Smoke curled in the ruined air like the ghost of a thousand French dreams, drifting lazily above broken stones and blood-streaked corpses. The screams had quieted. The moans of the wounded faded behind barricades now heaped high with death. And in the eye of this storm stood Lieutenant Colonel Lothar von Trotha, young, noble, and already carved into legend by blade and bullet alike.
At only twenty-two, his Prussian-blue uniform was already heavy with the dust of war, his boots soaked in the blood of both friend and foe. His sword, notched and stained, still hung loosely at his side, but his spine stood as straight as any cathedral spire. His jaw clenched, and his pale eyes gleamed with that cruel, eager light—the kind born not from duty, but from delight.
War was a game. A beautiful, brutal game. And Lothar was winning.
But even he—arrogant, seasoned, unshaken—knelt now, heart pounding, breath held, eyes wide as the one called Jen stepped forward, flanked by the ethereal figure of her supposed little brother Jin. His mind was racing with questions, the two were clearly twin sisters, and yet the one calling herself Jen said that they were brothers.
Well whatever the case was, they were girls in his eyes. And to him the twin girls were a paradox in flesh: one commanding, otherworldly, terrible in her authority despite her youthful voice; the other glowing, almost too soft to be real. But it was clear now to Lothar—these were no ordinary children. These were angels of blood and flame sent to guide the Prussian people through their darkest hour.
And when the Sergeant spoke, the men—officers, veterans, even Lothar—listened like faithful acolytes gathered at the feet of a prophet.
"We held the first bridge," the girl called Jen said, her voice calm, high-pitched, sweetly musical—and yet each word cracked like a whip. "We have shed their blood. But they will come again. Stronger. With more."
She paused, her small shoes stepping onto a crate as she stood above the gathered commanders. Her twin, Jin, stood behind her with hands clasped neatly, her golden hair catching the sun like a halo.
"They believe this town will break. That we will run, that we are few, that we are tired. Let them think so."
Murmurs passed among the officers, but the Sergeant silenced them with a single motion.
"Colonel Lothar."
He stepped forward, chin lifted, a twitch of excitement betraying his composure. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Rally the men. Strip every French corpse of weaponry, of cartridges. Gather powder. Anything that can kill, I want it counted. Logged. Used."
"It will be done," Lothar answered, voice sharp with pride.
"I want every able-bodied civilian brought to the church square," she continued. "We will arm them—old men, boys, women, and girls. If they can hold a rifle, they will. Those who cannot fight will dig. Hammer. Barricade. Everyone serves."
A captain began to raise an objection about civilian lives—but Lothar shot him a look that froze the man's tongue in his throat. The girl went on.
"Burn the first line. Everything. Every house. Every corner. We'll leave them smoke and fire. Make them think we're gone. Then, we funnel them into the northern district. Into the alleys, into the streets. And that's where we bleed them."
She turned to the gathered map on the crate behind her, stabbing a tiny finger down onto it.
"Here. And here. We build two fallback lines. Deep trenches with stakes. Sharp, tight corners with pits full of sharpened little sticks. Windows will be turned into firing holes. Barricades must also block every alley, funneling them into a few key streets where they will die. And ambushes all along the way, with more traps and makeshift bomb's. This will be a guerrilla war. And they will not find an army—they will find hell waiting for them. And if worse comes to worse we will burn this town into ruin in order to win."
A chill ran through the crowd. Lothar smiled.
"And finally," she added, "we need reinforcements. I want a rider—fast. Skilled. They will head to our nearest division and tell them what has happened here. Tell them we held. Tell them Saarbrücken bleeds, but still stands. And we will stand."
She looked to Lothar again.
"Will you ride?"
Lothar didn't hesitate.
"No, my place is here, with you. I will send my fastest rider. And I will stay to defend this town with my life—and beyond."
The girl gave a nod of approval. As the other girl offered a serene smile, one that made Lothar's heart leap and burn with a strange, unholy devotion.
The officers dispersed quickly, orders echoing like gunfire across the battered city. Civilians were dragged from hiding, pressed into ranks. The smell of fire soon returned—not from war, but from the intentional burning of the outer line.
Lothar stood watching it all unfold, his heart thundering not with fear, but rapture. He was not simply defending a town. He was fighting for angels. For divine purpose.
And as he turned to the girls—his Saints of War—he whispered to himself:
"They are not of this world. But I will die in this one, a thousand times over, if it pleases them. So cute."
****
The square outside the old church had never seen such chaos. Not during past wars, not during revolutions. It was as if the town itself had gone mad.
From every corner of the northern quarter, soldiers barked orders, dragging out families from homes that still stood, herding them like cattle toward the square. Grandfathers with trembling legs. The women from the towns one single small factory with soot still in their hair. Boys not yet grown, girls clutching dolls or kitchen knives. The healthy, the lame, the blind—all were marched under rifle-point to the church.
There was shouting. Crying. Confusion.
"What the hell is this madness?" muttered Private Jürgens, barely twenty, eyes wide as he handed a rifle—a real rifle—into the frail hands of a girl who couldn't have been older than ten.
"She's a seamstress," he whispered to the sergeant beside him. "She's a child."
"She's a fighter now," the sergeant grunted. "Orders."
"Orders from who? A child. A six-year-old girl."
The sergeant said nothing. Because what was there to say? They were all thinking it. It was madness. It was lunacy. It was war.
An old man limped forward in line. A veteran, judging by the medals pinned to a threadbare coat. One eye milky, a stump where his hand should've been. Jürgens stared at him, the absurdity of it all rising like bile in his throat.
"What's next? Corpses with bayonets? Dogs with grenades? Why are we handing rifles to the dying?"
But then—it happened.
The crowd fell silent. A ripple, like wind through wheat, passed over them. Heads turned. Whispers followed. And then came the sound—not boots, but the unmistakable rhythm of marching. Deliberate. In control.
And from the church doors emerged them.
Lili and the Sergeant.
The two girls—small, delicate, dressed in boy's military jackets that barely fit—walked in perfect tandem, flanked by grim-faced soldiers whose eyes burned with something more than loyalty. Devotion. Obsession. Worship.
Their golden hair caught the light like halos, but it was their presence—somehow heavier than the air around them—that stunned the square into stillness.
A woman gasped. A man fell to one knee.
Lili smiled softly. The Sergeant gave a curt nod.
"Bring the wounded forward," the Sergeant commanded. Her voice was sweet. Calm. Untouched. "The broken. The old. The unworthy."
The people hesitated—but only for a moment. Then, one by one, they came.
The first was the old war veteran. One arm, a trembling wreck. His eyes were dim with fatigue and bitterness.
Lili stepped forward and touched his shoulder.
A soft glow. A pulse, like sunlight through stained glass.
His missing hand regrew before their eyes.
The murmur became a cry. People surged forward.
A woman, hunched with age, dropped her cane as her spine straightened, her breathing eased. A boy with clubbed feet walked without pain. A factory worker gasped as fingers crushed in an iron press twisted back into shape.
And everywhere, mouths hung open. Tears fell.
Lili smiled gently. The Sergeant stood behind her, watching not the people, but the eyes of the soldiers. Judging their faith.
Private Jürgens fell to his knees, rifle forgotten, his mouth dry.
"She really is…" he whispered. "She's not human. She's…"
"A Saint," someone muttered.
"An angel."
"No… she's more."
And then someone began to sing.
It started low—an old hymn, half-forgotten. Then louder. Soon the whole square echoed with it. The old, the young, the weak, all raised their voices, trembling and awed, until even the hard-faced soldiers sang.
It was not just obedience now. It was faith. Fervor.
One child, no more than eight, raised her hand for a rifle. Her father, pale, hesitated—but then looked at Lili, at the light around her, and nodded.
Even the children would fight. For her. For them.
The Sergeant turned to Lothar, who stood at the edge, watching it all unfold.
"This town will not fall," she said. "Not while they believe."
Lothar saluted sharply, heart pounding.
"We'll hold it in your name, my lady. Until the end."
And the bells of the church rang out—not for a wedding, nor for mourning—but like a call to arms, holy and terrible. A city reborn in war and faith, ready now to turn the streets into sacred ground.
****
The cheers still echoed in the square like waves, crashing joyfully against the stone buildings, as rifles were raised skyward and voices sang praises not just of Fatherland, but of the two radiant children who had turned despair into hope.
Yet amid the thunderous celebration, Lili tugged gently at the Sargents sleeve.
The Sergeant turned. "What is it?" she asked, still watching the people with a soldier's gaze—calculating, always calculating.
But Lili wasn't looking at the crowd. Her wide, solemn eyes were fixed on the Sargent alone.
"They keep calling us sisters," Lili whispered. "They call us girls… but we keep lying. Saying we're boys. Saying we're Jin and Jen. That's not true. We're not them. We're not boys."
Hearing this the Sargent froze.
The joy and energy of the square faded around her, as if the very world had gone quiet. Lili's words, spoken in such a soft, innocent tone, struck deeper than any cannon ever could.
"We should tell them who we really are," Lili said. "Lying is bad. Right? Or well that's what Mother always told me, and it also feels bad. It's wrong, it's something that bad people and bullies do, isn't it?"
At this, the Sargent opened her mouth—but nothing came out.
She looked at Lili, really looked at her. The soft gold hair, the glow of something holy behind her eyes, the delicate hand still holding onto her sleeve. This girl—this cute little being—had changed everything.
She had followed her through hell. Had given her a second life. A better one, a life with almost infinitely more possibilities than her last. Even if it had been by accident, through some divine fluke or cosmic joke. Even still this girl had saved her, because she really from the bottom of her pure heart truly cared for her.
And somewhere in her heart, a part that had been iron-wrought and frozen for years began to melt.
She wasn't a sergeant anymore. Not here. Not in this world. Not in this body.
And she wasn't a man.
She wasn't Jin.
She was…A girl.
A sister, kind of, or well the idea of it felt nice. To be Lilis twin sister instead of a brother, and for Lili to be her little sister. Now that, or the idea of it was kind of nice to her, as much as it shouldn't have been. But she just couldn't help it as she looked into Lilis eyes, those big deep blue eyes of hers. And knowing that Lili, this pure little girl, had given a part of herself to save her. And so technically they were one, they were in fact twins of the same core, and possibly even of blood.
And somehow just then a thought came to her. Her own mother's name, Tanya. Yes that was it. Maybe, just maybe that could be her. She would be Tanya, in her own mother's memory, in respect to her… And that would be good.
And so with all this in mind she relented, and she took Lili's tiny hand in her own, squeezing it with quiet reverence.
"You're right," she said, her voice trembling with something unspoken. "No more pretending."
Tanya turned to the crowd, that were still cheering, still singing hymns with rifles raised to the sky.
She stepped forward, lifting her hand for silence.
Slowly, respectfully, the people obeyed.
"I am not Jen, I'm not a sergeant," she said, her voice clear and light now, like a bell ringing after mass. "And I am indeed not a boy, not that I really need to tell you all that."
She glanced at Lili, smiling softly. "This girl—this sweet, perfect girl—is my little sister. Her name is Lili. And I… am Tanya."
A pause—then she raised both their hands together into the air.
"We are twin sisters," Tanya declared. "No family name. But bound by blood and fate. Sent not by armies nor kings—but by something greater. To protect you. To fight for you. And to love you—as long as you remain good, and faithful, and just to us."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then the crowd erupted.
The cheers this time were thunderous, wild, uncontained. Lili! Tanya! Lili! Tanya! They chanted like a prayer, rifles held high not in salute—but in celebration. Some dropped to their knees. Others cried. A few clutched their children to their chest, whispering thanks.
No one questioned anymore.
Not the madness of giving rifles to children. Not the miracles. Not the war they found themselves in.
Because now they believed.
Not just in victory.
But in them.
And as the townsfolk surged to their posts, readying themselves for the brutal French assault soon to come, Lili leaned against Tanya's side, smiling.
"You called me your little sister," she said softly.
Tanya looked down at her, lips curling with amusement and a strange, warm affection.
"Well… you are," she replied. "And I'm proud to be your big sister."
In that moment, as drums began to beat in the distance and bells tolled for war once more, it wasn't fear that filled the streets—but faith.
Faith in Lili and Tanya.
And faith… can be far more dangerous than bullets. Having served in the Imperial army Tanya knew this better than anyone, and in order to win she would use this. She would use whatever she had to in order to win.
***
From the hilltop that overlooked the town of Saarbrücken, the French command stood in stunned silence.
Smoke billowed into the sky in thick, choking plumes, rising from the northern edge of the river like a funeral pyre. The crackling of flames reached even their distant ears, as buildings—homes, shops,—were all swallowed by fire. The townspeople's screams were faint, but they were there.
General Fossard narrowed his eyes through his spyglass. They're burning their own city… he thought, dumbfounded.
Behind him, aides and junior officers murmured anxiously, and a few journalists sketched frantic strokes in their notebooks, breathless with the drama of the scene. One of them was already whispering phrases like, "The desperate Prussians, lighting the match to their own failure…"
But Fossard wasn't so sure.
"They're… pulling back," one officer said, lowering his telescope with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "Sir, they're retreating. Look. They're abandoning the forward defenses."
And indeed they were. Black shapes—Prussian soldiers—could be seen slipping away behind walls of smoke, disappearing into the labyrinth of narrow streets. No artillery fired. No bullets whined. It was as if the defenders had vanished, leaving only ash in their wake.
Atop his shining white steed, Prince Louis-Napoléon let out a victorious laugh that echoed off the hills like a cannon blast. His young face was alight with excitement, cheeks red, eyes wild.
"Ha! Do you see, General?" he said, his sword raised to the heavens. "They flee before us! They lack the stomach for war! The rats set fire to their own nest and run! We must press the attack now—before they escape!"
General Fossard flinched at the words.
"Yes… perhaps," he murmured. But his voice was uncertain, quiet, as his mind raced.
He remembered another fire. Another retreat.
1812. Russia. Napoleon. The Grand Armée, mighty and proud, lured deeper into frozen hell by burning cities and scorched land. By the time they reached Moscow, it was gone… and so were their hopes.
"Sir?" asked Major Brebis. "Your orders?"
Fossard didn't answer. His jaw tensed. Could it be the same? Could these devils… could they be sacrificing the town to pull us in?
Behind him, the eyes of the press were burning hotter than the flames below. Waiting. Judging. Writing history with every word they scribbled. To hesitate now might cost him not just the battle, but his legacy.
But to charge…
Then came the hoofbeats.
Fossard looked up just in time to see Prince Louis-Napoléon spur his horse forward, his white cloak flowing behind him like a banner of the old Empire.
"FOR FRANCE!" the boy cried, riding toward the bridge like a comet.
The men roared with patriotic fervor.
And before Fossard could shout a word, the orders were already echoing through the ranks.
"Fix bayonets!"
"Charge! Charge the town!"
Thousands surged forward, crossing the river once more, this time not into gunfire—but into fire itself. The flames had created eerie curtains of heat and smoke, distorting vision and choking breath, but still they ran—believing the enemy had turned tail, believing that victory was within reach.
And yet…
Behind those flames, under the cover of smoke and ash, hidden in alleyways and basements and rooftops…
The Prussians waited.
Tightly wound tripwires stretched across corridors. Barrels of gunpowder were buried beneath cobblestone paths. Glass bottles of kerosene stood ready to rain down from windows. And behind each makeshift barricade, each broken wall, rifles were poised. Bayonets gleamed. Eyes watched. Hearts were still.
They had not retreated.
They had invited.
The trap was sprung.