We reach the village at dusk.
Small place. Maybe thirty buildings.
Looks abandoned at first, but then we spot movement—people hiding, watching cautiously.
Jakub approaches slowly, hands visible.
"We're looking for Piotr. Resistance."
An old man appears from a barn. "Who sent you?"
"Marek. From Warsaw."
The old man—Piotr, presumably—studies us. Then nods.
"Warsaw fell?"
"Yesterday."
"Matka Boska..."
He gestures toward the barn.
"Inside. Quickly. Germans patrol here regularly."
The barn is larger inside than it looks.
A dozen people already here—resistance fighters, evacuees, soldiers who made it out.
Marek's group arrived an hour ago.
The third group hasn't shown yet.
Probably won't.
Piotr brings food—bread, cheese, water. First real meal in days.
We eat mechanically, too tired to taste it.
"You'll stay tonight," Piotr says.
"Tomorrow, I'll arrange transport toward the Romanian border. Can't promise you'll make it, but it's better than walking."
"Thank you," Marek says.
"Thank me by remembering Poland."
Piotr's voice is heavy.
"When you reach safety, when this war ends—remember we fought. Remember we didn't surrender easily."
"We'll remember."
---
That night, the barn is quiet except for exhausted breathing and occasional nightmares.
I can't sleep.
The medallion pulses against my chest, cold and insistent. The fragments are louder now—voices overlapping, images bleeding together.
Too many deaths. Too many lives. Too many wars fought and lost and fought again.
Kasia finds me outside, sitting against the barn wall, staring at nothing.
"Can't sleep either?" she asks.
"Too much in my head."
"The medallion?"
"Among other things."
I pull it out, study it in the moonlight. Symbols I still don't understand. Power I can feel but can't explain.
"I don't know what this is. What it means. What it wants from me."
"Maybe it doesn't want anything. Maybe it just is."
"Nothing in war just is. Everything's a weapon or a tool or bait."
"Then don't let it be."
She sits next to me.
"You said you took it so Monarch couldn't have it. So it wouldn't become a weapon. Maybe that's enough. Maybe keeping it from them is the victory."
"And if it's changing me? Making me remember things that drive me crazy? Connecting me to something I don't understand?"
"Then you deal with it. Same way you deal with everything else—one day at a time, one fight at a time."
She takes my hand.
"You're not alone in this, Rio. Whatever that thing is, whatever it means—we'll figure it out together. When we meet in Kraków."
"Kraków," I repeat. "That seems very far away right now."
"All good things are far away. Doesn't mean they're not worth reaching for."
We sit in comfortable silence, holding hands, watching the forest darkness and listening for German patrols that might or might not come.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," she says eventually.
"Different route than you. Need to reach resistance contacts in the south, coordinate what's left of the network."
My chest tightens.
"We just got out of Warsaw. We're supposed to reach safety together."
"I know. But work isn't done. Poland needs every fighter it has left."
She squeezes my hand.
"This isn't goodbye. This is 'see you later.'"
"What if it's not? What if something happens?"
"Then you remember me. And you keep fighting. And eventually, you find your way to Kraków and have a drink in my memory."
She smiles sadly.
"But I'm stubborn. Death would have to work very hard to catch me. So plan on seeing me again."
"When?"
"When Poland is free. When the war ends. When Kraków isn't occupied anymore."
She kisses me—soft, brief, carrying weight of everything unsaid.
"Find me then. I'll be waiting."
---
Morning comes too fast.
Piotr arranges transport. A farmer with a covered wagon heading toward the border. Room for six people.
Marek's group gets priority—he's coordinating with remaining Polish forces. Jakub and I are coming with him.
Kasia is heading south with three other resistance fighters.
Different mission. Different destination.
We load the wagon. Check equipment. Prepare to separate.
She approaches me while Jakub is occupied elsewhere.
"This is it."
"For now."
"For now," she agrees.
She pulls something from her pocket—a small piece of cloth, torn from her jacket, embroidered with her initials: K.N.
"Take this. Remember who you're finding when this is over."
I take it, tuck it carefully into my pack next to the Monarch documents.
"I'll bring it back to you. In Kraków."
"I know you will."
She touches my face one last time.
"Old soul who survives wars. That's you. So survive this one. Make it to the end. Find me."
"I promise."
"Good."
She steps back, professional distance returning.
"Now go. Before I change my mind and decide to follow you instead."
I want to say more. Want to make promises I can't keep, guarantee futures that are impossible, hold onto this moment before it disappears.
But war doesn't wait for perfect goodbyes.
"Kraków," I say.
"Kraków," she confirms.
Then she turns and walks away, joining her group, disappearing into the forest path that leads south.
I watch until I can't see her anymore.
Jakub appears next to me.
"She'll make it. Kasia always makes it."
"How do you know?"
"Because she promised to come back. And Kasia doesn't break promises."
He claps my shoulder.
"Come on, młody. Time to leave Poland behind and figure out what's next."
I climb into the wagon. Jakub follows. Marek and three others join us.
The farmer snaps the reins. The wagon rolls forward.
Behind us, Warsaw burns in the distance—a city that fought and lost, that bled and surrendered, that will be remembered or forgotten depending on who survives to tell its story.
I carry its secrets in my pack. Its pain in my memory. Its hope in a piece of embroidered cloth marked K.N.
And somewhere in the forest, Kasia is moving south, carrying her own burdens, fighting her own war.
We'll meet again.
We have to.
The alternative is unbearable.
---
We cross into Romania three days later.
The border guards process us—Polish soldiers requesting asylum, evacuees fleeing German occupation.
They're overwhelmed by the numbers but professional. We're given temporary papers, directed toward refugee camps, told to wait for further instructions.
"What now?" I ask Marek.
"Now we regroup. Contact what's left of Polish command. Figure out how to keep fighting from exile."
He looks at Jakub and me.
"You two are volunteers. Not Polish military. You could go home if you wanted."
"Could," Jakub agrees. "Won't."
"Why not?"
"Because going home means letting them win. Means admitting Poland is finished."
He lights a cigarette.
"I have wife and children somewhere. If they survived, they're in occupied territory. I'm not going home until I can bring them home too."
Marek nods. Looks at me.
"And you, Rio? What's your reason?"
I think about the medallion. The Monarch documents. The conspiracy that sent us to Warsaw to die while they stole Nazi research.
"Unfinished business," I say.
"Need to figure out what I found. What it means. Can't do that from New Mexico."
"Fair enough."
Marek stands.
"Then we stay together. British forces are regrouping in France. We'll join them. Keep fighting. Keep bleeding the Germans until someone figures out how to win this war."
"And if no one figures it out?"
"Then we die trying."
He walks away, leaving Jakub and me sitting in the Romanian refugee processing center, surrounded by people who've lost everything but are still somehow alive.
"You think Kasia made it?" I ask quietly.
"I think she's too stubborn to die."
Jakub exhales smoke.
"And I think you'll see her again. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But eventually. Old souls always find what they're looking for."
"That's not how souls work."
"Says the man with ancient medallion that gives him visions of past lives."
He grins.
"You're not the expert you think you are, młody."
He's right.
I don't know anything for certain. Not how the medallion works. Not what Monarch wants. Not if Kasia survived. Not if I'll ever understand why I remember things I shouldn't.
But I know this: Warsaw fell. Poland lost.
And somewhere in that chaos, Allied intelligence is stealing Nazi research, covering their tracks, building weapons from the horror.
They think they've won. Think they can use me, the medallion, the conspiracy—all of it—for their own purposes.
They're wrong.
I survived Warsaw. I survived the fall. I survived with evidence and truth and a promise to meet someone in Kraków when the world stops burning.
That's enough for now.
The rest, I'll figure out as I go.
One life at a time.
One war at a time.
One memory at a time.
Until either I understand what I am, or I die trying.
Either way, at least I'll die knowing.