Factory Worker

Arms raised, face slick with sweat, a Factory Worker steps over hiss-and-clank conveyors in Steelgale’s forges. Sparks fly as molten metal flows, hammer strokes echo like thunder, and every breath tastes of flame.   They crank levers, tend furnaces, adjust gear teeth—all under the haze of choking smoke. Their hands are calloused; their uniforms stained with tar and soot. Still, the city depends on them: their work powers armies, builds walls, and makes Steelgale’s name feared. Without their toil, the forges die, the war machines rust, the Empire’s backbone buckles.