Dawn fred sharp, its light gilding the field as workers marched, a grim throng bound by silent will. Elias gripped his chisel, knuckles pale, heart a wild beat, yet doubt found no hold—only the task burned clear. They were warriors now, set to wrest back what steel had torn.

  The maes loomed, their iron husks cold in the frail gre—vast, unyielding, yet empty of the fire that drove these men. The first strike rang—a etal oal, a stark toll over the pin. Elias swung, chisel biting deep, sparks leaping like fleeting stars. A mae lurched, frame split—a breath of triumph, hard-won.

  Their foe woke, arms sshing swift and cruel. Workers darted, evading ruin, shouts drowned in the din. Elias moved, blood hot in his veins—war was new, yet retreat was ash to him. Thomas fnked him, hammer crashing, a storm e and grit—together, they carved a mark no steel could mend.

  A roar split the air—o broke free, crushing a mah its tread, blood dark on the earth. Elias’s gut twisted, the scream eg in his skull, but he surged on, chisel high. Metal shrieked ‘h his blow, sparks a fre of defiance—each strike a cry for the fallen, a vow for the living.

  No pause held. Victleamed, a thread within grasp, though its pried stark. The field shook with their fury, maes bug ‘h u will. Elias glimpsed Thomas, sweat and blood on his brow, still striking—a bond fed in this chaos, strohan iron.

  The first blow was theirs, a scar on the foe, yet the war stretched wide. Elias pressed forth, each hit a pulse of the men at his side—their hands, their rage, a forae could still. The din roared, but he fought, not for echoes of craft, but for the life beside him, till the field cimed them or fell silent.