Weeks dragged on, each day a tight thread in their defiance. The workers stood firm, scarred and weary, yet every dawn brought sharper thorns. Elias felt the earth shift—gains frail, dread a shadow closing in. Was their hope a straw against the wind, or a root to grip?

  By day, he forged their course, mind churning plans, bolstering the faint with a voice he scarcely trusted. Night hushed the camp, his resolve fraying—stars cold, the factory’s hum a growl in the dark. Pacing the tents, boots scuffing dirt, he bore the weight of lost lads, their eyes haunting him.

  A figure stepped from the gloom—Liza, her face stark in the moonlight. “You roam late,” Elias said, rest dodging them both under their cause’s strain.

  Her gaze cut sharp. “I’m pondering what’s next. We’ve struck them, but will it bury us?”

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  Her words mirrored his unease, the lad’s fallen hammer heavy in his chest. “We don’t bend,” he said, voice firm over a trembling core. “They’ve felt us—they won’t erase it.”

  Liza’s lips thinned. “Aye, but the cost climbs—lives lost, more to bleed.” She hesitated, then said, “I’ve seen this before—another fight, another line. I need to find those who broke free, learn how they held.” With that, she turned, fading into the night, chasing ghosts of a past struggle.

  Elias’s fingers brushed his chisel, its notched edge a lifeline. Footsteps neared—workers, faces tight with fire and fear.

  “News from the line,” one rasped. “They’re rallying—stronger, fiercer.”

  Elias nodded, hard as flint. “Then we brace.” The words sank deep, a burden he’d carry alone now. Yet a thread gleamed—comrades bound by scars, their will unbroken. The storm loomed, its breath on his neck, but he’d face it—for the men beside him, for the mark they’d carved, even if it took them all.