Elias stood at the factory’s gate, its vast bulk a shadow over the dawn. The machines’ hum struck deep—a relentless pulse, no kin to the workshop’s song. This was no craft’s home; it was a forge of steel and haste, cold as the coin that drew him here. His hands, once sure, faltered at its threshold.

  Mr. Phelps, the overseer, loomed sharp—eyes keen, voice a lash. “You’ll tend the lathe,” he barked, cutting through the din. “Match the rest—quick.”

  Elias nodded, bile sharp in his throat, pride a weight he’d not shed. The shop was gone—sold for bread—and here he stood, a stranger to his own skin. The lathe snarled, gears gnashing like teeth, and he fed it wood—its shape born swift, a twin to countless more. No care lived here, only the churn of iron will.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Workers moved around him, shadows of men—eyes blank, hands deft from rote. Elias watched, a chill in his gut—would he fade to this, a cog in their grind? He thought of his father, his growl at haste—dead now, spared this cage. Could he bear it, where skill was naught?

  The lathe spun, relentless, each turn a theft of his breath. His hands shook, not from age, but loss—the wood’s grain mocked him, shaped by steel, not heart. A lad nearby cursed low, fingers bloodied by the beast—Elias’s chest tightened, rage a knot he’d not loose. This was no work; it was a yoke.

  Shift’s end dragged him out, legs leaden, spirit frayed. The factory’s hum clung, a chain he’d not yet snapped—an iron tide drowning men like him. He felt the chisel in his pocket, its edge a silent vow—not of craft’s old pride, but of the lad’s curse, his father’s scorn—a spark unbent. He’d not break here, not yet, though the din pressed hard, a foe he’d face with hands still his own.