Elias sat in the workers’ rough shelter, air thick with damp and rust’s bite. Battle’s clang lingered in his frame, though dusk draped the field in quiet. His hands, worn, clasped tight, Thomas’s words—“What now?”—a load sinking deep. Sleep shunned his mates, their breaths faint in the gloom, and Elias envied their brief escape.

  He stepped out, wind sharp on his skin, eyes caught by the wreckage—iron twisted, engines stilled in ruin. The foe would mend, their pause a fleeting jest afore fresh woe—already, far off, a hammer clanged, faint but sure, repair creeping back. He kicked a shard, its ring a hollow cry, easing naught—a stand so fierce, yet steel stirred anew.

  Stars stared cold, giving no balm. Elias sank to the dirt, its chill seeping in, his father’s curse a murmur in his skull—a rage he’d borne too. Thomas approached, steps firm, face pale yet lit with a spark Elias scarce fathomed—a fire unquenched by loss. “We’re not lone,” he said, voice low. “Others watch—words will spread.”

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  Elias stalled, torn ‘twixt comfort and truth. “Did we do aught?” he rasped, the clang a taunt in his ears.

  Thomas eyed the ruin, steady. “Aye—a mark they’ll feel. We’ll rouse more—hands like ours, ‘cross fields.”

  The words struck, a faint light in the mire—could their fight breathe beyond this wreck? Thomas’s grit stirred him—a plan, not just words—a spark to carry, not cradle. “Aye,” Elias muttered, unease a knot within. “We’ll find them.”

  Thomas spared a thin smile, then turned back. “Path’s begun—scar by scar.” Alone, Elias sat, earth cold beneath—a spark pierced, frail yet fierce, from the men who’d fought, a will no steel could dim. The hammer’s echo grew, a foe waking slow—yet hope flickered, a thread to weave, hands to join, against the dark that waited still.