The Polish countryside in February was a graveyard of silence. Bare trees clawed at the sky, their black branches skeletal against the pale moonlight. Snow muffled every sound, yet Christian's instincts told him he was not alone. They were coming for him. The general's corpse might already be found, frozen in the snow along the tracks. The officers on the train would have sounded the alarm. Word would travel fast, faster than Christian's bleeding legs could carry him.
Warsaw's military police, partisan trackers, and mercenaries loyal to Radek's family. Hunters of all kinds would be scouring the countryside by dawn. But Müller's warning was carved into his mind like a scar: "If you are caught, there will be no rescue. You are the shadow. You live unseen, or you die and vanish."
Christian stumbled through frozen fields, the stolen satchel pressed against his chest. His shoulder burned where the bullet had grazed him, blood seeping into his coat and stiffening against the cold. By the time he reached the edge of a forest, he heard the dogs.
Their howls cut through the night like knives. Shouts followed—Polish voices, urgent, angry. Lanterns bobbed in the darkness, weaving toward him. Christian pressed his back against a tree, heart pounding and breath fogging in sharp bursts. For a brief moment, doubt gnawed at him. Perhaps he should run farther into the woods, disappear until the search passed.
But something in him shifted. Running was weakness. Shadows did not run.
A hunter, Müller had once said, strikes when the prey least expects it. Christian dropped the satchel into a hollow beneath the tree roots and pulled out his knife. The steel caught the moonlight, gleaming like ice. Tonight, the hunted would become the hunter.
The first pursuer entered the trees, lantern swinging. Christian crouched low, waiting. The man cursed in Polish, squinting into the darkness. Christian moved like a ghost, stepping soundlessly through the snow. His hand shot out, covering the man's mouth as the blade slit clean across his throat. The lantern dropped, hissing in the snow.
The second came moments later, drawn by the muffled groan. Christian snatched the fallen lantern, smashing it across the man's skull before dragging him behind a log and plunging the knife home. Blood steamed against the snow. The dogs barked frantically now, tugging their handlers closer.
Christian wiped the blade on his sleeve and pressed himself into the shadows. The men were shouting to one another, panic beginning to stir in their voices. One by one, he picked them off. A tripwire strung from branches sent one sprawling, his neck broken on the frozen ground. Another found himself yanked into the dark as Christian tightened a length of garrote wire around his throat until the body went limp.
The forest had become a hunting ground, and Christian was no longer prey.
By dawn, the dogs were silent. Their handlers lay in red pools scattered through the trees. The snow was no longer white, it was painted with the consequence of Christian's choice.
He dug the satchel out from beneath the roots, wiped the frost from its leather, and stood over the corpses. For a moment, the faces seemed to stare back at him, eyes frozen wide with shock.
He expected to feel guilt, revulsion, even fear. Instead, all he felt was stillness.
The fear was gone. The hesitation was gone. In its place was something colder, darker; a quiet acceptance that this was who he was becoming. Herr Müller had shown him the oath of Shadows: "The only way you leave… is by dying."
Christian now understood. The boy who once dreamt of escape with Kristina was gone. What remained was a weapon, honed in blood and silence. Days later, exhausted but alive, Christian crossed into Germany under false papers. His wounds had stiffened, his coat carried the stench of smoke and iron, but the satchel was intact. Herr Müller was waiting.
The office smelled of tobacco and leather. Maps of Europe covered the walls, pins marking territories and troop movements. Christian placed the satchel on Müller's desk without a word. The old man's eyes gleamed as he leafed through the documents, lips curling into a satisfied smile. "Good. You have delivered what others would have failed to bring back. You have shed blood for the Reich." Christian stood motionless, his face a mask of cold resolve.
Müller studied him for a long moment, then leaned closer, his voice a whisper like a serpent's hiss. "You've tasted the darkness now, haven't you, Wolfe? And it tastes of power." Christian said nothing. But deep inside, where the boy named Christian once lived, something darker nodded in silence.