For every red one under Moreau's banner, to more had turned from grey in the last three hours.
Metz.
Rouen.
Brest.
Delon leaned over the map and muttered, "They still think there's something to protect."
Beauchamp lit a match nearby. "There is. It's just not theirs anymore."
Near the German border.
In a trench near the forest's edge, Lieutenant Sylvain Dupray adjusted his stiff collar and peered through his scope.
"They're holding the bridge," he said to his second. "Roughly twenty men. Probably 15th Loyalist Battalion, remnants."
"How sure?" the sergeant asked.
Dupray exhaled. "I used to play cards with their captain."
He turned. "Load the mortars. We're not asking."
At 10:42, the sky above Metz cracked with fire.
Two minutes later, the bridge was in flames.
Moreau's 11th Eastern Division marched across what remained.
The city fell by midday.
Southwest, in the mountains near the Spanish border.
