The morning fog hung thick in the glade, curling around woven huts and glowing orb-lamps that dotted the elven camp. Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper adjusted his rifle strap as he surveyed the perimeter. The forest beyond was eerily quiet, but Jason knew better than to trust its stillness. Somewhere out there, orcs—or worse—were likely prowling.
Nearby, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins crouched beside a mossy stump, tying off a length of paracord to a stake hammered into the ground. He'd rigged a series of tripwires around the camp's edges, each connected to scraps of metal that would clatter loudly if disturbed. It wasn't sophisticated, but it was effective.
"Not exactly high-tech," Derek muttered as he tested the tension on one wire, "but it'll let us know if something bigger than a squirrel crosses it."
Jason nodded. "It's better than nothing. These woods are too dense for clear sightlines—we need every advantage."
Marcus "Saint" Miller approached from the center of the glade, where he'd been tending to the robed mage they had carried away from the fortress. Though still weak, the man had regained enough strength to sip herbal tea offered by elven healers. Marcus wiped his hands on his fatigues as he joined them.
"He's stable for now," Marcus said quietly. "But he drifts in and out. Whatever spell hammered him back at the fortress, it's not letting go easily."
Jason frowned but didn't reply immediately. His gaze swept the perimeter again. The forest felt alive—glowing mushrooms pulsed faintly near tree roots, and insects hummed in strangely rhythmic patterns. He tried to ignore the knot of anxiety in his gut that warned they might be under watch.
An elf stepped silently out of the underbrush—a tall figure with sharp features and a curved bow slung across his back. He paused to study Derek's tripwire setup, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Jason raised a hand in greeting and gestured toward the wire. "Traps," he explained, tapping his ear in a universal sign of 'listen.' "For warning if orcs come."
The elf nodded in understanding, murmuring something in his melodic language before pressing a hand to his chest—a gesture Jason interpreted as volunteering to help patrol. With that, the elf melted back into the trees like a ghost.
"They move like wraiths," Derek muttered, watching him vanish. "You only see them when they want to be seen."
Marcus smirked faintly but didn't comment as he knelt to tie off another tripwire near a cluster of boulders forming a natural choke point.
For hours, they worked methodically around the glade's perimeter, identifying weak spots and reinforcing them with makeshift alarms. The elves' natural stealth and woodland experience complemented the SEALs' tactical sense. Rangers perched high in branches for a birds-eye view, while knights-turned-refugees guarded openings at ground level with new vigilance.
By midday, Jason felt marginally more confident in their defenses. The camp wasn't impenetrable—far from it—but it was better than before.
When they returned to the center of the glade, Jason spotted the older elf leader approaching with the translator staff. The young elf acting as translator looked pale, clearly drained by the demands of sustaining the bridging spell. Still, he activated the crystal, managing to speak with halting English.
"You… set defenses? We… grateful," the elf leader said through him.
Jason inclined his head respectfully. "The camp's vulnerable if orcs find us," he replied. "We're doing what we can."
The elf leader nodded, then gestured to the rifles. Through the translator, he asked, "Your thunder weapons… strong but… limited?"
Jason grimaced, holding up an empty magazine. "We only have so many bullets," he said plainly. "When they're gone, these are just sticks."
The elf leader's expression turned grave. Whether he fully understood or simply caught Jason's tone, the implication was clear.
Marcus stepped forward, adding, "We're training your people in defense—patrols, spotting ambushes—but we'll need more allies to hold this place if Malachar's armies push farther."
The translator relayed his words slowly, eliciting murmurs from the elves and human refugees. Despite their fatigue and fear, a thread of determination wove through the camp: They had survived one onslaught; perhaps they could endure more.
That afternoon, Jason led a small training session with some of the more able-bodied survivors—knights who had escaped the fortress, elves eager to learn new tactics, and even a couple of peasants willing to stand guard. Using gestures and the occasionally flickering help of the translator staff, Jason demonstrated how to move silently through dense underbrush and signal directions without shouting.
Derek instructed them in rigging simple alarm traps, showing which scrap metals clanged loudest. Marcus conducted a brief first-aid lesson for battlefield wounds, relying on both modern triage principles and elven herbal remedies. Everyone listened closely; they had all seen what happened when defenses collapsed.
By evening, the camp felt less like a ragtag group of survivors and more like an emerging unit. Elves handed out bowls of stew and flasks of herbal tea, while knights patrolled with torches and rudimentary body armor. Human peasants, once cowering near the fires, now carried spears or crossbows—old weapons, but in this world, still deadly if used right.
As dusk settled under the two moons, orb-lamps flickered throughout the glade like miniature stars suspended among the branches. Tripwires gleamed faintly in their glow—a fragile line of defense against whatever horrors lurked in Avalion's darkness.
Jason settled near the central fire with Derek and Marcus while elves maintained a quiet watch. Nearby, the robed mage slept fitfully under a healer's care. Though still unconscious, he occasionally murmured in some unknown tongue. Every so often, the pulsing glyphs on his singed robe appeared to shimmer.
"This place feels like it's holding its breath," Derek murmured, sipping a wooden cup of tea an elf had offered. The taste was earthy, with a hint of mint. "Like any minute, something's gonna rip it apart."
Marcus nodded grimly. "If orcs decide to come calling tonight, we'll see if these tripwires hold up."
Jason stared into the flames, letting the pop of burning wood fill the silence. "We've done all we can for now—built defenses, trained them. But it's not enough in the long run." He glanced toward where refugees huddled under makeshift shelters of branches and woven leaves. "If Malachar keeps sending monsters, we're going to need support. More troops, more intel on his tactics—hell, maybe even magic of our own."
Derek set down his cup and rubbed tired eyes. "We can't rely on bullets forever."
In the hush that followed, a distant howl echoed through the trees—perhaps just an animal, or maybe something more sinister. The elves on patrol tensed, bows at the ready.
For now, this glade was a small bastion of safety in Avalion's ever-growing darkness. Jason knew it couldn't hold forever. But tonight, at least, they had each other, a few defenses, and an ember of hope that might spark into something greater.
Survival was the first step—and from survival, perhaps, they could shape a true resistance.