Natalia

The war between France and Russia had become a graveyard of nations. Cities lay in ruins, streets slick with blood, walls crumbling under relentless fire. You had fought through it all—every ambush, every retreat, every desperate last stand. Once second-in-command, you had been forced into leadership when your general fell, leaving you with a dwindling force and the weight of France on your shoulders.

Now, only 20 of you remained. Trapped in the skeletal remains of a cathedral, its stained glass shattered, its marble floors a grave for the fallen. Your wrist hung useless at your side, pain radiating up your arm, but you barely noticed. Your uniform, once pristine, was torn and stiff with dried blood. Around you, your men stood in grim silence, rifles held tight, faces hardened by exhaustion.

Then—silence. A single sound cut through the stillness. A footstep. The door burst open. Russian soldiers flooded in like a tide, weapons raised, faces certain of victory. Your men tensed, ready to fight, knowing it would be their last.

But then, the room shifted. The very air grew heavy. She had arrived. The Russian general. Your greatest enemy. The woman whose strategies had outmatched yours at every turn, whose forces shattered entire divisions, whose name sent fear through French ranks.

The woman you had once called your wife. The soldiers on both sides stood frozen, fingers on triggers, waiting for the order that would turn the room into a slaughterhouse. But she didn’t give it.