Finally, the fire had been subdued, but not without cost. The bridges behind them were slick with water, blood, and soot. Men coughed and limped, some with blackened hands or blistered faces. Others bore grim expressions, holding scorched weapons as if grasping at sanity itself.
But they had made it through.
The Prince of France, flushed from heat and frustration, pushed ahead atop his now ash-dusted white steed.
However as they crossed the still smoking barricades and got into the town they were met with a strange sight. The northern side of Saarbrücken greeted them not with clear victory, but a labyrinth of barricades, shattered windows, and streets tangled like a trap-laden rat's nest.
The French infantry slowed, confused. Officers shouted orders. Companies split as they tried to fan out, only to find alleys and crossroads sealed by rubble, carts, or wooden fences hastily nailed shut. The city had been manicured for misdirection—each route carefully chosen, each block forcing them deeper into uncertainty.
"Where is the enemy?!" barked a young officer.
"They've vanished—slipped away, like rats!"
But the Prince was in no mood to wait. His lungs burned from the smoke. His fine uniform, once pristine, was now damp with sweat, and soot stained his boots and gloves. His patience was gone, buried somewhere beneath the flames.
"Forward!" he cried, sword high. "Send the cavalry through! The Prussians are cornered—they must be!"
The order passed down. With clinking sabers and gleaming breastplates, the 12,000-strong cavalry force began to funnel into the few open streets—long, narrow corridors of cobblestone hemmed in by buildings on either side. Hooves thundered as they passed by the infantry, many of whom now leaned against walls or squinted into the alley shadows, rifles half-raised.
One company of cavalry took a sharp turn and charged deeper into the city, the street ahead seemingly clear, save for a single barricade at the far end. A flag fluttered above it—Prussian colors. And just behind the barricade, dark figures moved.
The French cavalry commander raised his saber.
"There they are! Charge!"
The horns blared, hooves dug in, and the heavy cavalry surged forward, lances poised, sabers drawn. Their armor glinted in the firelight, a living tidal wave of steel and fury.
But they did not know they were riding straight into the mouth of death.
On both sides of the street, every building had been manned. Behind shattered windows and broken shutters, dozens of militia fighters—men, women, and even children—stood with muskets, hunting rifles, and in some cases, bows and crossbows. Soldiers crouched behind barrels and leaned from attics with superior French rifles taken from earlier skirmishes. A trap poised and primed.
And it was an old Prussian grandmother—her gray hair wrapped in a kerchief, her eyes clear and patient—who fired first.
She had waited, breath steady, aiming through a crooked iron sight. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of memory and resolve. She squeezed the trigger.
Crack!
A single shot echoed through the hushed city, and a horse near the front screamed as the bullet struck deep into its chest. It crumpled mid-gallop, its rider thrown violently forward—his cry lost beneath the thunder of hooves.
But the charge did not stop. The men behind him couldn't.
The next horses stumbled over the fallen beast, legs snapping, riders tumbling, crashing into one another in a cacophony of screams, steel, and flesh.
And then the city exploded.
Gunfire erupted from all sides. Windows flashed, smoke belched from every direction. Muskets, rifles, even small cannon-like powder charges filled the air with thunder and fire. Men were struck from above, bullets ripping through armor, lances snapping mid-air.
Molotovs rained down. Barrels rigged with nails and powder detonated as they were kicked from upper balconies, blasting holes through charging lines.
Pitchforks, scythes, and even a pair of blacksmith's tongs came down on cavalrymen who strayed too close to doorways.
Inside one building, a mother and son lit the fuse of a powder keg packed with shrapnel and nails and rolled it into the street just as a group of riders approached. The explosion was deafening, echoing like thunder through the hollow city. Limbs and steel flew in all directions.
From the barricade at the end of the street, Prussian soldiers stood firm, opening fire with precision.
The French cavalry, trained to dominate open fields, found themselves trapped in a slaughterhouse of stone and fire. Men screamed, horses reared and died. Officers yelled for retreat, but there was no room, no time.
Atop his white horse, the Prince saw everything. His eyes widened as the trap snapped shut. The pride, the anger, the hunger for glory—all turned to ash in his mouth.
And then the retreating screams of men and horses came down the street. For the Prince they sounded like echoes from the underworld.
From the long street where the Prince had ordered the charge, now mangled cavalrymen staggered back—some dragging broken limbs, others clutching bleeding stumps. Riderless horses, eyes wild with terror, bolted past the infantry ranks, crashing into walls or barreling through crowds, sending soldiers sprawling. Others, bleeding from shrapnel wounds or burnt by fire, galloped madly through alleyways, crashing into carts or plunging into building walls as if trying to escape the nightmare.
The French infantry, once so proud and composed, now stood huddled in the alleys and open courtyards near the bridge's end. Their rifles clutched tight, backs pressed to the walls of unfamiliar homes. The air was thick with the bitter stench of smoke, horse blood, and burnt wood. From down the ambush corridor, the roar of Prussian musketry never ceased. And still… the screams came.
One officer turned pale.
"My God… it's a butcher's lane."
Up ahead, the remaining cavalry—those too deep or too crazed to retreat—had begun desperately trying to storm the buildings. Small squads smashed open doors, firing blindly into homes while sabers hacked into door frames and shutters. Inside, they found militia fighters armed with knives, pitchforks, kitchen cleavers, or nothing but fire in their hearts. Some rooms erupted into desperate hand-to-hand brawls, while others became death traps as defenders threw boiling water, coals, or gunpowder-packed jars from stairwells above.
But even then, they could not reach the barricade. No Frenchman got close—not alive. Only bodies, slung from saddles or tossed by exploding horses, slammed against the Prussian wall like broken dolls.
And through it all, the Prince watched, frozen. His fine white gloves trembled. The elegant braid on his shoulder was blackened with soot. His horse turned in nervous circles beneath him, stamping at the blood-slick cobblestones.
"They're dying—damn it, they're dying like fools!" he hissed.
Still, his voice cracked with desperation as he raised his sword and shouted:
"Forward! We must push forward! The cavalry needs support! Clear those buildings! Help them! Do you hear me? Help them!"
Some infantrymen did move—reluctantly, grimly. Officers screamed for order. Lines reformed. And with rifles at the ready, they pushed into the fire, aiming into windows, trying to suppress the enemy positions from afar. French Chassepot rifles, superior in range and power, began to bark out long lines of fire. Some Prussian shooters fell. Others ducked behind shutters and walls.
But most of the infantry refused to go deeper. They'd seen what lay ahead.
"It's suicide," one whispered.
"This isn't war—it's murder," said another.
The Prince raged at their hesitation, his sword stabbing toward the chaos.
"Cowards! Get in there! Follow your orders!"
But then—
Crack!
A shot rang out from the second floor of a house just ten meters from the Prince's position. A soldier nearby collapsed, a red hole in his throat. Another cried out as bullets suddenly tore through a shuttered window above them. The buildings around the infantry themselves began to open fire.
They had been so focused on the kill zone ahead, they had not realized that they were surrounded.
Shutters flew open. Basement doors banged wide. From chimneys, windows, and rooftops came a storm of musket fire and small arms. Old men with pistols, young girls with crossbows, and hunters with ancient rifles all fired from angles the French could not track.
One group of infantrymen panicked, turning to run, only to trip over a hidden tripwire that sent a crate of bricks tumbling from a rooftop—crushing two beneath it.
The battle had exploded outward.
The entire city—every wall, every window—seemed to blaze with fire and vengeance. The streets trembled beneath the echoing blasts. Flags burned, orders dissolved, and the Prince was suddenly swept up in the chaos, his horse rearing in fear as shots whizzed past his ears.
And still, above it all, the smoke rose like incense from a sacrificial fire.
****
Behind the first Prussian barricade, just out of range of French rifles, the black horse of Lieutenant colonel Lothar von Trotha stood calm and proud amid the thunder. His dark flanks shimmered with sweat, but he did not flinch at the cannon-like roars echoing through Saarbrücken's narrow streets.
Tanya sat perched before him, her back against the broad, iron-plated chest of the war-hardened Lieutenant colonel, her boots muddy from long hours commanding on foot. Her crisp, boyish Prussian uniform, tailored sharp and tight, was flecked with ash and soot—yet her eyes sparkled with feverish excitement.
Lili, meanwhile, sat nestled in front of her, her head resting against Tanya's chest, her arms limp, her entire small frame trembling with fatigue. Her own blue uniform was stained at the sleeves, the fabric singed from healing touch after healing touch. Her golden hair stuck to her cheeks, wet with sweat, and her breath came in quiet, shallow draws.
Tanya cradled her gently with one arm, her other hand gripping a small officer's spyglass, which she raised again and again to scan the distant street.
From their perch a top the horse, they had a perfect view of Hell being unleashed.
"Look at them," Tanya whispered, the corner of her mouth twitching with glee. "They're doing exactly what we expected. The Prince—he's a predictable little fool."
Lothar didn't speak. His gloved hands held the reins steady, his face as hard as iron, but his gaze followed the movements down the street with quiet approval. He had told the girls a lot during a short period of time, tried to teach them of all the things that they seemingly knew nothing about, and they were indeed quick learners. Already names of people, towns, rivers and nations were seemingly stuck to their heads, along with the political situation and reasons for this war. They were truly something amazing, not only in their magical ability, but in mind as well, and he couldn't help but nod approvingly.
Meanwhile on the streets of Saarbrücken that had become a maze of death, with the French trying to get ever deeper inside it, war had now seemingly come down to the knife's edge.
One group of French infantry smashed in a door with their rifle butts and stormed a small home—only to be met with fire. A young woman on the stairs hurled a glass jar of burning pitch, while screaming curses in German. It exploded midair. Flames danced across uniforms. Three men went down in seconds, howling, their gear igniting like torches.
Another squad kicked open the shuttered windows of a tavern, rifles blazing inside. They managed to hit a few defenders—only to be struck by crossbow bolts from the second story, shot by an old cobbler's wife with arms like steel from decades of hammering leather. As the soldiers tried to rush the stairs, barrel bombs rigged with nails and gunpowder were rolled from above—shattering walls, ripping flesh.
Elsewhere, French troops tried to flank a barricade through a side alley, only to find the ground collapse beneath them, dropping them into a shallow trench lined with stakes dipped in dung and pitch. Screams followed. The lucky ones died quickly.
Back in the center, near the barricade, retreating cavalry trampled past infantry, spreading confusion. Some French soldiers, in desperation, broke down doors and tried to take homes by force—but the defenders were like ghosts, retreating through backdoors or tunnels, only to reappear in a different window moments later.
Even when the French cleared a house, it offered no comfort. In one instance, they found a basement full of what looked like cowering townsfolk. A soldier reached forward to calm an old man—and the old man exploded, the trap rigged beneath his coat sending shrapnel through the air, killing five instantly and maiming more.
"They're everywhere!" a lieutenant screamed, dragging a wounded man behind a broken cart. "The whole damn town is shooting at us!"
"It's not war!" another shouted. "It's a slaughterhouse!"
And above it all, from windows and rooftops, Prussian voices sang battle hymns, their cries of "Für die Heimat!" echoing louder than the rifle blasts.
Back at the barricade, Tanya lowered the spyglass and grinned. She could hear it now—the panic, the fracturing of command, the collapse of control. Soon the battle for the enemy would be nothing more than an unorganized fight for survival, easy to counter, cut off, surround and destroy to the last man.
At the same time Lili stirred faintly against her.
"They're fighting so hard," she whispered weakly, her voice no stronger than a breath. "Even the old... the broken... they're fighting…"
"They're fighting," Tanya said, her tone soft but deadly, "because they know we have something worth protecting."
Lothar gave a single nod.
"And because you made them believe it," he said, voice like gravel.
Tanya smiled, resting her chin on top of Lili's golden head as more French screams reached them through the smoke.
"Then let them come. We'll bleed them in the streets."
***
French Corporal Jules Moreau had imagined war as something glorious.
He'd grown up hearing stories of his father's saber slashing through Crimean snow, of banners fluttering, drums pounding, and heroic charges. He and his two closest friends, Henri and Mathis, had enlisted together full of that fire—boys from Lyon with dreams of medals and sweethearts waiting for them back home.
But Saarbrücken was a nightmare.
Smoke hung low and thick in the streets like a curse. The dead clogged the alleys. The screams of horses and men blended until Jules could no longer tell them apart. Firelight turned faces demonic, and every open window felt like a mouth about to spit lead and death.
"We need to move," Jules hissed, grabbing Henri's coat sleeve. "We'll die if we stay here."
Henri and Mathis nodded. No argument. No pride left. Just fear and a want to survive.
They climbed over a makeshift barricade of furniture and corpses, their boots slipping in the blood-slick wood, and dropped into a narrow side alley. It stank of smoke, urine, and powder. They moved through it like rats in a sewer, flinching with every gunshot from beyond the walls.
They passed under a low stone arch and came out into a small courtyard, its cracked flagstones overgrown with weeds. Ahead stood an old brick building—an orphanage, Jules guessed. The windows were shuttered. A wooden crucifix hung crooked above the back door.
Jules had read about these places. He knew the stories—Prussia, the iron kingdom, had fought war after war in the last few years. There would be many orphans here. Too many.
But as they neared the door, it suddenly slammed open with a crack like gunfire.
Two women burst out screaming—not weeping, not begging, but screaming with mad rage. One held a fire iron, the other a butcher's cleaver. Their aprons were stained with flour and blood. Their eyes burned like those of Valkyries from hell.
"Raus, Schweine!" one of them shrieked.
Jules didn't think—they all fired.
Henri's shot hit the older one in the chest. She stumbled, blood soaking her apron, but didn't stop. Mathis screamed as the other woman, cleaver in hand and holes in her body, swung low and carved into his leg. He dropped with a howl.
Jules bayoneted her without thinking. Henri helped him finish the other. The air reeked of blood and smoke now. Both women twitched, then stilled.
And then silence followed.
Jules dropped his rifle, his heart pounding.
"Oh, God," he whispered, staring at the red slicked across his hands. "Oh God, what have we done…"
Henri was cradling Mathis, who bled heavily from his thigh, his lips white as ash.
Jules staggered back, knees weak, and looked toward the open orphanage door.
Children stood there.
A dozen, maybe more. The oldest no older than ten. They wore plain clothes, patched and stained. Some of them were barefoot. Their faces were pale with terror.
Jules stood, hands raised.
"Don't look," he begged. "Go back inside, please. I'm sorry—I didn't mean—God, I didn't mean to—"
He stepped forward.
"I'm not a bad man," he said. "I swear to you, I'm a good man. A good Christian."
The children stared.
Then the eldest boy—maybe ten years old—stepped forward. His hair was wild. His face was covered in dirt. He held a carving knife, his little hands trembling, but his eyes did not blink.
Jules saw it too late.
Behind the boy, more children drew small blades—paring knives, sharpened nails, pieces of broken glass tied to sticks.
"Mörder..." the boy whispered. Murderer.
Then they were on him.
The pain didn't come right away. Just a weight. A sudden collapsing into the dirt. Then hot, sharp agony, and the wet pressure of hands pulling at his uniform, taking his pouch, his cross, his medals.
As the world grew dim, Jules saw the children surround Henri and Mathis too. He heard them scream.
One little girl knelt beside him, no older than six. She had curls and a missing tooth. She spat on him.
"You killed Fräulein Greta," she said in German, voice trembling. "She taught me to read."
Then she turned away.
And as the sky dimmed to smoke and silence, Jules finally understood what war really was.
****
Back in the center the chaos continued. Prince Louis-Philippe d'Orléans had never seen a man die before—not truly.
He'd heard the word a thousand times, read of it in polished histories, seen it whispered in old veterans' eyes… but now he saw it all around him—raw, unrelenting death. Screaming. Blood. Real death, with torn flesh and shattered bone and faces twisted in agony or terror. And not just a single death, but many.
He sat atop his rearing, trembling stallion in the middle of the smoke-choked street, paralyzed by all that he saw. Around him, his once-disciplined ranks were dissolving into chaos. Infantrymen screamed and ran, climbing over one another for cover, while others fired wildly into windows and alleyways, desperately trying to hit enemies they couldn't even see. Horses galloped riderless, their eyes wide, mouths foaming, hooves crashing against corpses.
He turned—nobody was listening to his commands.
"Form ranks! To me! Form—!"
A cannon blast rocked a nearby building, sending bricks tumbling down into the street and nearly knocking him off his horse. Screams and flame filled the air. His horse reared again, foaming and bucking beneath him. He felt its panic in his own chest, its desperate fight-or-flight instinct now becoming his own.
I have to get out. I have to get out of here—
He fled, spurring the horse forward. He passed French soldiers wrestling with civilians in doorways, an old woman clawing at a young man's face as her grandson stabbed another in the leg. Blood was splattered on laundry lines, dripping off white sheets like macabre artwork.
Then suddenly—
A flash of light. A shimmer of movement in a window.
The Prince's head jerked toward it on instinct.
Behind the cracked glass stood a girl—beautiful, no older than seventeen. Blonde hair tied back in braids, dressed in a Prussian school uniform, rifle steady in her small hands.
Their eyes met for just a heartbeat.
Then came the crack.
The window exploded in a hail of glass.
The bullet slammed into his chest—and stopped, inches from his heart, caught by the ornate pocket watch that hung by a chain on his uniform. The force of the shot still sent him flying. He hit the street hard, knocking the wind from his lungs as his horse bolted away.
I've been shot. I'm dead. This is how I die—
He couldn't breathe. Smoke burned his throat. The air trembled with noise. Somewhere behind him, a man screamed for his mother.
Then a door crashed open.
An old man burst from a nearby building, a massive smith's hammer held high. His long white beard was stained with soot and ash, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Tod dem französischen Prinzen!" he roared—Death to the French Prince!
The Prince barely understood the words—but he saw the hammer arcing down.
Time slowed.
Everything inside him screamed. But training—those long, dull fencing lessons with the old master in Paris—rose to the surface. He twisted on the ground, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow.
His sword—ornate, ceremonial, but sharp—flashed out on reflex.
The tip sank into the old man's chest with a sickening squelch.
For a moment, nothing moved.
The old man dropped the hammer—but didn't fall. His hands, gnarled and strong, suddenly moved downwards and came to clutch at the Prince's throat, and he growled like an animal. Spit and blood foamed on his lips.
The Prince screamed, wrenching the blade deeper, deeper still, until he felt it grind against the man's ribs. And then—the shuddering stop.
The old man collapsed, and the Prince shoved the body off him, gasping for breath.
He blinked. His hands—slick with blood, trembling. His ears rang. His heart pounded like a war drum. The sword—his ceremonial sword—dripped crimson.
More Prussian militia were rushing at him now—young men and old boys, women with pitchforks, carpenters with chisels, a boy wielding a saber too large for his arms. All screamed, wild and fearless, as they charged.
The Prince rose—something deep inside him snapping loose. Instinct took over.
He cut the first man down with a savage stroke. Then another. He parried a rusted blade, sliced a lunging youth across the neck, kicked a snarling farmer back into the dirt.
"Protect the Prince! Protect the Prince!" someone shouted.
French soldiers stormed to his side, bayonets fixed. Rifles cracked. Blood splashed across walls. The street turned into a melee of smoke and steel, screams and blade.
But the Prince didn't stop.
Not now.
Every swing of his sword sent a shiver up his spine—not horror now, but something else.
He was alive.
Alive.
The blood on Prince Louis-Philippe's blade steamed in the air, hissing faintly as it hit the still-burning cobblestones. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild, smoke stinging them, his curls disheveled, his once-pristine uniform soaked in filth, ash, and gore, like a true warrior of legend. His sword trembled in his grip—but not with fear now. No, something else had taken hold.
He screamed—no, roared, the voice of a boy stripped of every illusion of war.
"Form up! With me!" he bellowed, lungs burning. "Drive them back! Kill them! Kill them all!"
His men hesitated—but only for a moment. Seeing their Prince bloodied, his blade raised and shining red, something awoke in them too. They surged forward, rifles cracking, bayonets thrusting. The narrow street became a corridor of butchery.
But this wasn't glory.
It wasn't the noble clash of soldier against soldier.
It was civilians they fought.
A butcher with a cleaver. A teenage boy with a fireplace poker. An old seamstress with scissors and a scream.
And still they fought. Still they killed.
The Prince's blade found flesh again and again. He cut down a man in a nightshirt, then parried the sudden wild swing of a milkmaid with a kitchen knife. She screamed something in German—he didn't understand. She was crying as she fought.
He ran her through the belly, and she folded around the blade, weeping until her knees hit the stone.
He staggered back, breath ragged, covered in her blood.
This isn't war, some part of his mind whispered. This is madness. This is butchery. This is…
But another part, darker and deeper, snarled back: This is what it takes to win. To survive.
A French soldier nearby—barely older than a boy—was slamming the butt of his rifle into a man's face again and again, long after he'd stopped moving. Another, weeping, wrestled with a child trying to stab him with a sharpened stick.
Everywhere was fire. Screams. The crack of shots. The wet crunch of blades on bone.
The Prince looked up. The buildings loomed around them, dark windows like eyes. And from those windows—death still watched.
The girl who shot him was gone. But he could feel her presence still, somewhere in the smoke.
"We must hold!" he shouted again. "This is our city now! Push them back!"
A ragged cheer came from the throats of a few around him—hollow, exhausted, soaked in trauma. Men who were now fighting not for France, not for glory, but because turning back meant death.
And still the Prussians came.
Not in columns, not in uniforms. But in pairs, in trios, from shadows and doorways and rooftops.
This wasn't a battlefield.
It was a nightmare maze, and they were rats inside it—fighting ghosts, grandmothers, children with knives, boys with grenades made of black powder and nails.
And yet, in the eye of this storm, the Prince stood.
Sword bloodied.
Heart pounding.
And so much blood sprayed across the soot-streaked cobbles as he brought his sword down again, and again and again. The blade was slick, his arms burned, and his breathing came in ragged gasps. His once-pristine uniform clung to him like a soaked rag, soaked with sweat, ash, and so much blood and gore.
Still more of the civilians came at him like madmen—old shopkeepers, a blacksmith with wild eyes, a youth with a woodcutting axe. Some had clubs, others kitchen knives, one had nothing but a jagged plank.
He cut them down with ease. These people had no skill, just a mad resolve and nothing else. Unlike his men who fought at his side, their blades clashing, bayonets lunging, boots crushing shattered glass, and stomping on fallen bodies.
Then suddenly—it broke.
A voice rang out in German, rough but commanding:
"Zurück! Zurückziehen! Rückzug ins Werk!"
The tide turned in a blink. The mob of civilians—what was left of it—broke into a sprint, dragging wounded with them, disappearing down a narrow side street between two buildings.
The Prince blinked, chest heaving. He watched the shadowed alley they had fled into, narrowing his eyes as the last of them slipped away.
"They're running…" he muttered.
"They're retreating!" a soldier near him shouted.
"After them!" the Prince barked, fire once again surging into his limbs. "Don't let them regroup! Run them down!"
They gave chase—dozens of them, still bleeding from the last melee, driven by anger, by pride, by the Prince's voice calling them onward.
Down the narrow alley they went, weaving between crumbling walls and broken carts. The alley stank of smoke and sweat. Gunshots still rang out somewhere far behind, but here there was only the echo of boots and the lure of an easy kill.
Then they emerged into an open space: a wide yard choked with weeds and soot-covered gravel.
Ahead stood an old ironworks.
Its walls loomed like a fortress, dark stone and rusted metal. The massive loading doors stood open, one creaking slightly in the wind. Machinery parts lay scattered outside, and through the open gate, the fleeing Prussians could be seen—scrambling over workbenches, ducking behind old casting vats, running deeper into the shadowed factory.
"They're cornered now," someone said behind the Prince.
He raised his sword, his voice hoarse but triumphant.
"No quarter! Follow me—into the beast!"
And with that, the French charged into the factory.
Rushing past the gates and through the courtyard, the factory then seemingly swallowed them whole.
What little light existed filtered in through shattered windows high above, casting long shafts over dust, rust, and debris. The air was thick with the smell of old oil, metal, and something new—sweat, blood, smoke. Footsteps rang out on the iron flooring, echoing too loud, too fast.
The French poured in, bayonets ready, muskets held high, eyes hunting for movement.
But the factory was vast. Rows of decaying machines cast deep shadows. Conveyor belts hung limp like flayed skin. Chains swayed from the rafters.
And then they heard it, somewhere ahead, a door slammed. A figure moved. A shout echoed, but it was unclear whether it was French or German.
The Prince advanced near the front, sword still drawn, gasping with excitement, fear, and smoke.
"Spread out! Fan out! Don't let them escape again!"
He stepped around a pile of slag and suddenly—
Bang.
A shot cracked from above.
The bullet tore through the air and struck an old French soldier just behind him, sending him sprawling.
Then came another shot—from behind a workbench, and another soldier fell with a pained yell.
Then another shot came again—from the rafters this time.
And then the storm broke.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
From the shadows they came—Prussian militia, men and women both, pouring from hidden recesses, trapdoors, and gantries above. Rifles cracked, pistols barked. Smoke filled the factory floor in seconds, lit by muzzle flashes and screams.
The French formation collapsed instantly.
Some fired blindly into the shadows. Others rushed for cover behind rusted machines or piles of coal. The Prince ducked instinctively behind a steel press as bullets sparked off metal beside him.
"Pull back! Regroup—!" someone shouted.
But it was too late.
The Prussians were everywhere.
A civilian with an old saber climbed over the steel press, and then like a mad man he jumped down towards the Prince, but was shot before he could reach him. Another hurled a Molotov cocktail—its fire burst against a crate, flames licking hungrily toward the ceiling. The din became deafening.
The Prince stumbled forward, determined to break through—when a single shot rang out louder than the rest.
He felt it before he heard it.
A brutal impact against his side. His breath caught.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
He looked down. His coat was torn, black and red. Blood spilled through his fingers.
"No... no, no—"
He dropped to one knee, sword clattering against the floor.
"The Prince! Protect the Prince!"
Two soldiers rushed to his side, dragging him back by his arms. The world spun as he was pulled, boots scraping the floor, the noise of gunfire and shouting merging into a dull roar in his ears.
"Get him out! Now!"
Bullets zipped past as they retreated through the smoke. He looked up through half-lidded eyes, just as another Prussian appeared atop the factory stairs, waving a flag and roaring in triumph.
The Prince coughed blood, then managed a hoarse whisper.
"Damn them... treacherous Prussian dogs... no honour..."
And then darkness took him.