Elias stood at the factory’s gate, its vast bulk a shadow over the dawn. The maes’ hum struck deep—a relentless pulse, no kin to the workshop’s song. This was no craft’s home; it was a fe of steel and haste, cold as the that drew him here. His hands, once sure, faltered at its threshold.

  Mr. Phelps, the overseer, loomed sharp—eyes keen, voice a sh. “You’ll tend the the,” he barked, cutting through the din. “Match the rest—quick.”

  Elias nodded, bile sharp in his throat, pride a weight he’d not shed. The shop was gone—sold for bread—and here he stood, a strao his own skin. The the snarled, gears gnashing like teeth, and he fed it wood—its shape born swift, a twin to tless more. No care lived here, only the of iron will.

  Workers moved around him, shadows of men—eyes bnk, hands deft from rote. Elias watched, a chill in his gut—would he fade to this, a cog in their grind? He thought of his father, his growl at haste—dead now, spared this cage. Could he bear it, where skill was naught?

  The the spuless, each turn a theft of his breath. His hands shook, not from age, but loss—the wood’s grain mocked him, shaped by steel, not heart. A d nearby cursed low, fingers bloodied by the beast—Elias’s chest tightened, rage a knot he’d not loose. This was no work; it was a yoke.

  Shift’s end dragged him out, legs leaden, spirit frayed. The factory’s hum g, a he’d not yet snapped—an iron tide drowning men like him. He felt the chisel in his pocket, its edge a silent vow—not of craft’s old pride, but of the d’s curse, his father’s s—a spark u. He’d not break here, not yet, though the din pressed hard, a foe he’d face with hands still his own.