Days thied with whispers, a storm brewing in the factory’s shadow. Elias joined secret meets, voices hushed amidst steel’s g—pns shaped, frail as hope. The maes roared on, blind to the men who’d dare their reign, a tide he’d ride or drowh.

  He’d ood so afore—no speeches swelled his chest, only a quiet grit born of toil. His father’s curse pulsed in his ears—not words, but a fire he bore, a s for steel that ground them small. Thomas stood near, grim and sure—could they carve a mark against this iron sea?

  One eve, they massed by the gates, faces taut with dread and will. Elias lingered back, heart a drum beh his ribs—risk loomed, a specter he’d seen in tales: men hauled off, broken or bound. The d’s bloodied hand fshed in his mind—a cost he’d not unsee.

  A signal fred, sharp in the dusk—workers moved, steps slow, not rebels’ rage, but men with naught to lose. Elias followed, chisel heavy in his grip, its edge a vow—not of craft’s song, but of hands that shaped their fate. The gates rose cold, a wall they’d breach or break upon.

  They stood, a line against steel, the hum a growl at their backs. Elias felt a calm steal in—not triumph, but a weight borrue—for the d, for Thomas, for men he’d csped in toil. The air held still, no cheers, only the factory’s breath, a beast they’d roused.

  Footsteps stirred—overseers loomed, eyes sharp with menace, yet the line held. Elias gripped Thomas’s shoulder, a tether in the quiet fray—rades steeled by scars, not words. The gates stood fast, unyielding, but so did they—a stand not wo not lost, a cost they’d pay in blood or breath.

  Night fell, tense and mute. Elias stood, the spark frail—a fight begun, for hands unbowed, against a tide that’d not yet cimed them whole.