Dust coated their tongues, and the air was freezing—unsettlingly so. Moments before, Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper and his SEAL team had been in a crumbling compound in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Now, they sprawled across a broad, battered stone floor, ears still ringing from the deafening roar of the vortex that had swallowed them whole.
Jason forced himself upright on an elbow, blinking hard to clear swirling dust. Moonlight—two moons—shone down through a ragged hole in the fortress roof. Flickering torchlight and raging fires bled in from somewhere beyond these walls. A sour tang of smoke hit his nostrils, mingling with something far more alien: a heavy stench of blood and sulfur.
Chief Petty Officer Marcus "Saint" Miller checked on Petty Officer First Class Derek "Hawk" Hawkins, who was coughing out grit a few feet away. Both men were bruised, gear scuffed, but conscious. Marcus stared open-mouthed at the sight of two pale orbs in the sky. "Oh, this is definitely not Helmand anymore," he muttered, voice tight with disbelief.
Gunfire still pounded in Jason's eardrums—a phantom echo of the firefight back home. But no modern muzzle flashes lit the darkness now. Instead, a distant cacophony of snarls, shouts, and clashing steel reverberated through the corridors around them. Jason took a centering breath. Survival first. Questions later.
They still had their rifles—small mercy—but Jason's gut churned as he inventoried their situation: limited ammo, no reinforcements, and zero intel on where—or what—they were now facing. Part of him wanted to scream that this was impossible, that it had to be a dream or a hallucination. Another part, hardened by years of combat, knew better.
"Saint," Jason said low, forcing urgency into his voice, "check for casualties on our side. Hawk—any movement in here?"
Hawkins rose to a knee, rifle at the ready. Though his expression was rattled, he slipped into the familiar discipline of a SEAL. "Not inside," he rasped, scanning their immediate surroundings. "But I hear a fight going on… somewhere close." Indeed, the clang of steel drifted from beyond the half-collapsed walls, and orange light revealed swirling smoke outside.
Marcus knelt beside a still figure in scorched robes—an old man sprawled against toppled stone. He was unconscious but breathing faintly. Blood trickled from a shallow scalp wound. Marcus's gaze flicked uneasily from the man's face to the same swirling glyphs they'd seen back in Afghanistan. "He's alive," Marcus said grimly, "but no telling for how long."
Jason swallowed hard, a thousand questions colliding in his mind. Is this the same kind of magic?Did he summon us—or were we just caught up in something else? He pushed the questions aside. "Get him stable," he ordered, scanning for an exit. One battered portal on the far side looked jammed with rubble; another door hung ajar, leading to a corridor choked with smoke. Either route could lead to safety—or deeper into danger.
A sudden tremor shook the floor beneath their boots, sending dust cascading from overhead. Through a jagged gap in the wall, they glimpsed hulking shapes—greenish creatures clashing with men in dented armor below. Even from here, Jason could tell the defenders were badly outnumbered.
"We can't stay put," Jason said sharply. If the fortress collapsed—or if those creatures turned on them—they'd be trapped like rats in a cage.
Marcus hefted the unconscious robed man onto his shoulder while Derek fell into formation beside Jason, muzzle sweeping the darkness. They moved cautiously toward the corridor door, weapons raised, each man acutely aware that every bullet counted. The mortar-laden blasts and pinned-down fights in Helmand felt like a distant memory compared to this medieval chaos.
The hallway beyond was smoky and dimly lit by sputtering torches jammed into wall sconces. Roars and screams of combat echoed louder here… Halfway down, a massive iron-bound door reinforced with rivets blocked their path. The bar across it was snapped in half; runes or symbols were carved around its frame—the same swirling style from that stone slab in Afghanistan.
Jason's stomach knotted at those glyphs glowing faintly under torchlight. Whatever this is—it's the same power that yanked us here.
Marcus gave the door a cautious push—it held fast against debris or a failing lock—and then glanced at Jason for direction.
Thud! Something slammed against the other side—a guttural growl followed by scraping metal echoed ominously through the corridor.
"They're trying to break through," Derek muttered tensely, nerves raw with adrenaline.
Jason dropped to one knee and began prepping a breaching charge from his pack while Marcus carefully set the unconscious ally behind some rubble. "C4 in place," Jason said quietly after securing it along the hinges. "Ready?"
Marcus braced himself, Derek adjusting his aim toward likely entry points beyond their immediate line of sight.
A muffled crack split the air as Jason detonated the charge; smoke belched into the corridor as hinges splintered under pressure.
Torchlight spilled across a large storeroom littered with toppled crates and splattered gore—and three hulking green-skinned brutes whipped around at the sound of intrusion.
Each wore crude armor; one brandished an axe caked in fresh blood while another hefted an oversized spiked club. They looked even bigger up close than the ones glimpsed below.
The SEALs wasted no time engaging. Derek fired first—pop-pop-pop—dropping one brute mid-charge before it reached their position.
Jason pivoted toward another charging orc; three controlled bursts sent it sprawling backward into shattered crates before it could swing its weapon.
The third dove behind a battered table, trying to flank them from an angle obscured by debris. Marcus swung his rifle up but couldn't get a clean shot while protecting the robed man—Jason adjusted to cover him instead. Pop-pop. The table splintered under fire as their target collapsed, thick blood dripping across the floor.
Smoke drifted heavily through the stillness, punctuated only by labored breathing among the scattered survivors. Broken crates, blood-slick stones, and the acrid smell of gunpowder marked where foes had stood defiant only moments earlier.
Jason exhaled, rifle barrel still hot. "We're clear," he said, though his pulse hammered with the realization that there would be more of these creatures—and that he and his men didn't have an endless supply of ammo.
Marcus moved to check on the unconscious robed man again, worry etched on his face. "He's still breathing," he called over the hiss of dissipating smoke. "But we need to get him somewhere safer."
Derek reloaded, quietly counting each precious bullet. "This place is a damn warzone," he muttered, eyes flicking to the swirling glyphs near the door. "Magic or not, we're stuck in it."
Jason scanned the carnage. Outside, the clash of steel persisted, underscored by guttural roars. "We keep moving," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Stay together, watch corners—and don't waste a single round we don't have to."
He could feel the weight of this impossible situation pressing in. But in the midst of chaos, they were still a team—a SEAL team. And as long as they stuck together, he believed they had a chance of figuring out what in God's name had happened—and how to survive it.
He nodded at Marcus and Derek, then led them onward, deeper into the fortress corridors, rifles at the ready and hearts pounding like war drums.