Morning broke through smoke, the air bitter with blood. Elias stood amid the wreckage, dawn’s light piercing the gloom. His body ached—each step a stab through torn flesh, shirt tattered, hands crusted with grime. Yet the pain faded beside his resolve: a fight for something vast.

  A figure emerged from the haze—Liza, young, her blond hair dusted with soot, framing a weary yet fierce face. Barely past girlhood, she clutched the hammer she’d swung beside him. She stopped, eyes sharp. “You whole?” she asked, voice cutting the stillness.

  “I’ll hold,” Elias rasped, hiding the ache. “But this pace will break us.”

  Liza nodded, stern despite her youth. “True, but we’ve shaken them. They staggered—we cracked their iron.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Elias scanned the survivors—scarred, unbowed. Their will flickered, a coal no wind could douse. It stirred in him—not craft’s pride, but the bond of those who’d bled with him. The lad’s still face lingered, a weight he couldn’t shed. Could it mean more?

  “A start,” he muttered, steadying himself. “We might endure.”

  Liza’s hand gripped his arm, firm despite her slight frame. “We must,” she said, low and sure. “For those left—for the ones to come.”

  Her words sparked something sharp. The future, once vague, now loomed near, carried by hands clasped in the dark. His legs wavered, but her fire braced him—a thread held against the storm.

  “They’ll know us,” Elias swore, voice a quiet edge. They faced the factory’s husk, battle’s echo in their bones. A spark burned—faint, fierce—driving them on. For their comrades, for the blood spilled, they’d rise again, till fate took its toll.