General Fossard stood frozen for a heartbeat too long, his eyes wide and blood draining from his face as he watched the white steed descend toward the burning town like some celestial rider galloping into hell. The golden curls of Prince Louis-Napoléon fluttered behind him, his sword raised, his voice still echoing as he led the vanguard toward the central bridge.
It hit Fossard like a cannonball.
The Prince—the heir, the living symbol of France's imperial future—was in his care.
And now the boy was charging straight into a burning city, one possibly abandoned, or worse—trapped.
"Oh God…" Fossard croaked. "Oh God no."
The officers around him turned, their expressions a mixture of awe, confusion, and rising alarm.
"General?" Major Brebis asked, cautiously.
Fossard's mouth worked uselessly for a second. He looked to the press—already standing, already scribbling, already painting the scene of a noble, glorious charge—and then to the command tents on the hill, where the Cavalry of the Imperial Household, twelve hundred strong, sat polishing sabers and drinking coffee with the indolence of aristocrats.
Then he snapped.
"Get the cavalry! NOW!" Fossard bellowed, shoving a nearby aide. "The Prince has gone ahead! Protect him!"
The command tent exploded into motion. Trumpets blared, orders were barked, and in a flurry of glinting steel and silken sashes, the cavalry officers mounted their tall, pampered horses. There was a moment's hesitation—a flicker of doubt in their eyes as they stared down at the cityscape below, cloaked in smoke and shimmering with fire.
This wasn't a field. This wasn't open terrain fit for a gallant charge. It was a burning warren of narrow alleys and unstable streets. It was no place for cavalry.
But logic drowned under the tide of pride.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked on the lone white figure riding like a ghost through the haze—the young Prince of France, bold and magnificent, a boy they'd toasted in salons and whispered about in court. And now he rode alone into glory—or death.
That was all it took.
Spurred by pride, by blood, by honour, they shouted and drew their sabers. The Cavalry of the Imperial Household surged into motion.
"To the Prince!"
"To glory!"
"To HELL with the Prussians!"
Their hooves thundered like war drums, shaking the hill as the entire cavalry force descended like an avalanche after the Prince, blades flashing, banners snapping in the rising heat.
From the hilltop, General Fossard watched them go, a hollow pit in his stomach. His legs nearly gave out beneath him.
He knew—he knew—that if the Prince died, his own fate would be sealed. The Emperor would have him court-martialed, imprisoned—perhaps even executed. This war had only just begun, and already it threatened to destroy him.
And yet the gears of the army were already turning.
The Prince's bold move lit a fire in the men's hearts. The entire French army, still even after the failed charges was nearly thirty thousand strong, and now most all of the infantry started to surge toward the bridges. Drums pounded, horns called, and feet stamped in rhythm. Columns of blue-coated soldiers flowed down toward the river like an unstoppable tide, banners held high.
The bridges were jammed with troops, a stampede of patriotic fervor. No longer cautious, no longer disciplined—they charged, intoxicated by the scent of victory.
And all the while, the flames on the northern bank grew higher.
But even still, despite the flames the roar of thirty thousand boots came. Like a thunderous rhythm of war, echoing off the stone walls of Saarbrücken like the steady drumming of fate. The flags of France—vibrant and proud—fluttered high above the masses of soldiers. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of sweat, soot, and gunpowder.
Although the charge had quickly stalled and come to a complete halt.
All around the southern bank of the river, the French army bottlenecked, funneled toward the three stone bridges. Thousands of soldiers packed tight, pressed shoulder to shoulder in dense formation, their eyes fixed on the inferno ahead. They coughed into cloths tied around their mouths, eyes watering from the acrid sting of smoke that drifted down from the flames across the water.
On the northern side, hell itself raged.
The barricades at the far end of each bridge burned bright with orange fury—wooden carts, broken wagons, furniture, and oil-soaked hay, all stacked together and set alight by the retreating Prussians. The flames danced with malicious glee, blocking the French from entering the town. The heat was immense, a blistering wall of fire that radiated across the river like the breath of a dragon.
Some began to murmur—nervous whispers threading through the crowd.
"Is it a trap?"
"They've abandoned the town…"
"No, they're waiting. Just beyond that fire…"
And yet above it all, a voice pierced the smoke.
Prince Louis-Napoléon, atop his white steed at the front of the central bridge, stood tall and fearless. His coat was immaculate, his epaulettes shining like gold even in the orange glow. He raised his sabre high and shouted, his voice both youthful and commanding:
"Men of France! Forward! Clear the way! Burnt wood and fire shall not halt the sons of Napoleon!"
He pointed toward the burning wagons with his blade, emboldened by the image of his army at his back, stretching out like a sea of blue and red.
"Who among you will be the first to step into glory? To carve the path of victory for your nation?"
There was a pause—and then, from the crowd, a few brave souls stepped forward.
A dozen men—infantry from the 47th Line Regiment—tied cloth around their faces, soaked rags in water, and wrapped their hands. They moved quickly, nervously, across the bridge, the heat intensifying with each step. The fire crackled like laughter, daring them closer.
As they approached the wagons, flames licked at their boots, and the stone beneath their feet glowed red in places. The air shimmered around them, warped with heat. Eyes stung, sweat poured, and each breath was like inhaling smoke and cinders.
They grunted, shouted, pushed with all their might against the burning wagons. Wood cracked and popped. A few caught their sleeves on fire and had to bat them out with smoldering hands.
Behind them, tens of thousands watched—silent.
The crowd of soldiers, pressed into the riverbank and the streets behind, were an ocean of sweat and nerves. Some cursed. Others prayed. Some cried. The heat was unbearable even at a distance, but it was the uncertainty that cut deepest. What waited beyond the fire?
But the Prince did not flinch.
He sat tall in his saddle, sabre still raised, eyes fixed on the far side of the bridge as if he could see the streets of victory just beyond the flames.
And slowly, the first wagon shifted, and the volunteers shouted in triumph.
The way was beginning to open.
And still the fires burned.
And still the army watched.
Waiting—for what would come next.
****
While the French attempted to break through the burning barricades and get further into the town, at the same time the messenger rode out of town.
The hooves of his steed struck the ground like thunder, tearing across the dusty country road in a blur of motion. Fields of green flashed past, wheat swaying in the summer wind—peaceful, untouched, unaware that only a few dozen kilometers south, hell had opened its gates.
Wilhelm Krauss, just nineteen years old, felt the weight of the world pressed into the rolled parchment clutched in his gloved hand. His knuckles were white, leather creaking as he gripped tighter. Upon that paper were words hastily scrawled—desperate orders from the defenders of Saarbrücken to the Prussian First Army.
A cry for salvation.
He did not look back.
He couldn't. Not if he wanted to stay sane. And yet... he did.
Far in the distance, past the rolling hills, black smoke towered into the summer sky. Saarbrücken was burning. It was being swallowed by fire and iron. His friends were still there—some classmates from the academy, barely older than him. The girls, too. The strange, divine little girls. The twin miracles who had turned despair into defiance. He whispered their names, Lili and Tanya, like a prayer carried on the wind.
"Hold on," he murmured, his throat dry from smoke and fear. "Hold on just a little longer…"
His horse—Sturmwind, "storm wind"—responded to his urging with a fresh burst of speed, foam flecking its mouth, eyes wide with focus and strain. The stallion was born of nobility, a beast bred not just for parade or ceremony, but for war and speed. He had once boasted it was the fastest in all of Prussia. Now he could only pray it was true.
While riding he thought on his mission, the details of it.
From Saarbrücken to Trier, the road wound over 60 kilometers of mixed terrain—forest paths, open fields, river bends, and narrow, rocky trails. Under normal travel, it was a two-day ride, maybe one if pushed.
But Wilhelm was not riding normally.
He rode like a man chased by the very fires of Hell.
He had no time to rest, no time for detours or caution. Every hour counted. For each hour that passed, more of the town would be consumed. More of the defenders—soldiers and civilians alike—would fall under the sabres and bayonets of the French.
He did not know what the generals at Trier would say. Would they believe him? Would they respond in time? The First Army was still organizing, gathering supplies, planning movements for the grand offensive into France.
But he didn't care.
They had to come.
After all there was a cost in time, and in each second that passed.
At full gallop, through hard riding and changing mounts at farms or military outposts—assuming he encountered none of the enemy or delays—Wilhelm might reach Trier within six to eight hours. With fresh horses and divine luck, maybe less.
And once the message was delivered, the First Army—or at least an advance detachment—would need at least a half day to begin marching.
Which meant that the defenders of Saarbrücken—outnumbered and fortified in a burning, half-destroyed town—would need to hold out for possibly 12 to 18 more hours, if not longer.
A day in war.
An eternity in fire.
But Wilhelm did not stop.
His heart thundered louder than the hooves. The air tore at his eyes, and his legs ached in the saddle. But he kept going. For Tanya. For Lili. For the civilians now holding rifles in trembling hands. For his classmates still drawing sabres beside the burning barricades.
"Just a little longer," he whispered again.
And he rode on—like a storm racing toward salvation.
****
The fires crackled like mad things, leaping between timbered beams and licking the blackened stones of the buildings lining the north side of the Saar river. Thick smoke funneled down the streets like a living thing, choking the air, making every breath a fight. And yet, still the French came.
The barricades at the mouths of the three bridges had finally been cleared, but only at great cost. Dozens had been burned, scalded, lost fingers, skin, or worse. Some had leapt from the bridges into the dark waters of the Saar, only to vanish beneath the current—either dashed against the unseen rocks below or pulled away downstream, lost to the depths.
Now, with the way forward open, the French advance slowed again, brought to a crawl by the second line of fire—a barrier of flaming wagons, stacked crates, and buildings that had been purposefully torched by the retreating Prussians. This new line of flames blocked the narrow streets of the northern riverbank, creating a wall of smoke and fire so intense that even the bravest hesitated.
Crowds of soldiers bottlenecked at the ends of the bridges, coughing, fanning smoke from their faces, shielding their mouths with torn cloth. Officers barked confused orders, while the heat shimmered in the air like a fever dream. Horses stamped and neighed in panic as the flames crackled just meters away.
High on his white steed, the young Prince clicked his tongue in visible irritation, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed red—not from the fire, but from wounded pride. His cavalry sat idle behind him, rank upon rank of noble blood and polished steel—useless while the enemy danced out of reach behind burning barriers.
"This is intolerable!" he snapped. "Damn their cowardice! Burning their own town? Their own people?"
A dusty, soot-faced officer from the 7th regiment stepped forward, saluting stiffly. "Your Highness. If we can douse the fires—bucket lines, water from the Saar—we might clear a path through the outer streetlines. The buildings nearest the river are reachable."
The Prince raised an eyebrow. Then—without even a beat—he turned in the saddle and raised his voice so that the soldiers clustered on the bridges could hear him.
"Men of France!" he called, raising his sword dramatically, letting the sun catch the steel. "The flames may slow us, but they will not stop us! The Saar is at our backs—use her waters! Form bucket lines! Extinguish these flames and carve our path to victory!"
There was a moment of pause. The soldiers, though weary and stifled by smoke, let out a ragged cheer. Orders were given, and bucket lines began to form—men passing wooden pails hand to hand, dipping them into the river and flinging the water over the flames. Old fire-fighting tactics of the era came into use:
Lines of men forming chains from river to fire.
Using wet blankets and jackets to beat out smaller flames.
A few military field-pumps, hand-cranked, dragged up from supply wagons in the rear—inefficient, but better than nothing.
Axes were brought to bear, breaking down weakened walls before they collapsed.
Soldiers climbed onto smoking roofs with hastily soaked tunics wrapped around their heads, throwing water down into the heart of the blaze.
But it was all slow. Chaotic. Dangerous.
And the Prussians had planned for this. The narrow alleys funneled the smoke. The wind coming off the Saar turned it back against the French. The wagons had been soaked in lamp oil. And worse—the buildings themselves, timber-framed and dry from summer heat, had become torches.
The French soldiers toiled like ants, their blue uniforms soaked through with sweat, mud, and soot. The fire seemed to mock them—flaring up just as they cleared a section, or turning back on them when they thought it had died down.
And still the Prince watched, high on his saddle, basking in the illusion of command.
He glanced sideways at the officer who had made the suggestion. "Good idea, Captain," he said offhandedly. "Perhaps you've some talent for strategy after all." The Prince chuckled lightly, as if it had all been his own genius from the start.
****
On the northern side of Saarbrücken, beyond the smoke-choked streets and still-burning barricades, there was an eerie calm. A stillness that clung to the ruined houses and darkened alleyways like fog. The air smelled of soot, sweat, and the kind of quiet tension that always comes just before something awful begins.
But for the defenders of the town—this wasn't fear. This was resolve.
Under the iron command of Tanya, and the divine presence of Lili, the remaining Prussian soldiers and armed civilians had transformed the northern quarter into a labyrinth of death.
Barricades sealed off side streets and alleys, forcing anyone advancing from the bridges into just three narrow avenues that led deeper into the town's heart. Crates, broken carts, upturned pianos, and smashed furniture—whatever could be dragged into the streets had been repurposed to block and channel.
And within this funnel, the traps had been laid. This being something that Tanya called Kill Zone Preparations that were consistent of many different things.
Pitfall Traps: In the soft gardens and parks just off the streets, shallow pits had been dug with frantic, dirt-covered hands. They were lined with fire-hardened wooden stakes, their tips smeared in waste to ensure infection. These were covered with tarps, boards, and fresh-cut leaves, indistinguishable from the grassy surroundings.
2. Nail-and-Gunpowder Barrels: In doorways and windowsills, large barrels packed with gunpowder, pitch, nails, and shattered glass had been placed. A length of slow-burning fuse, sometimes wrapped in cloth soaked in lard for a longer delay, would let the ambusher light and run. Plus homemade shrapnel bombs, lethal and terrifying.
3. Oil-and-Pitch Ambush Points: Tanya had ordered that pots of lard, tallow, and raw petroleum—taken from workshop stores—be scattered in key buildings. When lit and dumped, they'd turn entire rooms or alleyways into firestorms, with defenders already having escape routes pre-mapped through basements or attic holes.
4. Bottleneck Firelines: At the narrowest part of each kill zone, civilian women and children with lit torches crouched near greased ropes and cloth, soaked in oil and laid across the street. Once lit, the entire passage could be turned into an inferno in seconds, trapping the French between walls of flame and gunfire.
5. Spring Traps and Drop Nets: A few of the old stables and coach houses had been converted into tripwire traps, with heavy beams or bricks rigged to fall onto advancing troops. Ropes with iron hooks, tensioned with pulleys, were ready to snap down like guillotines on those charging through bottlenecks.
6. Boiling Oil and Water: Inspired by medieval tactics, cauldrons of water and tallow sat atop windowsills and balconies. Civilians, especially older children and factory women, were ready to dump them on French soldiers below. Some had added iron nails or hot sand for added cruelty.
7. Crumbling Buildings: One stone house near the second barricade had been undermined at the base, its support beams weakened. A small group of miners under a local engineer had rigged it with a fuse and black powder—the moment enough French clustered nearby, the building would collapse onto them in a thunderous wave of stone and fire.
And lastly every house, shop, and inn had been made into a makeshift fortress.
Men crouched behind broken windows, aiming stolen Chassepot rifles—the French's own weapon turned against them. Old factory workers with missing fingers, now miraculously healed by Lili's powers, stood proudly with worn hunting muskets, knives, or even improvised spears made from bayonets tied to broomsticks.
Children as young as ten sat in corners with Molotov bottles, waiting for a signal. Elderly shopkeepers carried sledgehammers, while butchers wielded cleavers with terrifying focus.
Some buildings had loopholes carved into the walls—small gun holes covered by planks that would flip open at the last moment. Every room had a designated fallback point, every attic a route to another roof or house.
And the mastermind, Tanya was watching over all of this, with Lili always close at her side. They were in the Lutheran church of Saarbrücken, still standing pristine, untouched by the fires of war that now raged just beyond its edges. Its stone walls were unbroken, its stained-glass windows still whole, casting a mosaic of holy colors across the worn wooden floor. But though the structure remained sacred, the atmosphere within had changed utterly.
Muddy boots had tracked over fine tile and under pews. The air, once filled with hymns and sermons, now pulsed with the rustle of maps, the clink of weapons, and the sharp bark of military orders.
At the heart of it all, the altar—once a place of divine communion—had become a makeshift command table, a wide wooden surface now layered with a carefully inked map of the town, inked-in fortifications, streets marked with red X's, positions assigned and kill zones circled with ruthless precision. Crates of supplies were stacked where the choir once sang, and cots lined the sides where prayers had once been whispered.
There, standing atop the altar like a general addressing her army, was Tanya. She now wore a dark blue Prussian officer's jacket, far too large for her six-year-old frame, but neatly folded and buttoned with care. Her breeches were tucked into knee-high boots, muddied and scuffed, and atop her blond head sat a slightly oversized officer's cap, cocked with defiant pride.
One hand rested on her hip, the other hovered over the map as she gave her orders in a tone far too commanding for her age:
"No one fires until the signal is given. Let them come. Let them believe. Funnel them into the designated streets. When they are deep enough—when they think the town is theirs—we crush them."
She scanned the gathered militia leaders and Prussian officers. "We hold until the rider returns with reinforcements. And if he does not…" Her voice did not falter. "Then we hold until this town becomes a monument of fire and blood. Until they regret ever crossing the Saar."
Behind her, Lili moved among the wounded and sick who lay lined along the walls of the nave, in the shadow of the crucifix above. She too wore a Prussian uniform—an enlisted boy's coat stitched to fit her smaller form. Her hat had long fallen off, her sweat-soaked blonde hair clinging to her forehead.
Her hands trembled with each miracle she performed. A soft glow radiated from her palms, a warmth that smelled faintly of clean linens and spring flowers. Every time she healed, something left her, something unseen, and she knew it.
Her legs ached. Her arms were numb. Her breath came short and shallow, her chest rising and falling like someone who had sprinted to the brink of collapse.
But she kept going.
Because every time she placed her small palm on a broken limb or bleeding wound, she saw joy ignite. A blind clockmaker blinked in confusion, then gasped as color and shape returned to his world. "I can see... I can see!" he wept, cradling her hand as if it were a relic.
A girl missing a foot since birth felt something shift beneath her. Looking down, she screamed—not in pain, but disbelief—as toes wriggled in the dust, whole and healthy.
An old blacksmith dropped his crutch and stood tall for the first time in years, his shoulders wide, joints unburdened, his face younger, stronger, like he had stepped backward through time.
Even women long past their youth felt a blush return to their cheeks, their skin firming, their posture straightening. One grandmother laughed and cupped her now perky chest with a shocked grin, exclaiming, "Well, I'll be damned!"
Men patted their arms, flexed muscles that hadn't been strong in years, dancing like children around the pews. Tears flowed freely. Their faith was no longer in kings, nor in generals—it was in these two children, standing within the church like something straight out of some prophecy.
And still, Lili smiled, even as her knees buckled and her hands dripped sweat. Her soul felt thin, like a thread stretched near the breaking point.
But the people's joy fed her. Their hope gave her strength.
Even as her vision blurred and her heart pounded in her chest like a drum of war, she continued, whispering soft encouragements to the wounded:
"You're okay now. Now please go help my big sister. And just listen to what my sister has to say, she will know how to best help defend this town."
Standing on the altar, watching this all Tanya stood, her eyes were dark with unspoken worry. But she turned quickly away, hiding her expression behind that sharp officer's glare.
There was still work to be done. And outside the church's thick doors, the French were still dousing the flames, still unaware that every step forward brought them closer not to conquest…
…but to the jaws of divine retribution.