Daw in, tense and mute, as Elias stood amidst the workers, their faces carved with toil’s deep lines and a resolve like flint. No road led back; the factory, oheir yoke, now gred like a beast roused to wrath. The air hung still, a breath held afore the tempest’s cry. Maes droned afar, deaf to the tide about to break.

  A pang gripped Elias—nret, but a cold dread of what this day might reap. This was y fray; it was their soul’s stand against a world of s. He ched his chisel, its heft a spur to his faltering pulse, and raised his fist—a signal stark against the gray morn. The workers moved, steps firm, a host bound by silent oath.

  The gates rose grim, iroh of their prison past. The first blow fell—a g sharp as a shriek, shattering the hush. Elias struck with them, chisel biting steel, the gate groanih their will. It crashed down, a broken , yet triumph was a fleeting guest—boots thundered near, a doom’s own tread.

  Soldiers loomed, rifles agleam in the pallid light, their march a wall of steel. Elias’s heart leapt, the chisel sli his sweat-damp hand. The hum of maes swelled in his ears, a taunt he’d choke with their rage. Beside him, Thomas swung a hammer, face grim with the weight of years—rades both, braced fhter or salvation.

  The storm broke—no plea could stay it. Elias stood fast, breath sharp, eyes locked on the foe. This was their hour, perilous and proud—men who’d borhe yoke and cast it off. The soldiers’ line held no mercy, yet nor did their will bend. The csh was nigh, a tide to rend them or raise them up. He’d fight, not for craft’s echo, but for the blood at his side, the pulse of freedom no iron could still.