Joan of Arc knelt in the churned mud outside Compiègne, her armor gouged, the weight of defeat pressing against her ribs. May 1430 had turned cruel, the siege collapsing into a rout. The town’s stone walls loomed behind, their gates bolted shut, stranding her with a ragged knot of loyal men whose blood now stained the earth. Her sword, once a spark of divine fury, lay snapped in two, its hilt half-buried in filth. Her banner, white and gold, a beacon of her saints’ whispers, fluttered in tatters under Burgundian boots. The soldiers’ eyes glinted—Frenchmen twisted by greed, eager to cage the Maid of Orléans for coin.

  Steel had clashed hours ago, a desperate stand to hold the bridge, but her escort fell, overwhelmed by numbers. Joan’s heart thundered, not for her life but for France, its fields still crushed under English heels. Her visions—Saint Margaret’s soft voice, Saint Catherine’s fire—had led her to Orléans, to victories that shook kings, but now betrayal cut deeper than any blade. The Burgundians, kin turned traitors for English gold, saw her as bounty, not prophet. She pictured her mother’s hearth, her father’s stern nod, and steeled herself.

  A shout pierced the dusk—John of Luxembourg, the Burgundian captain, spurred his horse forward, his chainmail glinting, his smirk sharp as a dagger. “The witch is ours!” he bellowed, and his men roared, a cruel chorus that echoed off Compiègne’s walls. Joan rose, wrists bound by coarse rope, her gaze a blaze of defiance. The Burgundians surged, their hands rough, shoving her toward a splintered cart. Their laughter mocked her dented armor, her nineteen years, her cropped hair. Pain flared in her leg, a wound from the skirmish, but she bit back a cry.

  The cart groaned as they forced her in, its wood slick with damp. Soldiers swarmed, some spitting, others fingering purses heavy with promised ransom. Luxembourg dismounted, his boots sinking into mud, and leaned close, his breath sour. “You’ll fetch a king’s price,” he hissed. Joan’s stomach twisted. Yet her saints had vowed triumph, hadn’t they? She clung to that spark, whispering a prayer. The crowd parted for Luxembourg’s orders, his men ready to drag her to captivity.

  The air thickened, sweet as rising dough, and a tremor pulsed through the ground, too vast for warhorses. Soldiers froze, their jeers fading. Joan’s pulse leapt. The sky darkened, clouds twisting like a storm’s prelude. Luxembourg’s hand tightened on his sword, his confidence shaken. Beyond the trees, something gleamed, and the earth quaked, rhythmic, alive.

  Joan clung to the cart’s edge, her bound hands tingling as a howling gust tore through Compiègne’s fields, uprooting grass and scattering embers from fallen torches. Burgundian soldiers stumbled, their cloaks snapping like sails in a tempest, their shouts drowned by the wind’s feral roar. John of Luxembourg gripped his saddle, barking for order, but the gale swallowed his voice, his men clutching pikes as if battling a ghost. The air, once heavy with mud and blood, shimmered with a honeyed warmth, sweet as a meadow after rain. Joan’s heart pounded, her eyes scanning the sky where clouds churned, splitting open like a wound to reveal a violet blaze.

  Leaves and dirt spiraled upward, and the Burgundians’ torches snuffed out, plunging the field into shadow broken only by a radiant glow descending from above. A massive shape twirled through the storm, not falling but dancing, trailing ribbons of sparkles that burned away the dusk’s gloom. It landed with a thunderous boom that shook the earth, a creature, its purple hide gleaming like polished amethyst, green belly catching the light, grin wide as a child defying fate. Joan’s mind fractured, awe wrestling fear. No saint moves like this. The creature stood tall, unbothered by the wind that lashed her captors into chaos.

  “Hellllo, everybody! I’m Barney the Dinosaur!No cages for heroes!

  Joan staggered free, her ropes crumbling to ash, breathless as the wind tossed her hair and Barney descended again, his light wrapping her in a glow that felt like safety itself. Luxembourg scrambled up, rallying his men with a snarl, but Barney’s eyes twinkled, his tail flicking to yeet a soldier’s shield skyward, where it spun like a comet. “Let’s shine bright, okay?

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  Joan stood firm on the windswept field, her heart a drumbeat as Barney towered over the chaos, his amethyst glow cutting through Compiègne’s dusk like a blade of light. Burgundian soldiers reeled, their pikes snapping under the weight of his presence, their courage fraying against a titan who turned steel to sparkles. John of Luxembourg roared from the mud, rallying a knot of desperate men, their swords glinting with futile rage. Hope blazed in Joan, fierce and untamed, her mission stirring anew.

  Barney clapped his claws, the sound a thunderclap that rattled the Burgundian camp. “No more grabby-grabby!He’s not just freeing them—he’s arming their souls. A woman captive raised a broken shield, shouting for France, and the cry spread like wildfire.

  The Burgundians surged, their boots churning earth, but Barney spun, his tail a whirlwind that swept their war banners into a nearby stream, where they sank with a mocking gurgle. He plucked a sack of their looted gold—coin meant to sell Joan—and hurled it over Compiègne’s walls. The sack burst midair, raining wealth onto the town, and townsfolk poured from the gates, not to hoard but to defy, their voices rising in a chant that drowned Luxembourg’s orders. He’s forged a rebellion from their greed. Men and women, once cowed, now flung stones at their captors, their fear burned away by Barney’s radiant madness.

  Luxembourg lunged forward, his sword raised, eyes wild with hate. Barney giggled, snatching the blade mid-swing and bending it into a gleaming hoop that spun like a child’s toy. “Time to share, not scare!He wields joy like a sword. Barney turned to the camp’s heart, where more soldiers rallied to drag her back to chains. “Big fix coming!

  Joan stood amid Compiègne’s twilight, her heart thundering as Barney’s amethyst glow swallowed the field’s chaos, turning despair into a radiant storm. Burgundian soldiers cowered, their swords trembling, their ranks shattered by a titan who’d made their greed a mockery. John of Luxembourg sprawled in the mud, clutching a warped blade, his face twisted as townsfolk surged from the gates, no longer victims but warriors, their fists raised in defiance. Joan’s resolve hardened, her mission blazing brighter than ever, as if her saints sang through this impossible beast.

  Barney twirled, his tail a whirlwind that uprooted the last Burgundian tents, their canvas flapping like broken wings before dissolving into clouds of golden moths that fluttered skyward. “Time for happy hearts!

  The air pulsed, and a golden rift split the dusk, spilling four bizarre creatures—round as overfed lambs, one red with a triangular prong, another green with a curling stalk, yellow with a stick-like spur, purple with a hoop crown. Their childlike faces grinned blankly, clutching trinkets—a bag, a hat, a ball—that glowed with eerie light. They waddled toward Luxembourg, giggling in a chorus that prickled Joan’s skin. A spiky orange beast appeared, its crest wild, claws strumming chords that hummed through the ground. “Hold up! He’s still here!” it snapped, shoving the oddities back. “Wrong time, try again!” They vanished in a sparkle, leaving Joan dazed, her mind grappling with the madness.

  Luxembourg saw his chance, lunging from the shadows, his dagger flashing for Barney’s back. Joan gasped, her breath catching, but Barney spun, snatching him mid-strike and hoisting him like a ragdoll. “No grumpy stuff!Share the sparkly bits!He’s ended it. My path is clear.

  Barney turned to Joan, his eyes gleaming like dawn trapped in crystal. “Love makes everything glow!” he thundered, his voice soft yet vast, a promise that echoed in her bones. He leapt skyward, the air rippling as he vanished into a golden haze, leaving only warmth behind. Joan stood, breathless, her purpose reborn, the Burgundians routed, Luxembourg a broken shadow. Compiègne pulsed with life, its people chanting her name, their hope a beacon no chain could bind.

  France was born again, showered in a bonkers blaze of dino-spun glory.