Wilt Norcutt snapped the second the door shut behind the military men.

  “Where is he?” Her voice was sharp, furious. “Is Adam Graf not here?”

  She crossed the room like it was a cage and slammed her palm on the table.

  “Where did he fly off to, damn all of you?”

  One of Iorvet’s former allies, Kenan Kilic, stood by the wall. He still wore his uniform, but the insignia had been stripped away. His face was gray with lack of sleep. He clearly hated being the one who had to answer.

  “He didn’t leave us a message,” he said. “He slipped out quietly. We realized too late.”

  Wilt stared at him like she might put a round through his head. Control held.

  “I know why he did it,” she said. “He wanted to slow me down. And he did. I sat here while he walked away clean.”

  Kilic lifted a shoulder.

  “Maybe he wasn’t even here in the first place.”

  “He was,” Wilt cut in. “I know when he’s close.”

  She started to speak again, but a duty officer’s voice carried down the corridor.

  “Inquisitor Norcutt. Congress is calling for you.”

  She exhaled once, hard, like swallowing the rest of the curse, and headed for comms.

  Nozer’s network still limped, but at least it held steady now. The screen lit. Several faces appeared at once from different angles, as if they were seated in a chamber and none of them wanted to admit who was in charge.

  A man spoke first. Gentle voice, hollow center.

  “Inquisitor. We received the report. Nozer has been returned to the Confederacy with minimal casualties. We extend our gratitude.”

  Wilt held herself straight, hands behind her back.

  “Thank you.”

  “Representatives from Nozer’s business sector have also noted your diplomatic skill,” another added, smiling like this was an awards ceremony.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Her jaw tightened.

  “I’m glad someone enjoyed it. But Adam Graf escaped again.”

  A pause, then the same gentle voice.

  “Graf is not a priority.”

  Disbelief sat in the room like smoke.

  “He organized the uprising on Nozer.”

  “You are overestimating his importance,” they replied. “He is a parasite feeding on chaos. You did your job. Return to Earth.”

  “Permission to continue the hunt,” Wilt said, clipped.

  They exchanged looks. Not about Graf, not really. About the person on the other side of the screen.

  “Very well, Inquisitor,” the first voice said. “No improvisation. Regular reports. Remember, we need stability.”

  The screen went dark.

  Wilt stood for several seconds, staring at dead glass. When she turned back, the calm had returned to her face. Lothar Finsterherz still saw the heat behind it.

  “It’s time to keep training Lothar,” Wilt said, flat, like an order given to herself.

  They stayed on Nozer for another month.

  Goodman found his footing fast. Buyers and sellers, fuel routes, the kind of trust you can rent for a single deal. He stayed out of the training. Only once did he ask Wilt when they were leaving.

  “Soon,” Wilt answered. “When I’m sure he can stand on his own.”

  Lothar could barely stand.

  Thin, long limbed, built like a man who lived more in thought than in muscle, he held himself up on stubbornness. Wilt noticed and offered no pity.

  Training was daily. Sometimes twice.

  She hit him when he made mistakes. Not out of anger, but to seal the lesson in place. She hauled him up when he went down. Work with hands, legs, breath. Few words, constant demonstration.

  Mornings began with laps around the landing pad until his lungs burned. Then push ups, squats, bag work. A stance held until shoulders screamed. Then sparring, short precise strikes to body, arms, legs, teaching guard and timing. If he tried to get clever, the floor came up to meet him. If he rushed on anger, he got used for it and dropped again. Nothing in it was about looking good. It was about staying alive.

  By the end of the month he still lost, but he no longer folded instantly. Minutes, not seconds.

  Evenings belonged to books and diagrams. The Nest. The language. Lord Dragons. Anything that might restore what Graf had torn out of his mind. Sometimes a word came back, small and plain. Sometimes nothing came at all.

  Deep inside, where chains held the azure dragon, there was only quiet. The quiet did not soothe. It scared.

  At the end of the month Wilt found Goodman.

  “We’ve been sitting too long,” Wilt said. “We’re stuck.”

  “I agree,” he replied. “Another week and I’ll start shooting bureaucrats myself.”

  Wilt did not smile.

  “We leave tomorrow. I need Graf’s trail. Not reports. Not gratitude. A trail.”

  They loaded up at dawn. Nozer watched in silence. No fanfare. No thanks. Only cold wind and the looks of people already tired of outside power, any power at all.

  Goodman took the shuttle up through cloud and into black.

  Finsterherz sat strapped in and watched the planet shrink behind the glass. A month had solved nothing. It had only bought time.

  Wilt stared ahead at instruments and plotted routes.

  “From now on,” Wilt said without looking back, “we do not get distracted.”

  “Where do we start?” Goodman asked.

  Wilt answered after a short pause.

  “Where Graf needs people. Where he can hide and start another scheme.”

  Finsterherz shifted his gaze to her.

  “And where is that?”

  She finally turned, and the hard edge was back in her eyes.

  “A place where everyone has a price.”