Lili was crouching low behind the makeshift barricade, bullets were swishing past her head, as she looked in awe at the Sargent.
Despite the angelic face of a six-year-old, the Sergeant moved with the confidence of a hardened warrior, as she bravely yelled out orders to the big spiky helmet men, and without hesitation they all actually listened to her.
And now by the orders of the six-year-old girl—whose cute angelic appearance masked the grim determination of a soldier from a far darker future—the spiky helmet defenders at the southern bridge moved swiftly.
Quickly Lili seeing the Sargent's bravery also then went to stand alongside her, they were small, but Lili found strength in the Sarge. And now hand in hand, the two nearly identical looking girls encouraged the men ever onwards with their little girlish cheers. And together they also gave commands that no man seemingly dared to question.
"Reload faster, push those wagons, fix that broken section of the barricade, shoot those men in that building, don't be afraid, be strong men, you can do it, we believe in you!"
This and so much more they said, encouraging the men to do better, to keep fighting, to hold strong and survive.
And with precise efficiency, the Prussians unbarred the barricade facing the blood-soaked bridge. Three wagons, their wooden frames doused in oil and set aflame, were pushed forward, rolling over the lifeless bodies of fallen French soldiers. The inferno masked their movements, obscuring them from the riflemen on the other side of the river.
Despite the French firing wildly into the smoke, their shots were erratic—rushed and imprecise. The Prussians seized the opportunity. They moved swiftly, stripping the dead of their weapons, snatching up as many of the superior Chassepot rifles as they could. Each fallen Frenchman had carried over a hundred rounds of ammunition, a bounty of much-needed supplies that the Prussians desperately gathered before retreating behind their barricades once more.
****
On the Southern Hill, within the French Command Post
From atop a grassy hill overlooking the burning town, General Frossard watched the scene unfold through narrowed eyes. His brow furrowed at the sight of his men's repeated failures at the southern bridge. Yet, he did not panic. He was not the kind of man to be swayed by initial setbacks.
As a cautious strategist, he had already ordered defensive earthworks to be constructed around his artillery batteries, securing his position on the hill. If the worst came to pass, he would at least have a fortified fallback point. And he still had the advantage—thirty thousand men armed with superior rifles. It was only a matter of time before the Prussian defense crumbled.
However, time was a luxury he did not have.
The orders to seize Saarbrücken had come directly from Emperor Napoleon III himself. Worse yet, under his care was the Emperor's only son—Prince Louis-Napoléon, barely fourteen years old, yet already eager to play the role of a warrior. With the French press following closely to document the young prince's bravery, failure was not an option.
But even as Frossard strategized, a growing frustration gnawed at him. His cavalry—composed entirely of nobles—refused to conduct long range reconnaissance. Scouting, they believed, was beneath them. Instead, they had pitched their tents near the artillery, lounging in camp and waiting for the chance to execute a grand, glorious charge—just as their ancestors had done in the Napoleonic Wars.
The general exhaled sharply. They were utterly useless.
His gaze returned to the town, and in that moment, his decision was made. If the southern bridge was too well-defended, then the center must be taken instead. He turned sharply toward one of his lieutenants.
"Send word to the men. If they cannot break through the south, they will storm the center. I want a full force assembled—no retreat, no hesitation. Tell them to advance in tight ranks, shoulder to shoulder, and deliver disciplined volleys as they march. The river must be taken before sundown. We outnumber them nearly thirty to one—this should be easy. Now go!"
The lieutenant gave a sharp nod, then spurred his horse into motion, galloping down the hill toward the mass of French troops.
But before Frossard could return to his thoughts, a petulant voice interrupted him.
"You're just wasting time, General! Let me fire the cannons already!"
The young Prince Louis-Napoléon sat atop his own horse, his face flushed with impatience. His small hand gripped the reins tightly, his boots polished to a shine. Though still a boy, he was eager—too eager—to prove himself on the battlefield.
Frossard forced a polite smile. The last thing he needed was to anger the future Emperor of France.
"Your Highness, I understand your enthusiasm," Frossard said carefully. "But at this range, our cannons lack accuracy. If we fire now, we risk hitting our own men again—as we did earlier."
The prince frowned deeply. "So what? The sound alone will break the Prussians' spirits! If we fire enough cannonballs into that town, they'll have no choice but to flee!"
Frossard's fake smile tightened. The boy was naïve.
"Your Highness, the town is still full of civilians. If we continue bombardment recklessly, we may lose international support. And should we hope to bring another nation to our side in this war against the Prussians, we must consider the political consequences."
Prince Louis-Napoléon scowled. "I don't care about civilians! I don't care about politics! My father promised that I would fire the cannons! The people of France expect their Prince to show his courage! I will be written about in the newspapers, and they will see that I am a bold and fearless leader!"
Frossard clenched his jaw. He could not afford to provoke the young heir—but he also could not afford to let him ruin the battle.
Thinking quickly, the general reached into his coat and pulled out a collapsible steel telescope. With a smooth motion, he handed it to the boy.
"Here, Your Highness. Watch closely. Our men will take the town by storm soon enough. You will witness the Prussians breaking before us—watch how they scatter. I promise you, it will be a spectacle worth seeing. And afterward, I will personally allow you to fire the cannons once again at the fleeing Prussians."
The prince hesitated, his brows knitting together. But then, with a huff, he snatched the telescope and lifted it to his eye.
For the first time in minutes, he was silent.
Frossard turned away, hiding his relief. He watched as his men gathered in force near the central bridge, preparing for another charge.
This time, they would not fail.
However, as General Frossard raised his collapsible field telescope to his eye once more, he began to notice… oddities.
At first, he thought it was just the heat haze or smoke playing tricks—but no. He could swear he saw two small girls darting along the Prussian line. Wherever they ran, more Prussian soldiers seemed to rise—soldiers who had been lying wounded or motionless just moments before.
One man had a visible red stain down his chest. Another had a hole in his helmet. And yet, they stood. They fought.
"Impossible," Frossard muttered.
Prince Louis-Napoléon, meanwhile, let out a laugh. He too had noticed the girls, particularly the one who barked out orders with striking authority.
"Haha! Look, General! The Prussians have gone completely mad—they're taking orders from children!" He pointed, grinning. "Maybe you're right after all. Maybe these idiots will be easy to rout. Especially if they've sunk so low they're letting little girls run their war!"
Frossard lowered his telescope, his jaw set, and stared at the boy. "That's no ordinary child," he muttered.
Then, raising the scope again, he watched the older of the two girls shout toward a group of Prussians huddled behind a barricade. And, disturbingly, they obeyed without hesitation—reloading, repositioning, acting with renewed urgency.
"What in God's name are they doing?" Frossard whispered. "Is this a mockery? Some cruel joke?" His grip on the telescope tightened.
Yet there was no time to dwell on absurdities. Below them, the French assault on the central bridge had already begun.
Columns of infantry marched forward, ten men wide, twenty deep. At the head of each column strode a captain with his sword drawn high, leading with crisp authority. The cobbled streets echoed with the synchronized thunder of thousands of boots. Chins up, bayonets fixed, their polished brass buttons gleamed in the sunlight as they moved with mechanical precision—like the glorious armies of old.
Smoke curled from Prussian needle rifles as sporadic gunfire crackled across the river. French skirmishers along the southern bank returned fire, trying to clear the way.
Fallen comrades were dragged aside or stepped over. The march never stopped.
Then, as the French reached the edge of the stone bridge, the real storm began.
Needle rifle bullets hissed through the air. Men in the front ranks jerked and fell—some with shallow wounds, others silent and still. But the tight formation pushed on. Discipline held firm. Even wounded men were hauled along, refusing to break stride. The line advanced.
At the bridge's midpoint, a captain was struck clean through the skull. He dropped instantly, his sword clattering against the stone. A lieutenant took his place, ordering a halt with unwavering calm—even as bullets tore past his face.
"Present!"
The first line leveled their rifles.
"Fire!"
A thunderous volley rang out, rolling from left to right like a drumbeat of death. The front rank knelt. The second line stepped forward.
"Fire!"
Smoke billowed. Men screamed. More French fell. And those who waited in the back, trembling, said nothing. They did not move—not until ordered, or until the man before them was dead.
This was the iron grip of French military discipline. Blind obedience. No thought. No fear. Just movement. Just duty.
Then the lieutenant gave the order they had all waited for:
"Charge!"
With a sudden, primal roar, the French columns surged forward. Bayonets leveled. Blood-stained boots pounding across the stone.
But the Prussians were ready.
Just before the French reached the barricades, the girls' trickery revealed itself again. Small homemade bombs—fashioned from cutlery and gunpowder under the Sargent's guidance—were hurled at the advancing troops. The explosions were small, but brutal. Shrapnel tore through legs and arms. Screams erupted. Men fell hard, clutching wounds or slipping on blood-slick stones.
Then came the fires.
On rooftops and from alleyways, the Prussians hurled burning furniture, torches, and oil-soaked barrels into the path of the charge. Flames danced across the cobblestones. Smoke blinded. The French momentum faltered.
Some tripped over fallen comrades. Others screamed as fire licked at their boots. Confusion rippled through the ranks—panic threatening to unravel order.
And still, the two girls moved like ghosts among the Prussians. One quiet and wide-eyed, the other fierce and commanding. Their hands touched the wounded, and somehow—somehow—the fallen rose again. Broken men gasped and stood, blood drying on their shirts, and fired once more into the chaos.
And so the tide turned.
The French pressed forward, but the cost was mounting. Their discipline, their sheer numbers—it was no longer enough.
Not against this.
Not against them, but despite this all, still more men came blindly charging in.
From across the bridge, more French soldiers surged forward, shouting their war cries with burning zeal:
"En avant! Vive l'Empereur! Vive la France!"
Major Brebis, watching from behind the line, gritted his teeth. The fury of his men was admirable—but to him, this was suicide. He tugged his reins and turned his horse sharply, galloping off to find General Frossard. They needed artillery—not brave men dying by the dozen. No matter their numbers, no matter their discipline, charging like this without softening the defenses was madness.
But most other officers near the rear didn't seem to share his urgency. Only those at the front sensed that something was deeply, terribly wrong.
There—at the central barricade—the battle had begun to twist into something unholy.
The Prussians… were not dying.
Their uniforms were soaked in blood, ripped and shredded like beggars' rags. Their bodies were painted in gore, red from head to toe, like demons rising from the depths. And yet—they smiled. They fought. As if no bullet, no blade, could stop them.
Private Canard, a typical French farmer turned soldier, pushed forward. His broad back and thick arms had once carried sacks of grain—now, they bore a rifle and bayonet. He wasn't a coward, but as he neared the barricade, even he felt dread seep into his bones.
Ahead, a Frenchman stabbed his bayonet clean through a Prussian's neck—a fatal blow.
Or so it should've been.
The Prussian only grinned, his head twitching like a broken puppet, and drove his own bayonet straight into the Frenchman's eye. As the Frenchman collapsed, the Prussian's neck wound closed. Just like that.
Canard froze, heart pounding. But curiosity pushed back against fear. He needed to see—understand—what was happening.
Using the corpses of fallen comrades, he climbed the barricade, desperate for higher ground. The smoke parted just long enough for him to lock eyes with one of the bloodied Prussian defenders. They raised their bayonets in unison.
Both struck at the same time.
Steel punched into flesh. Canard felt a sharp, wet pain bloom in his chest. Blood flooded his mouth, coppery and hot. He was dying—he knew it—but he refused to fall before taking the enemy with him.
Growling through clenched teeth, he twisted the blade deeper into the Prussian's gut. The Prussian did the same. They tore at each other like madmen—like sculptors hacking into living clay, each trying to out-carve the other.
Then both froze, gasping.
Death stood close. But the Prussian… smiled.
From the smoke behind him came a small, rapid set of footsteps. And then she appeared.
A little blonde girl.
Her deep blue eyes shimmered with tears. Her pale cheeks glistened with sweat. Her chest rose and fell with breathless urgency. She looked so fragile. So pure.
And in that moment—everything changed, as he locked eyes with her and took note of her figure fully.
She didn't seem real.
She was a vision. A porcelain doll brought to life. An angel walking through the inferno. Her eyes held a strange unnatural beauty within, ancient and unknowable, wrapped inside the innocence of a child. Golden hair, soft and weightless, framed a face so delicate it could only be described as divine.
Her skin glowed like moonlight on snow. Her lips—soft and pink—quivered with sorrow. Her every blink, every movement, carried a quiet grace untouched by the horrors around her.
She was not of this world.
And Private Canard knew it.
In that final moment, staring at her ethereal form, he felt peace.
True peace.
But the angel had not come for him.
Instead, her presence seemed to strengthen the Prussian, who, with one final push, knocked Canard backward off the barricade. He collapsed onto the bloodied heap of soldiers below.
His breath came in shallow gasps. The pain in his chest deepened. His vision blurred.
Above him, the image of the girl lingered.
There was something unnatural in her. Something impossible to define. Her beauty was too perfect. Her presence too calm, too powerful, amid the chaos.
She was an angel… but not theirs.
And in his final thoughts, Canard wept—not from pain, but from the bitter realization:
God was not on their side.
Darkness claimed him, as her image faded from view.
****
Despite the French attempting to break through with brute force, the weight of casualties and fire soon became too much. The heat of the flames, the screams of the dying, the sharp, unnatural sting of those homemade explosives—it all began to gnaw away at the soldiers' nerves.
Whispers became shouts. Shouts became screams.
"They're demons!" someone cried. "The Prussians are demons!"
The panic spread like wildfire.
French soldiers began to falter. Some stood frozen, trembling. Others, with wide, wild eyes, dropped their rifles and turned. Soon, the line shattered.
They ran.
Men tripped over the dead, fell upon the wounded, stampeded over both. Bayonets and rifles clattered uselessly to the ground. Some climbed over the bridge railing and leapt into the river below, choosing to face the current rather than the bloodied men advancing behind them. Others massed at the bridge's center, jostling, shoving, clawing their way back across in a mad scramble for survival.
And behind them, the Prussians surged.
Blood-drenched, eyes alight with fire, they vaulted over their barricades and gave chase. Their boots thudded across the cobblestone bridge, their bayonets slick with blood. Some did not even swing—just stabbed, fast and efficient, cutting down the backs of fleeing men without mercy.
"Bitte, bitte! Have mercy!" one Frenchman cried, falling to his knees, hands raised.
But there was no mercy.
Not after declaring war. Not after marching into Prussian territory.
And certainly not with the little girl yelling from the rear line.
"Cut them down!" she cried. Her small voice, impossibly loud, rang through the battlefield like a bell of doom. "Show these heretics no mercy! For the glory of the Imperium—cut them all down to the last! We have no time, no men to waste on prisoners!"
And the Prussians obeyed without question.
Their Major, blade raised high, roared in agreement.
"You heard our little lady, men! For the Fatherland—slaughter them!"
A few brave French soldiers stood their ground, either from honor, stubbornness, or shock. Some tried to lift wounded comrades, dragging them toward safety. Others turned to face the enemy, bayonets ready. But their courage only bought them a swift death.
Soon, the Prussians halted their pursuit. They had pushed the enemy far enough. They scavenged what they could—bullets, rifles, even boots—before slipping back behind their barricades like ghosts returning to their graves.
It had all happened in less than half an hour.
Over six hundred French soldiers dead. Hundreds more wounded. The river choked with corpses and the bridge slick with blood.
And now from the safety of the hillside, General Frossard could only watch, mouth agape.
He had sent three thousand men into the town.
Only a bit over two thousand stumbled back out—and they returned in ruin. Bloodied. Shaken. Defeated.
The General scratched at his scalp in frustration, teeth clenched. He muttered, again and again:
"Fuck... fuck... fuck, why now? Why me? Why?"
Prince Louise, hands crossed neatly before his chest, cocked an eyebrow.
"So," he said with a smirk, "can we use the cannons now?"
Frossard didn't answer at first. He looked around. The worried eyes of his officers. The press sketching and scribbling in the distance. And the horror in the faces of his surviving men.
He bit down his pride.
"…Fine. We'll fire the cannons. But not yet."
Prince Louise frowned, and so did Major Brebis, who had just galloped up the hill, blood spattered across his coat. He had come hoping for relief—hoping the General had finally seen reason.
But instead, the General pointed a finger at him.
"You're next. Take your men, or whatever is left of them and prepare to charge. This time we will attack over all the bridges at once. Over numbers will crush them for sure. Vive la France!"
Major Brebis went pale.
It was clear now. This would not be a short engagement. There would be no swift victory. And what had begun as a proud march into Prussia was quickly becoming something else entirely:
A nightmare.
The Franco-Prussian War had truly begun—and already, the French were bleeding.
****
As the scenes of battle and its horrors were taking place down below. On the hill standing close to the General and their glorious Prince, a French journalist pen in hand eagerly wrote. First the title.
From the Eyes of Glory: A Dispatch by Étienne Lafleur, Correspondent for Le Journal de l'Empire.
Then he began to write with great thought and a serious expression on his face, the meat of his text, like so.
High above the smoking rooftops of the Prussian town, I sit astride the hillside with ink-stained fingers and a heart set ablaze by history in the making. Below us, the river glints like a blade drawn from its sheath, and across its wide, stony bridges, French steel clashes with German resolve. The roar of musket fire and the crackling thunder of gunpowder stir the blood in a man's veins—it is war, yes, but it is also poetry. Terrible, beautiful poetry.
Our soldiers, proud sons of France, march into fire with the courage of lions. And though the Prussians fight with a strange and savage tenacity, our men do not waver. What I witness today will surely echo through the halls of Versailles and across every café in Paris. We are not just fighting a battle—we are reclaiming a legacy.
And presiding over it all, like a figure carved from marble, is Prince Louis—the boy who may yet become the man France needs.
There he sits, tall atop his white steed, his uniform immaculate, his young face untouched by fear. His eyes are fixed not on the chaos of the retreating men, nor on the smoke coiling up from the burning barricades—but on victory. He is calm, composed, a symbol of everything that was and could yet be. We saw him this morning, bold and unwavering, firing the very first cannon that roared into the heart of the enemy town. And now? He watches as if standing at the edge of empire, preparing to step into the shoes of his great ancestor, the Emperor himself.
Around me, other journalists murmur in admiration. Sketch artists furiously capture his likeness against the backdrop of war, scribbling notes about his bearing, his poise, his youth. One compares him to Alexander; another, to Caesar. But for me, there is only one fitting name:
Napoleon reborn.
Of course, the battle has not gone entirely to plan. There are setbacks—such is the nature of war. Blood has been spilled. But what is a few hundred lives compared to the soul of a nation? What is a stumble, if the path leads back to greatness?
We, the chroniclers of this holy undertaking, see beyond the smoke and blood. We write not just for the present, but for history. And history, dear France, is tilting once more in our favor.
So I write to you, Parisians. I write to the mothers and fathers, the wives and children waiting in the cafés and salons of the capital: take heart.
Your armies are on foreign soil. Your prince is with them, fearless and proud. The old songs of glory are beginning to stir again, faint but rising like a trumpet call through the fog.
This is but the beginning. The road ahead may be long, but it leads ever forward—to vengeance, to justice, to Empire.
Vive la France.
****
Another journalist burning with passion for France and his Emperor also stood there and wrote.
Dispatch from the Front: "A Fire Long in the Making" by Jules Armand, War Correspondent for La Voix du Peuple
They say war is madness—but I say this madness was long overdue.
As I sit beneath the pall of powder smoke and watch French blood soak into foreign soil, I feel no sorrow—only clarity. The time has come to settle the old accounts. Prussia, that nest of rigid men and cold-eyed kings, has for too long strutted on the world stage as if it were an equal to France. As if it were superior. No more.
Let the diplomats wring their hands and speak of treaties, provocations, accidents. The truth is this: Prussia forced our hand. With their arrogant schemes and creeping influence, they sought to encircle us, to strangle the beating heart of Europe—La France. They dared to try and crown a German as Spain's King, in a mere attempt at mocking us, insulting our honor.
Yes we did start this war, but it was but a answer to these German's, these protestant dog's.
And now, beneath grey skies and amid the stench of blood and smoke, we do as our brave ancestors have done. We kill those who threaten our glory on the world stage.
Yes, the battle today has been harsh. Our soldiers fell—some cried, some ran. That is war. But what the fools in Berlin and their wooden-legged generals do not understand is that we are France. We are not made of numbers and gears and cold calculation. We are made of fire. Passion. Destiny. Our empire may have slumbered for a time, but now it has awakened in the fires of war once more.
And now, at the heart of our rising fire of passion for our glorious Empire stands the boy prince—Louis—young yet composed, eyes fixed on the storm like a hawk watching its prey. The Prussians might laugh, as they always do, behind their ugly mustaches and polished boots, but let them laugh. Let them underestimate us. They will learn what others have before: France may stumble—but when we rise, we rise like gods.
I looked into the prince's eyes today, and I saw no fear. I saw vengeance. I saw ambition. I saw France's return.
The press gallery near me still buzzes with sketches and words, but already I hear cracks in their voices. The newer boys, barely out of their cafés and salons, are beginning to smell the truth of war. Some might grow frightened. Others might grow wise. Me? I am only growing hungry. Hungry for a victory that will not just restore our borders of old—but cleanse them. I want Berlin humbled. I want the Rhine ours again. I want the people of France to believe once more that we were born not to compete—but to rule all of Europe.
Let there be no mercy for the Prussians. Not after today. Not after the mockery, the betrayal, the arrogance. They showed us no mercy when they undermined us, when they laughed at our emperor's fall, when they dared to think we'd never rise again.
Well—look now.
Let the people of Paris know: the blood spilled here today is sacred. It waters the roots of something vast and eternal. We are not fighting a border dispute—we are fighting for France itself. For her pride, her legacy, her soul.
And if we must wade through hell to reclaim her glory—then so be it.