we're heading for a bigger stage."
"Bigger than we've seen so far," Jason agreed. "We'd better prepare. We've still got finite ammo and no backup from Earth. Let's hope these alliances can handle orc hordes."
Derek exhaled a tense chuckle. "If not… we improvise, adapt, overcome. Standard operating procedure, right?"
The elder elf chanted softly, dispelling the translation aura. As the glow faded, the forest hush returned. But in that hush, echoes of magic lingered—a subtle resonance that prickled along the SEALs' nerves, reminding them that this world was different. Dangerous. And perhaps on the brink of a war only the strangest of alliances could hope to win.
Outside, the midday sun glinted off swaying treetops. Somewhere beyond, Malachar's armies gathered strength. Here in the elven enclave, the seeds of a fragile pact were sown—modern soldiers and ancient forest-dwellers uniting against the darkness creeping across the land. And for Jason, Marcus, and Derek, that pact might be their one hope of finding a path home… or forging a new destiny in a realm shaped by echoes of magic.