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 flared, a cry in the haze—they moved, steps slow, hands empty 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 mocking their frail stand.

  The gates held, silent, no crack nor cheer—just the factory’s growl, a pulse 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.

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  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 nodded, throat tight—tried, aye, but naught shifted. The lad’s bloodied hand flashed—had it stained this ground for this?

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

  He turned, legs leaden, the gates a mute victor. Rage stirred, not quelled—a fire for the lad, 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 alone—defeat bitter, a taste he’d not shake. The chisel hung heavy, its edge a vow—not of craft’s old flame, but of men it might yet rouse, a fight lost today, but not forever stilled.