The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the dense canopy, its golden rays struggling to pierce the mist clinging to the forest floor. Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper stirred from his makeshift shelter—a lean-to of woven branches the elves had helped construct. Even in the subdued light, tension coiled in his gut as memories of the unseen observer from last night gnawed at him.
Nearby, Derek "Hawk" Hawkins stood by the perimeter, rechecking the tripwires they had placed around the camp. Marcus "Saint" Miller knelt beside the robed mage, adjusting a bandage around the man's shoulder. A handful of battered knights and peasants hovered near the central fire, their faces drawn and anxious.
Jason stretched his stiff shoulders and walked over to Derek. "Anything tripped overnight?" he asked, voice low.
Derek shook his head. "Nothing. But I swear something was out there, just beyond the trees. Could be the same creep from last night."
Jason nodded grimly, his own eyes flicking warily over the treeline. "We keep watch. If that thing's still prowling, we'll spot it eventually."
A sudden commotion erupted from the eastern edge of camp. An elf patrol shouted in alarm as a figure stumbled from the underbrush, collapsing against a mossy boulder. Elven rangers converged, bows drawn—but quickly lowered them upon seeing who it was: a ragged man, half-starved and bleeding.
Jason and Derek hurried over, rifles at low ready. Marcus came rushing after them, already sizing up the man's injuries from a distance. The elves parted, allowing the SEALs to approach. The stranger's tunic was crusted with dried blood, and he clutched his side as though nursing a deep wound.
Marcus knelt beside him and offered a canteen. "Easy," he said softly, though he knew there was a language barrier. The man grabbed it with shaking hands, gulping desperately as though he hadn't seen water in days.
Jason tapped an elf scout on the shoulder. "Translator staff. Hurry," he urged, gesturing toward the battered refugee. The elf nodded and sprinted into the camp to fetch it.
The man's wide, fearful eyes darted between Jason's modern gear and the elves' bows, as if he scarcely believed what he was seeing. He tried to speak, but only ragged syllables emerged.
Marcus examined the cuts along his arms and legs, wincing at the sight of an infected gash on his shoulder. "He's in bad shape," Marcus muttered. "We'll need antiseptic—and maybe more of that herbal stuff the elves use."
Jason looked around, noticing how even the knights and peasants gave the stranger a wide berth. Fear of disease, fear of orcs—it all mingled in the camp's tense air.
An elf arrived with the translator staff, bracing himself as he activated the faintly glowing crystal. Sweat beaded on his brow from the magical exertion. He nodded for the man to speak.
Between gasps, the wounded refugee babbled frantically in his native tongue, gesturing eastward. His words came in desperate bursts; even the translator struggled, brow creased with strain.
"Orcs… raided… village… burned homes… took people," the translator relayed haltingly. "He… hid… ran… separated from family."
The man's eyes shone with tears as he pointed again east. Jason exchanged a look with Derek and Marcus, each feeling that familiar churn of anger and resolve. Malachar's forces had pushed deeper than they realized.
The translator continued with difficulty. "He says… many survivors scattered. Some captured… others… killed. He… begs for aid."
When Marcus motioned to examine the man's wounds, the stranger let out a sob, clutching Marcus's arm in gratitude. Jason's gut tightened. Another destroyed village, more innocent people caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't understand—and now, apparently, these orcs were fanning out, hitting remote areas.
"We can't leave them behind," Derek said quietly, echoing Jason's own thoughts.
Marcus applied antibiotic ointment to the infected shoulder, ignoring the man's whimpers. "I'll stabilize him. But what about the rest of his village?"
Jason set his jaw. "We need intel—where exactly is this place, how many orcs, how many survivors."
The translator listened as the man spoke again, tears trailing down his dirty cheeks. "He says… a day's walk… maybe less, if you know the forest paths."
Jason nodded, addressing Marcus and Derek: "Gear up. We'll take a small team—elves who know the terrain. We scout first, see if there's anyone to save."
The translator sagged under the toll of the spell, letting the crystal's glow fade. Elven healers stepped forward, guiding the wounded refugee to a makeshift bed near the robed mage. Even in his delirium, the man seemed relieved just to find safety.
Within the hour, Jason conferred with the elf leader. Through broken phrases and occasional translator help, they hashed out a plan: Jason, Derek, and Marcus would accompany three of the most skilled elven rangers eastward. They'd scout the ruined village, verify any survivors, and decide if a rescue was possible.
"Time is short," Jason said, zipping up his vest. "Orcs could still be there, rounding up prisoners—or they might move on to the next village."
Marcus glanced at their supply of rifle magazines, swallowing hard at the dismal count. "We can't risk a major engagement," he reminded Jason. "We don't have enough bullets if there's a full platoon of orcs."
"Then we make do," Jason said grimly. "We'll be in and out before they know we're there, if all goes well."
An undercurrent of fear ran through the camp as they prepared to leave. Some knights wanted to join the mission, but many were still too injured or lacked the stamina for a forced march. The elves scouted routes and reported minimal orc activity, but the forest was vast, and orcs could appear anywhere.
Before departing, Marcus checked on the robed mage. He was still feverish, but his breathing had steadied thanks to the healers' diligent care. That potential key to Malachar's dark magic lay silent and helpless—while more villages were torched, more people enslaved or killed.
Derek met Jason's gaze, shouldering his rifle. "Ready?"
Jason nodded, sparing a quick glance at the ragged man now sleeping restlessly beside the robed mage. "Let's move," he ordered. "Stay close, keep quiet, and keep an eye out. We find out what's happening—then we see if we can do something about it."
And so, under the pale morning sky, a small squad of modern soldiers and elven rangers slipped eastward, their footsteps muffled on the soft forest floor. Each carried the weight of knowing that for every village they might save, countless others were already lost—casualties of a growing darkness that threatened all of Avalion.