A hush settled over the elven glade as the afternoon sun slipped behind the upper canopy, casting long shadows across the mossy ground. Though this hidden enclave offered a measure of safety, Lt. Jason "Grim" Cooper and his men knew all too well that safety was relative—especially in a war-torn realm where orcs and dark sorcery roamed unchecked.
Jason stood near the edge of the clearing, surveying the tree line. His team had spent the past hour making a quick circuit of the area, taking mental notes on terrain, possible choke points, and vantage spots. In a dense forest, establishing a proper perimeter was tricky—lines of sight were short, and potential ambush points infinite. But that only made it more critical to do things right.
Marcus "Saint" Miller walked over, wiping sweat off his brow. "Dude, you weren't kidding—this forest is thick. Feels like we're on recon in the Pacific Northwest, except the squirrels are probably magical."
Jason's lips twitched. "Any sign of those elves who played peekaboo with us at dawn?"
"Plenty. They're stealthy as ninjas. We saw a few moving through the trees, probably half to keep an eye on us and half to watch for orcs." He paused, scratching his chin. "We found a cluster of fresh tracks heading west—might be from enemy scouts, or could be just wildlife. Hard to say."
Nearby, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins was on one knee, fiddling with a chunk of wood and a short metal stake. He hammered it into the ground, then attached a length of paracord to an improvised tripwire alarm—a few clinking tin scraps he'd scavenged from the elves. "Not exactly top-grade tech," he remarked with a grin, "but if some orc decides to wander in from that side, we'll hear him before he's on top of us."
One of the elves from the morning patrol—tall, lean, wearing a simple leather tunic—approached with cautious curiosity. He watched Derek's "tin can alarm system" with the kind of fascination one might show a complex magic trick. The elf gestured, eyebrows raised, evidently asking what it was for.
Derek mimed an orc creeping up, then tapped the wire with his boot to jangle the tin scraps. The elf gave a short nod of comprehension, a ghost of a smile on his otherwise stoic face. Then he made a few quick gestures, suggesting he had his own method for silent alarms—a net of threads or leaves, perhaps.
The language barrier remained, but the universal soldier's logic was clear: protect the perimeter, guard your people.
While Derek continued rigging improvised alarms, Jason and Marcus converged near a cluster of leafy huts at the glade's boundary. Several elves knelt among wide wooden basins, carefully mixing herbs and ointments for healing. The robed man—still weak but improving—rested under a leafy awning, receiving occasional sips of a pungent herbal brew.
An elven warrior carrying a slender spear approached the SEALs and indicated the tall treetops. She touched her eyes, then the canopy, then mimicked scanning with one hand at her brow.
Jason exhaled, understanding. "She wants watchers in the treetops."
Marcus nodded. "Makes sense. If the orcs come, they'll be heard or spotted from above. We can set up an observation post, maybe use Derek's binos."
The elven warrior, seeing their expressions, gestured for them to follow. She led them to a huge oak, trunk wide as a house, branches easily big enough for a small platform. With lithe grace, she scaled the lower boughs and motioned for them to follow.
Marcus sighed, slinging his rifle across his back. "Gotta love climbing in full kit. Next time, I'm opening a lemonade stand."
Nonetheless, they climbed. The broad branches and a few carefully placed planks formed a rudimentary lookout, concealed by thick foliage. Once the warrior was certain they understood how to step silently and remain hidden, she nodded in approval and slipped back down.
"I'll volunteer for the first watch tonight," Marcus offered. "Anything's better than lying there waiting for orc nightmares."
Jason placed a palm on the ancient bark. "Good vantage. We'll rotate. Let's keep an ear on that tin-can alarm too."
By twilight, the SEALs had helped the elves reinforce half a dozen natural choke points around the glade, using cunning elf-woven barriers and a few modern booby traps. Where a path opened too widely, they piled brush, sharpened stakes, and tripwire triggers that would rattle or clang. No method was foolproof, but the principle remained: slow any intruder, raise the alarm, fight on your own terms.
In the center of the clearing, an elder elf examined a rough sketch Jason had made in the dirt, showing arcs of coverage and patrol routes. Although neither spoke the other's language fluently, they exchanged nods of professional understanding.
Derek returned from one final pass around the perimeter. "No sign of anything suspicious. Even the forest critters are turning in for the night. I heard something that might be a wolf, but it sounded… bigger."
"Don't tell me werewolves exist here," Marcus grumbled, rummaging in his med kit for a final gear check. "I'm already short on silver bullets."
Jason gave a small huff of laughter. "Stay flexible. If we can handle orcs with swords, I'm sure we'll figure out hairy wolfmen."
Their banter drew curious stares from an elf who recognized none of the words but sensed their camaraderie. Sometimes humor was all that kept them tethered to the reality of being so far from home.
As night fell fully, the glade took on a soft glow under the dual moons. Elven lamps—small orbs that shimmered with an inner light—hung from branches, providing gentle illumination without the harsh flicker of flame. The refugees found places to rest near communal fire pits, sharing humble meals of roasted roots and foraged berries. The robed man drifted in and out of a healing doze, overseen by the enclave's resident menders.
Jason, perched at the edge of the glade, felt a pang of surreal awe. This place was beautiful in a way he'd never experienced: living huts, softly glowing lanterns, the hush of leaves, and an undercurrent of magic that prickled his senses. Yet the memory of the fortress's flames was still fresh. The orcs out there wouldn't be content to let pockets of resistance stand.
He sensed movement behind him—Derek, creeping up with practiced stealth. "Everything set, boss. I've got the western flank. Marcus said he'll do the tree nest for the next couple hours. You might want to crash at some point."
Jason's nod was slow. "In a bit." He paused, exhaling. "Still can't believe we're here. If you told me yesterday I'd be forging alliances with elves, I'd have told you to lay off the psychedelics."
Derek's grin was half-hidden by the darkness. "Yeah, well. At least we got each other. And some pointy-eared archers who can vanish in the trees. That's better than nothing."
The two shared a rare, unspoken moment of gratitude—gratitude that, even in a foreign world of magic and medieval war, the DEVGRU brotherhood was intact.
"Alright," Jason said, slipping back into command mode. "Let's keep the perimeter tight. If anything bigger than a mouse crosses our lines, we want to know."
Derek saluted in jest, then slipped off into the forest gloom.
Atop the massive oak, Marcus settled into a small wooden platform. The canopy rustled gently in the breeze, revealing glints of starlight. He glanced through his binoculars—a ridiculous anachronism in this setting, but invaluable. He scanned the dark treetops, half expecting to see glowing eyes or the silhouette of an orc war party. But for now, it was just an expanse of stillness.
"Just like a weird cross between a sniper nest and a tree fort," he muttered wryly, leaning back against the trunk. The thought almost made him laugh—operators turned fairy-tale watchmen.
But the humor faded as he thought about the day's events: the brutal fortress siege, the robed man's plea for help, the frightened refugees trusting them with their lives. They might've put some basic perimeter defenses in place, but if Malachar's forces came in strength… well, magic or not, this small elven enclave would be hard-pressed to survive.
Marcus shifted, checking his rifle one more time. The orchard-sweet scent of the night air mingled with the faint tang of gun oil. His mind flicked to thoughts of home—his wife's face, his kid's laugh. A dull ache of homesickness settled in his chest.
Yet here was where he and his brothers were needed. And until they found a way back, they'd do their damnedest to keep these people safe.
So, as the night deepened and the forest hush enveloped them, the SEALs and their new allies kept watch under twin moons—each side learning to trust the other in silent vigil. Their fragile perimeter was no iron fortress, but it was a start. A promise that even in a strange land of magic and menace, the resolute spirit of trained operators could carve out a foothold of safety.
And for now, that was enough.