The soldiers’ boots beat the earth like a knell of fate, each thud a herald of the storm’s full wrath. Elias stood amidst the tumult, a chill deep in his bones, yet no fear unmanned him—only a will fed hard as the gates they’d rent. Behind him, workers rose, faces taut, eyes fierce with unbowed fire. This was their hour’s price—their defiaheir blood.

  The gates y shattered, a jagged scar of their fury, but the soldiers stood firm, rifles glinting like death’s owh. Elias’s pulse raced, the air thick with doom. “reat,” he growled, voice steady over his trembling hands. The first shot cracked, a whip through the dawn, and a cry followed—sharp, wet with agony.

  Elias charged, heart a thunder in his chest, the chisel slick with sweat. The workers surged, a tide of flesh against steel, their roars lost in the etal and gunpowder’s sting. He struck a bayo, sparks fring brief as hope, driven by the weight of Thomas at his side—grim, tireless, hammer raining blows like judgment.

  Chaos swallowed them. Elias fought, breath ragged, each swing a plea for the men who’d stood with him—their hands, their lives, now staked on this field. Yet the truth loomed cold: soldiers swarmed, too many, too armed. A worker fell, then another, blood pooling dark—each loss a bde in his gut.

  His arms burned, chisel notched from steel’s bite, but he pressed on. The line wavered, rades’ eyes dimmih the foe’s weight. Victory slipped—a wraith they’d never grasp. He glimpsed Thomas, blood streaked over his brow, still swinging, a a pang—not of craft, but of brotherhood, torn by this releide.

  The storm roared, unyielding. Elias struck again, sparks dying in the dust, knowing they’d not win—not now. Yet he fought, for the fallen at his feet, for the will that steel could never crush. The csh was theirs, even if it broke them all.