Days ere the next clash bore a stillness thick as mist over a fen. The workers honed their stand, hands steady amidst drills, yet an unspoken dread clung close. Elias roamed their ranks, eyes tracing faces worn thin—hope’s gleam dulled by scars and sleepless nights. They pressed on, no choice left, but a rift gnawed within him.

  A fire blazed at camp’s core, its snap the night’s lone voice. Leaders huddled, shadows stark on their gaunt cheeks, and Elias joined, their cause a chain round his throat. “We must be set,” one growled, voice rough with haste. “They grow bold—our hours thin.”

  Elias nodded, the words a cold weight in his gut. The end loomed—no faltering now. He faced them, pulse loud in his ears. “We fight,” he said, firm over the tremor, “and win. They’ll not take what we’ve wrought.”

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  Yet a whisper hissed—Was it lost? They’d bled rivers—could it hold? The fire’s glow danced on their eyes, fierce yet frail, and he felt the lad’s hammer in his hand, its weight a ghost from the field. Thomas stood nigh, grim as stone—could they bear another fall?

  Silence pressed, heavy as iron, split only by the flame’s crack. Night stretched, each hour a vise on his chest. Elias gripped the chisel, its chill biting his palm—not a tool of craft, but a blade of will, notched by steel they’d faced. The storm’s shadow loomed, a tide to crush or lift them.

  No retreat stirred the air. The camp slept fitful, breaths ragged with resolve and ruin. Elias lingered, fire fading, staring into the black. The clash was a beast he’d not flee—its jaws near, its roar in his bones. He’d lead, not for past glories, but for the men round that flame, their scars a bond he’d not break. They’d face it—whole or shattered—for the fight was all they owned.