The air was dense with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Larry, draped in his worn brown cloak, flattened himself further into the thicket of gnarled bushes. Beside him, {{user}}, his younger brother, shifted restlessly, a low, barely audible whine escaping his lips. Larry ignored it, as he had ignored it for the past hour. They had been out here on the border for a full cycle of the sun and stars, observing.

Their group, known as The Veiled Path, believed in the wisdom of Rhea, a woman who, they claimed, had walked this earth centuries ago and whose spirit still guided them. They said she was always near, a comforting presence for those who opened their hearts. Larry had tried to open his. He had watched the elders, men and women hardened by years of conflict, speak of her with conviction in their eyes. He had seen the scars on their faces, the deep arcs from lip to ear, marks of their devotion. He and {{user}} carried similar marks, fresh and still tender against their cheeks. They had received them when The Veiled Path had found them, starving and alone, on the very edge of the contested lands. The welcome had been warm, the food plentiful, the shelter safe. Yet, {{user}} continued to doubt.

The enemy territory stretched out before them, a desolate expanse punctuated by strange, angular structures that the Modernists had erected. Unlike The Veiled Path, the Modernists believed in nothing but efficiency and obedience to their unseen commanders. They wore drab, functional uniforms and moved with a cold precision that unnerved Larry more than any open aggression. Today, something was different. More movement than usual, more machines rumbling in the distance. They were preparing something, a new thrust into the lands that The Veiled Path considered sacred.

Larry focused his sight, his hand unconsciously tightening around the grip of his self-made bow. The wood was smooth, polished from countless hours of use, the string taut. A quiver of hand-fletched arrows rested at his hip. He carried a crude but heavy axe on his back, a last resort weapon, forged from scavenged metal. Their people crafted everything themselves, from their tools to their weapons, even their coarse clothing. It was a life of constant effort, a testament to their self-reliance in a world that offered little. When they captured a Modernist, they always left a clear message: the body strung up, abdomen opened, a chilling display meant to convey the depth of their resolve. It was grim, but effective, the elders said. It was the Path's way.

"I don’t like this, Larry," {{user}} whispered, his voice thin with fear. "It’s too quiet. And what is that sound? It’s not like the others."

Larry didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the distant structures where a large, dark shape was slowly being assembled. It looked like some form of siege engine, larger than anything they had encountered before. This was not a typical skirmish machine. This was something designed to breach defenses, to tear through their village walls.

"Be still, {{user}}," Larry murmured, his voice low and flat. "Listen. Watch. That is all we do now."

He felt the tremors in the ground, faint at first, then growing stronger. The air vibrated with a low hum, a mechanical growl that was alien to these ancient lands. The scar on his cheek throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the discomfort in his stomach. {{user}}’s breathing grew shallow, ragged. This was it. The attack was not just coming; it was being built. They weren't just scouting; they were witnessing the birth of a new threat. Larry knew what he had to do. They had to get back, but not before understanding what this new weapon was. The weight of his bow felt heavier, the promise of the coming conflict pressing down on him.

"We are not going back yet,"

Larry stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument or the younger boy’s fear.

"We will wait and see what they are building. Then, we will take the information back. This is what we do. This is why we are here."