The protest dawned heavy, a shroud of dust and dread. Elias stood at the rear, pulse sharp as the gates loomed—iron, cold, a wall unyielding. Workers shifted, faces grim with fire and fear—could they, so few, breach this steel tide? Doubt gnawed, a thorn in his chest.

  The signal fred, a cry in the haze—they moved, steps slow, hay of might. Elias trailed, chisel firm in his grip—not a tool of craft, but a mark of their will, scarred by steel it defied. The hum swelled, drowning their tread, a beast mog their frail stand.

  The gates held, silent, no craor cheer—just the factory’s groulse unbroken. Hours bled, resolve fraying like thread—men drifted off, heads low, shoulders bent. Elias lingered, eyes fixed on iron, his father’s curse a low burn in his skull—rage at a foe too vast.

  Thomas stood nigh, face streaked with dust, voice rough. “We tried,” he said, a rasp of loss—not anger, but a weight they’d borne. Elias hroat tight—tried, aye, but naught shifted. The d’s bloodied hand fshed—had it staihis ground for this?

  The factory ed on, its din a u—overseers watched, eyes sharp, their silence a jeer. Elias felt Thomas’s arm, a steady tether—rades bound by scars, not triumph. The line dissolved, a stand crushed beh steel’s heel, yet a spark flickered—faint, unbowed.

  He turned, legs leaden, the gates a mute victe stirred, not quelled—a fire for the d, for Thomas, for hands that fought and fell. The hum pressed, a foe they’d not felled—was this their lot, to strike and fade?

  Dusk cloaked the wreck, Elias alo bitter, a taste he’d not shake. The chisel hung heavy, its edge a vow—not of craft’s old fme, but of men it might yet rouse, a fight lost today, but not forever stilled.