The train thundered eastward, its iron lungs heaving smoke into the frozen night. Each turn of the wheels carried Christian further from Paris, further from Kristina, further from the man he had been. He sat in silence, his hand resting against the cold windowpane, watching the world pass in fragments, ruined villages, fields left fallow, and forests like black walls against the sky. Europe was narrowing, closing in, until there was nothing but rails, frost, and war.
Kristina's face followed him still. In the lantern's tremor, her eyes flickered across the glass, her voice lingered in the hiss of the engine. The memory of her hand clutching the ring; their ring. It burned sharper than any wound. He had given her hope in that moment, only to tear it away again. To save her, he had to hurt her. To keep her alive, he had to let her go. Such was the bargain of survival in this empire of wolves.
But his thoughts did not rest with her alone.
Katia came to him, his sister's laughter, thin and silver, echoing across fields of childhood. She had been the gentler part of his soul, the one who believed in books and light and the goodness of people. He wondered if she still carried that brightness, or if the war had already stolen it from her. He had not seen her in years. He did not even know if she was safe. But in the quiet sway of the train, he clung to the thought of her as one clings to a candle in storm.
The officers in his carriage were drinking, trading crude jokes, already dividing Russia into maps and spoils. Their voices were thick with confidence, as if this campaign would be like France, like Poland, another swift march, another easy victory. Christian knew better. He had read too many reports, too many warnings. The land they were rushing toward was vast, endless, and pitiless.
Russia was no France. Russia was a graveyard dressed in snow.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers clasped tightly. The storm inside him threatened to break, but he forced it still. If Müller suspected weakness, he was finished. If Canaris doubted him, Kristina's safety would vanish. Everything hung by a thread.
Do your duty. Do it well. Survive.
That was the vow he forged in the clatter of wheels and steel. To live was to protect Katia, his family, and the memory of Kristina. To bend was to endure. He could not fight the Reich yet, but he could outlast it.
The train screeched, slowing as dawn bled pale across the horizon. Soldiers stirred, gathered their rifles, their breath clouding in the icy air. Outside the frost-rimmed windows, a sign loomed in black letters, the line between Poland and Russia. The border. The threshold into another world.
Christian rose slowly, his coat heavy on his shoulders, his eyes hollow with sleeplessness. The train doors clanged open, letting in the bitter wind. He stepped down onto the frozen earth, boots crunching against the edge of empire, where the road ahead vanished into the white silence of the East.