The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dense canopy, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Lieutenant Jason "Grim" Cooper crouched behind a fallen log near the edge of the glade, his M4 rifle steady in his hands. The woods were unnervingly quiet, save for an occasional rustle of leaves. Somewhere out there, orcs were closing in.
Derek "Hawk" Hawkins knelt a few feet away, his rifle trained on a narrow path leading into the clearing. His gaze darted between the treeline and the tripwires they had rigged earlier, tension etched into his features. "Think they've spotted us yet?" he murmured.
Jason shook his head. "Not yet. But they're close."
Elven scouts had returned moments ago with news that a small band of orcs was approaching from the east. Now, they'd melted back into the shadows, bows at the ready, leaving Jason and his team to brace for their first real confrontation since establishing a foothold in this strange realm.
Behind them, Marcus "Saint" Miller supervised a group of battered knights and refugees who had taken shelter in the glade. Those who could still fight were armed with salvaged orcish weapons; others prepared to retreat deeper into the forest if things went bad. Marcus glanced over at Jason, then at the meager stack of rifle magazines—none of which were anywhere near full.
"We'll manage," Jason had told Marcus earlier, voice tight. "Just no spraying and praying."
Now, Jason adjusted his position, scanning the treeline through his rifle's optics. The forest felt electric with tension, each dark shape a potential threat. "Stay sharp," he said softly to Derek. "We don't know how many."
A faint rustling broke the still air—a sound too deliberate to be the wind. Jason held up a clenched fist, signaling Derek to freeze. Moments later, hulking figures emerged from the underbrush: orcs, greenish skin and crude armor pieced together from bone and rusted steel.
Jason counted six. Their guttural voices carried through the silence as one—a massive brute wielding a rusted axe—barked an order. The others spread out, scanning the glade warily.
"They're looking for us," Derek whispered, grip tightening on his rifle.
Jason nodded grimly. "Wait for my signal."
Cautious, the orcs moved closer to the edge of the glade, weapons at the ready. One stepped into a tripwire rigged with scraps of metal. The faint clink-ting! made them freeze. The lead orc snarled and raised its axe, searching for the ambush it knew must be there.
"Now," Jason said quietly.
The first shot thundered across the clearing. Derek fired a controlled burst that struck an orc square in the chest. The creature staggered, letting out a guttural bellow before collapsing. Jason followed up, dropping another with two precise rounds to the torso. The remaining four roared in confusion, frantically trying to locate their hidden assailants.
An arrow whistled from an elven scout perched in a nearby tree, burying itself in one orc's shoulder. Wounded but enraged, it charged toward the undergrowth. Derek squeezed his trigger again—pop-pop-pop—and the orc crumpled mid-lunge.
The last two orcs hesitated, clearly unnerved by these loud, deadly "thunder-weapons." One turned to flee but was dropped by another swift elven arrow. The final brute—a head taller than the rest—let out a furious roar and charged straight for Jason's position with its axe raised.
Jason waited until the creature was nearly on top of him before firing a single well-aimed shot. The orc collapsed just feet away from his cover, the axe clattering on the mossy ground.
The skirmish ended as abruptly as it began. Smoke drifted lazily from Jason's rifle barrel as he scanned for any remaining threats. Fallen orcs lay scattered, crude armor and weapons glinting dully in the forest light.
Derek exhaled, lowering his rifle but staying alert. "That was… intense."
Jason nodded, adrenaline still hammering. "Eyes open. Could be more."
From deeper within the glade came shouts and clashing steel—another group of orcs, circling around, had stumbled upon Marcus and his defenders near the campfire.
"Saint!" Jason barked into his comm, knowing the magical interference sometimes garbled signals. He vaulted over the fallen log, Derek right behind him, sprinting toward the commotion.
By the time they reached Marcus, the fight was winding down. Marcus stood among several knights who had rallied at his side. Two more orcs lay sprawled, one riddled with bullet wounds, the other impaled by multiple blades. A couple of knights nursed minor cuts, but none looked seriously injured.
"We're good," Marcus reported breathlessly, reloading his rifle with a practiced motion. "Couple of close calls, but we held."
Jason surveyed the scene and nodded. "Nice work."
Elves and human survivors began to emerge from their hiding spots in the glade, eyes wide with a mix of awe and relief as they took in the aftermath. One battered knight approached Jason hesitantly, gesturing at the rifle and speaking excitedly in Avalion's native tongue. Though Jason couldn't parse the words without a translator, he recognized gratitude and amazement. He offered a curt nod in acknowledgment.
Later that evening, once the fallen orcs had been hauled away by elven rangers—to be burned far from camp as a precaution—Jason sat near a makeshift shelter with Derek and Marcus. A small fire crackled at their feet. The tension hung thick even in victory; each of them kept one eye on the forest's edge, mindful that this skirmish might only be the beginning.
"That wasn't just a fight," Marcus said, wiping down his rifle. "That was a message."
Jason swirled the dregs of water in his canteen. "Yeah—now the orcs know we aren't easy prey."
Derek smirked slightly, though he didn't look up from his half-empty magazine. "Let's hope they don't send bigger hitters next time. We're already low on ammo."
Jason's gaze drifted to where a group of refugees crouched near the main fire, guarded by watchful elves. He knew today's victory was temporary. Malachar's forces would regroup—maybe in greater numbers or with deadlier creatures. But for now, the glade stood defended.
He inhaled slowly, forcing down the knot of anxiety that came with every bullet spent. "We'll adapt," he said, voice firm despite his doubts. "We always do."
And though no one voiced it, each of them understood that if the orcs returned with more troops—or if Malachar unleashed something worse—modern thunder-weapons alone might not be enough.