November 1939. Northern France.
Two months since Warsaw fell. Two months since I watched Kasia walk into the forest heading south. Two months since Poland died and we became ghosts fighting a war that's already lost.
The French call it Drôle de guerre—the funny war. The British call it the Phoney War. We call it boring as hell.
After Warsaw—the chaos, the constant combat, the daily certainty that death was one bullet away—France feels like a dream. Or a lie. The war is happening, technically. German and Allied forces face each other across fortified lines. But nobody's fighting. Nobody's dying.
We just... wait.
And I'm going insane.
---
The military base is a converted estate in the countryside north of Paris. Stone farmhouse serving as command center. Barns turned into barracks. Fields converted to training grounds. Comfortable, safe, utterly wrong.
Polish forces-in-exile are mixed with British and French units. We train together, eat together, prepare for a German offensive that keeps not coming. Every day the same routine: drills, equipment maintenance, lectures about tactics we'll supposedly use when the war "really starts."
As if Warsaw wasn't real.
Jakub has adapted better than me. He's always been patient—the kind of soldier who can sit in a trench for days without complaining, who treats war as a job requiring both action and waiting. He writes letters to his wife even though there's no way to send them. Keeps a journal in Polish. Maintains his rifle with obsessive care.
Me? I'm crawling out of my skin.
"You need to relax, młody," he says, watching me pace the barracks for the tenth time today. "This restlessness will kill you faster than bullets."
"I can't just sit here. We should be fighting."
"Fighting who? Germans are in their bunkers. We're in ours. Nobody wants to move first."
"Then we're wasting time."
"We're recovering. Resting. Preparing." He sets down the letter he's writing. "What's really bothering you?"
The medallion burns cold against my chest. The Monarch documents hidden in my footlocker feel like accusations. Kasia's embroidered cloth—K.N.—sits in my pocket, worn smooth from constant touching.
"I don't know if she made it," I say finally. "Kasia. She went south. I went to Romania. No way to know if she survived."
"Probably not," Jakub says bluntly. "German occupation is thorough. Resistance networks are being crushed. Even if she made it out of the forest, odds are she's captured or dead by now."
"Jesus, Jakub—"
"You want comforting lies or honest assessment?" He stands, approaches me. "I liked Kasia. She was good person. Brave. Smart. But this is war, Rio. People die. People we care about especially. You can torture yourself wondering or you can accept it and keep moving forward."
"Which do you do?"
"Both." He pulls out a photograph—his wife and children, worn from handling. "Every day I wonder if Ewa is alive. If Zofia and Tomasz are safe. If they're in a camp or hiding or dead in a ditch somewhere. Every day I torture myself with not knowing."
"How do you function?"
"Because not knowing means maybe they're alive. And maybe alive is better than definitely dead." He tucks the photo away. "So I write letters I can't send. And I train for a war that's not happening. And I wait for the day I can go home and find out the truth."
"And if the truth is they're gone?"
"Then at least I'll know. And knowing lets you grieve properly." He sits back down, picks up his letter. "Until then, I choose to believe they're alive. Same choice you can make about Kasia."
---
I try.
For two weeks, I try to settle into the routine. Train with the others. Maintain equipment. Attend briefings about German positions that never change. Pretend this is normal.
It doesn't work.
The medallion won't let me forget. Every night, the fragments intensify. Visions of past lives bleeding into present awareness. Battles I've fought in armor I don't recognize. Deaths I've died with weapons that won't be invented for centuries. Languages I shouldn't speak but almost understand.
And underneath it all, a certainty: The medallion is connected to Project Monarch. The Nazis found it—or something like it—and tried to weaponize it. Allied intelligence knows about it. Wants it.
They're probably looking for me.
---
The first sign comes in late November.
I'm returning from rifle practice when a British officer I don't recognize approaches me. Older, maybe forty, wearing intelligence insignia.
"Castellanos? Rio Castellanos?"
"Yes, sir."
"Captain Harold Fletcher. British intelligence liaison." He offers his hand. I shake it reluctantly. "I'd like a word. Privately, if possible."
Every instinct screams danger.
"About what, sir?"
"Your service in Warsaw. Debriefing, standard procedure for evacuees. Just a few questions." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Nothing to worry about."
Everything to worry about.
"Of course, sir. When?"
"Now, if you're available. My office in the command building."
Not a request. An order wrapped in politeness.
"I'll need to inform my unit—"
"Already cleared with your commanding officer. This way."
---
Fletcher's office is small, nondescript. Desk, filing cabinets, maps on the walls. He gestures to a chair across from his desk, sits down, opens a leather portfolio.
"You were in Warsaw from September 19th to 27th, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Attached to which unit?"
"Mixed volunteer force. British, American, Polish resistance."
"And you evacuated when the city surrendered?"
"Yes, sir."
He makes notes. Professional. Detached. Like this is routine.
It's not routine.
"During your time in Warsaw, did you encounter any unusual situations? Discoveries? Anything that seemed out of place?"
There it is. The real question.
"The whole city was unusual, sir. Germans were bombing everything. Not much that qualified as 'in place.'"
"I'm referring to specific discoveries. Underground facilities. Research installations. Things that might interest intelligence services."
Play dumb. Don't let him know you know.
"We scavenged for supplies mostly, sir. Medical equipment, ammunition. Didn't find much—everything had been picked clean already."
Fletcher studies me. "Nothing else? No documents? No artifacts?"
"Just empty buildings and dead Germans, sir."
Silence. He's evaluating whether I'm lying. I keep my expression neutral, relaxed. Just a soldier answering routine questions.
Finally, he closes the portfolio. "Very well. If you remember anything unusual, you'll report it immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Dismissed."
I stand, salute, leave. Don't look back. Don't show relief.
He knows.
Doesn't know what I found, maybe. Doesn't know I have the medallion or the documents. But he knows something happened. And he's hunting for it.
---
I find Jakub in the barracks, tell him about Fletcher.
"British intelligence asking about Warsaw?" He frowns. "That's not routine debriefing."
"He mentioned underground facilities. Artifacts. He's looking for what we found."
"The Monarch documents?"
"Or the medallion. Or both." I pull it out from under my shirt. Still cold. Always cold. "They know something's out there. They're trying to find it."
"What do we do?"
"Nothing yet. If we try to expose Monarch now, we have no platform. We're just evacuees nobody cares about. They'll disappear us and take everything." I tuck the medallion back. "We wait. Build credibility. Get closer to people who matter. Then we blow it open."
"That could take months. Years."
"Then it takes years." I sit on my bunk, suddenly exhausted. "But we're not giving them this. They don't get to turn whatever this is into a weapon."
Jakub is quiet for a moment. Then: "You're obsessed."
"I'm focused."
"It's the same thing, młody. And obsession makes you vulnerable. Makes you predictable." He leans forward. "I'm not saying abandon the mission. I'm saying be careful. Fletcher will be watching now. One wrong move and you'll disappear into some intelligence black hole."
"I'll be careful."
"No, you won't. You'll hyperfixate and ignore everything else." He's right and we both know it. "So I'll be careful for you. Watch your back. Keep you from doing something stupid."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me. Just don't die stupidly. Would be embarrassing after surviving Warsaw."
---
December brings snow and false reports of German offensives that never materialize.
I throw myself into training to distract from the obsession Jakub correctly identified. Physical exhaustion helps. Running until my lungs burn. Combat drills until my muscles scream. Anything to quiet the medallion's whispers and the fragments that won't stop.
Fletcher appears periodically. Watching from a distance. Taking notes. Building a file on me, probably. Trying to figure out what I know.
I give him nothing.
But the medallion burns colder every day. The fragments intensify. Past lives bleeding together until I can barely tell which memories are mine and which are echoes from soldiers I used to be.
One night, I dream I'm on a battlefield I don't recognize. Medieval armor. Sword in hand. The medallion around my neck, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. And a voice—female, ancient, speaking Latin I shouldn't understand: "The guardian remembers. The cycle continues. Death is never final for those who carry the mark."
I wake gasping, hand clutched around the medallion.
Jakub is awake, watching. "Bad dream?"
"Something like that."
"The medallion?"
"Yeah."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Want me to pretend I didn't notice you're losing your mind?"
I almost laugh. "That obvious?"
"Very obvious. You're talking to yourself. Checking the medallion constantly. Staring at nothing with that look people get when they're seeing things that aren't there." He sits up. "Rio, I'm worried. Whatever that thing is, it's getting inside your head."
"I know."
"So what do we do about it?"
"I don't know. I can't get rid of it—feels wrong, like cutting off a limb. But I can't ignore it either. It wants something from me. I just don't know what."
"Maybe it doesn't want anything. Maybe it's just echoing."
"Echoing what?"
"All the lives you've lived. All the deaths you've died. All the wars you've fought." He stands, moves to his footlocker, pulls out a bottle of vodka he's been saving. "My grandmother used to say objects absorb the people who carry them. That ancient things remember their owners. Maybe that medallion remembers you. And you're remembering it remembering you."
"That's circular logic."
"So is reincarnation." He pours two glasses, hands me one. "To things we don't understand but have to deal with anyway."
We drink.
---
January 1940 brings routine and restlessness in equal measure.
The Phoney War continues. No attacks. No advances. Just two armies staring at each other across no-man's-land, waiting for someone to make the first move.
I spend my free time investigating Fletcher quietly. Asking questions without asking questions. Who is he? What's his role? Who does he report to?
The answers are frustratingly vague: British intelligence liaison. Logistics specialist. Connected to some shadowy department nobody talks about directly. Been in military intelligence since before the war started. Recruited straight from Oxford—history and languages, someone mentions.
Desk officer. Never saw combat. Professional bureaucrat playing at soldier.
The kind of person who sends men to die while keeping his hands clean.
The kind of person Monarch would use.
---
February brings a thaw and renewed training intensity.
Rumors circulate: German offensive coming soon. Spring at the latest. The Phoney War can't last forever. Eventually, someone will make a move.
I'm in the mess hall when Jakub finds me, expression grim.
"Fletcher's giving a briefing. Wants volunteer units for reconnaissance operations into German-held territory."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. He specifically requested our unit. By name."
Ice forms in my stomach. "He's sending us into danger."
"Or he's testing us. Seeing how we perform under pressure. Trying to figure out what we know." Jakub sits across from me. "We could refuse. Say we're not ready. Medical issues. Something."
"And look suspicious? No." I think it through. "We go. We do the mission. We come back. And we watch for what he's really after."
"What if the mission is designed to kill us? Get rid of witnesses?"
"Then we survive anyway." I meet his eyes. "We've done harder than whatever Fletcher can throw at us. Warsaw was hell. This is just France."
"Famous last words, młody."
"Probably."
---
The briefing is the next morning.
Fletcher stands at the front of the room with maps and a pointer, looking every bit the professional intelligence officer. Our unit is small—ten people total. Jakub and me, plus eight others who survived Warsaw.
"Gentlemen," Fletcher begins. "As you know, the situation has been... static for several months. However, intelligence suggests German forces are repositioning. We need eyes on their movements." He taps the map. "This sector, thirty kilometers northeast. Reports indicate a supply depot and possible staging area. Your mission is simple: observe, document, return. No engagement unless absolutely necessary."
Simple missions are never simple.
"What's the timeline?" someone asks.
"You leave at dusk. Travel at night. Observe at dawn. Return by the following night." Fletcher's eyes sweep the room, land on me briefly. "Standard reconnaissance. Nothing dangerous if you follow protocol."
Lies. This is a test. Or a trap. Or both.
"Any questions?"
Nobody asks. We're all thinking the same thing: This is wrong. But orders are orders.
"Dismissed. Report to the armory at 1800 hours."
---
We gear up in silence.
Check weapons. Load ammunition. Pack rations and maps and everything we'll need for a two-day operation that should take one.
Jakub works next to me, methodical and calm despite the obvious danger.
"Fletcher's trying to isolate us," he says quietly. "Get us away from the base where anything could happen."
"I know."
"So what's the plan?"
"We do the mission. But we stay alert. Watch for traps. And if we find anything about Monarch..." I touch the medallion under my shirt. "We document it. More evidence."
"And if Fletcher's setting us up to die?"
"Then we kill whoever he sends and come back anyway." I check my rifle one final time. "I've died before. I'm not scared of dying again. I'm just annoyed at the inconvenience."
Jakub laughs quietly. "You're crazy, młody."
"Probably."
"Good. Crazy people survive longer. They're too stupid to know when to give up."
---
We leave at dusk, ten soldiers moving into German-held territory.
The countryside is quiet. Too quiet. No patrols. No sentries. Just empty fields and abandoned farms and the eerie silence of land caught between armies.
The medallion burns colder the farther we go.
Warning? Recognition?
I don't know.
But something's waiting out here in the dark.
And Fletcher sent us to find it.