The French had pulled back.
Not far. Not broken.
But enough.
Smoke still coiled from the blackened remnants of the fire-cart, embers glowing red along the scorched stones of the bridge. The timbers crackled as they collapsed inward, splintering into ash and ruin. Bodies lay strewn in silence—French and Prussian alike. Some twisted in death, others slumped in exhaustion, their blood drying into the mortar like paint into canvas. The river below carried away blood and flame alike, its lazy current indifferent to war.
Prussian rifles slowly lowered. Breath returned. Fingers released triggers, some trembling, others numb. Steam drifted from hot barrels under the rising midday sun. Helmets tipped back. Men blinked in disbelief.
No more shots came.
No more shouted commands from across the river.
For a long breath, the world held still.
And then—
A cry rose from the barricade.
"Zurück! Sie ziehen sich zurück!"
"They're falling back!"
It echoed across the square like a cannon blast, not in thunder—but in joy.
A cheer swelled from behind the barricades. It came rough and uneven, like the war-torn hearts of those who shouted it. Men staggered to their feet, some with rifles raised to the sky, others falling to their knees in prayer. Helmets knocked together in laughter, arms thrown over shoulders. One man wept openly, clutching his rosary with a bloodied hand. Another kissed the ground. A third—his bandaged arm still trembling—simply sat back against the wall and laughed like a boy on a summer day.
A sergeant tore off his cap and waved it like a victory flag.
And in the center of it all, standing atop the fractured rim of a broken wagon wheel, was a girl.
Tanya.
Her coat hung loose over her small frame, more draped than worn. Her boots—mud-caked and scuffed—stood firm against the wobbling wood. Her face, streaked with soot and grime, was calm. Eyes sharp. Unflinching. Her rifle slung low across her back. Her hand resting on the grip of a pistol that looked absurdly oversized.
She did not cheer.
She did not raise her fists or cry out to heaven.
She watched.
Watched the men—how quickly hope could return. And how easily it might be lost again.
She scanned the smoke.
They weren't fleeing.
They were reforming.
Behind her, Lili clapped her hands, her voice bright.
"They're leaving!" she whispered, eyes glowing with innocent joy. Her hair caught the sunlight like polished gold.
Tanya didn't turn her head. She only said, flatly:
"No. They're reloading."
Lili's hands stilled.
Her smile faltered.
Tanya jumped down from the wheel. Her boots struck the stone with the sound of finality. Dust puffed up around her ankles. She didn't hesitate. She crossed to the nearest officer, still catching his breath behind the barricade.
She grabbed his sleeve.
"We have half an hour," she said. "Maybe less."
The officer blinked at her, brow furrowed. "Was?"
Tanya didn't wait.
She pulled his hand, pointed toward the bridge, then spun and pointed to the narrow street behind them. She mimed shapes in the dirt—barricade. Trap. Flame.
He squinted. Then his eyes widened.
He understood.
He nodded.
Tanya released him.
Then turned.
To Lili.
"Stones," she said. "More. Three for the alleys. Two for fallback points. We'll need them."
Lili gave a small nod and dropped to her knees without question. She moved with care, her fingers skimming the ground like a musician searching for the right note. She didn't need to look. She could feel the ones that would take the light—the ones that would listen.
Her hands found a stone. Flat. Worn smooth. Still warm from the morning sun.
She cupped it. Closed her eyes.
And exhaled.
The light inside her core surged upward—flowing through her chest, down her arms, into her hands. It was not a forceful blaze. It was gentle. Precise. Like pouring warmth into hollow earth.
The stone pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then bloomed.
From gray to white. From white to radiant pearl. A heartbeat in stone.
She placed it beside her and reached for another.
Then Tanya knelt.
She held a stone in her palm.
It was rougher. Uneven. A shard of something larger once broken. Not beautiful.
Like her.
She stared at it.
Her hand trembled. Not from fear. From awareness.
She hadn't done this before.
Healing was instinct. Urgency.
This was intention.
Creation.
She closed her eyes.
She reached inward. Past the bruises and soot, through memory and fire. To that small, bright flame that now pulsed behind her heart.
Her light wasn't soft.
It was jagged. Coiled. Like a blade buried in her ribs.
But it answered.
She poured it into the stone.
Not all of it. Just enough.
The rock resisted at first. Then drank.
It shimmered.
Then glowed.
Dimmer than Lili's.
But real.
Alive.
Lili looked up, her smile returning. "You did it."
Tanya didn't respond.
She rose.
Her stone still warm in her hand.
She tucked it into her pocket.
Then turned.
Toward the barricades.
Toward the streets.
Toward the work.
Because this was not the end.
It was the breath between blows.
And she meant to be ready when the fire returned.
---
The moment the French guns quieted, Tanya was already moving—boots striking stone as she crossed the open square behind the barricade. Her coat flared behind her like a banner, too big for her small frame but worn with the weight of command. Her rifle bounced on her shoulder, jostling against the strap as she moved. She didn't slow. Didn't hesitate.
The men parted instinctively. Their bodies moved before their minds caught up. Some saluted, though they didn't know why. Others stood frozen, their faces marked with soot and disbelief. A few dropped their gazes, murmuring reverently, "Engel…" under their breath. The word hung in the air—not shouted, but passed like a secret prayer.
She didn't acknowledge them.
She had no time for awe.
Her eyes swept over the town—not as a child seeing a war-torn place, but as a commander surveying a battlefield. She no longer saw homes and shops. She saw geometry. She saw options.
Chokepoints. Crossfire angles. Narrow lanes perfect for traps. Overhangs that could hide riflemen. Windows that could be smashed into firing slits. Crates that could become cover. Barrels that could become bombs. Ladders to rooftops that offered high ground. A dozen roads. Two dozen alleys. All of it—usable.
Behind her, Lili followed. Quiet. Light-footed. Her face still radiant with that holy glow, though it dimmed now to a soft shimmer—more candle than sun. She moved with purpose, like an acolyte laying votive candles in a chapel before dusk. The stones she placed hummed softly, each one pulsing with warmth. They didn't blind or blaze. They breathed. And with every stone, those nearby stood a little straighter, breathed a little deeper, blinked as if waking from a long, gray dream.
The officer from earlier caught up with Tanya, panting, eyes wide. "Was tun Sie?" he asked—What are you doing?
Tanya didn't respond with words.
She pointed to a cluster of barrels piled haphazardly beside a shuttered tavern. Then to the narrow alley between two tenement houses. She mimed rolling the barrels. Stacking. Soaking. Lighting. Her fingers moved like a seasoned engineer drawing in the dirt. Every gesture precise.
The officer stared.
Then he understood.
He turned, voice rising with purpose. "Kisten! Öl! Nägel! Alles hierher!"
Within minutes, the town began to change.
Carts were pulled from stables and flipped. Barrels rolled from behind shops and cracked open, the scent of lamp oil and vinegar filling the air. Windows were smashed not in looting, but to clear arcs of fire. Tables were torn apart. Doors pulled off hinges. Twine used to lash boards together. Men formed teams—one for fuel, one for fire, one for reinforcement.
A woman from the bakery dragged three copper pots out into the square, filled them with water, and started them boiling. A boy—not more than twelve—ferried broken bottles to a stone step where an old man filled them with spirits and packed them with rags. A blacksmith hammered the remnants of iron railing into spikes, his face black with soot.
Tanya climbed a ladder leaning against the grain warehouse and scanned the rooftops. She spotted two men with clean rifles and good eyes and pointed them to the inn's roofline. From there, they could cover half the block.
A baker, sleeves still dusted in flour, now stood with a rusted saber. Beside him, a younger boy held a French rifle, barrel still warm from where it had been looted.
At the edge of the square, Lili knelt beneath the eaves of a bakery. She placed another light stone into a hollow where the wood had burned away. The glow spread—down into the floorboards, into the cracks of the wall, into the air. It washed the room in a soft halo.
A wounded soldier limped past and stopped.
He knelt.
Not in pain.
In reverence.
At the edge of the courtyard, Frau Gerda moved again—this time with a purpose no longer bound by fear. She tore linen into strips and dipped them in soot. White bands with ash-black centers. She handed them out to the volunteers.
To mark them.
Not as soldiers.
But as defenders of light.
Still Tanya moved.
To the chapel. To the back alleys. To the carpenter's yard where planks could be taken. Every route she walked, she left a plan. Every gesture summoned action. She never stopped moving.
In her mind, the town was no longer lines and corners.
It was a living thing.
And she was reshaping it.
By noon, Saarbrücken was no longer just a town.
It was a fortress.
And she had built it.
---
Colonel Lothar von Trotha stood beside the chapel steps, one hand resting on the hilt of his saber, the other gripping the weather-worn bannister of the staircase that overlooked the town square. His greatcoat, stained at the hem and torn across the left sleeve, flapped softly in the rising wind. The cracked cross above the chapel swayed behind him like a judge's gavel yet to fall.
His gray eyes surveyed the streets below—barricades hastily assembled, townsfolk arming themselves with shovels and broken swords, wounded men refusing to sit down. And amid it all, two girls moved with certainty and fire.
One carried a rifle larger than she was. The other carried light.
He had never seen anything like them.
He didn't know what they were.
But he knew one thing: they had given his men something that no regulation, no training manual, no uniform ever had.
Hope.
And now, with the enemy massing again just beyond the river, he needed more than that.
He turned to the three riders waiting in the square below.
They were young. Too young. Faces streaked with soot. One had a bandaged ear where a musket ball had grazed him. Another clutched the reins with trembling hands. They had all fought that morning. Had watched friends die. Had smelled what war really was.
And now he was about to ask them to ride away from it.
"Gentlemen," von Trotha said, descending the stairs slowly. His boots rang against the stone, heavy and measured. "You ride east."
He stopped before them, meeting their eyes one by one.
"To Neunkirchen. To Spicheren. And if need be, to Friedrich Karl himself."
The riders stiffened in their saddles.
"Tell them this: we are still holding. But only barely."
He let that sink in.
"Tell them the French are pressing with thousands—ten, maybe twelve thousand men at the bridge and flanks. We are fewer than six hundred now who can still fight. The rest are wounded. Or worse."
He looked past them, toward the burned-out eastern quarter where smoke still lingered.
"Tell them we have no artillery left. No resupply. That our rifles are split between the living and the dead. That we are outgunned, outnumbered, and boxed in."
He paused.
"And yet—we are still here."
One of the riders shifted in his saddle. "Sir," he said quietly, "my brother is on the line. If I leave—"
Von Trotha stepped forward and placed a hand on the man's bracer.
"If you ride, he might live. If you stay, we may all fall."
The young man nodded. Once.
Von Trotha straightened. His voice was firm now. Measured.
"Tell them the wounded fight beside the healthy. That farmers stand with riflemen. That the baker has burned his bread to boil pitch. That a priest bears a rifle and says mass between volleys."
He looked east again.
"And tell them this: that there are angels here."
The men blinked.
"Not from heaven. Not in white robes. But children who shine. One who commands like a Marshal of old. Another who heals with a touch. They do not bleed. They do not rest. And because of them, neither do we."
A long silence followed.
Then each rider saluted.
And turned.
Their horses clattered across the courtyard stones and burst into a gallop. The echoes of hooves rang out like warning bells.
They passed barricades still rising. Passed women handing out powder flasks and children dragging buckets of sand. Past soldiers who saluted them and townsfolk who whispered prayers.
At the edge of town, just before the slope, one of the riders looked back.
He saw them.
A girl on a rooftop, rifle at her side, wind in her hair, steady like a statue.
And beside her, another, kneeling, hand glowing against the stones of a ruined home.
He didn't know their names.
But he would carry their story.
And when he reached the next garrison—mud-soaked and breathless—he would not speak of lines and numbers.
He would speak of Saarbrücken.
Of the town that stood.
Of the angels that fought.
And of the fire that would not die.
---