Adam pushed back into Lothar von Finsterherz’s head.

  Not like a thought. Not like a voice. Like a foreign hand sliding under skin. Graff went deeper, past the place where ordinary people still had words, and understood at once that it was not empty.

  A dragon rose to meet the intruder.

  Enormous. Azure as the sky itself. Eyes yellow as coins pulled red from a forge. The name surfaced on its own, as if hammered into memory.

  Long Tianyan.

  “Thank you, wretch,” Adam said, and it did not come from a mouth. It landed straight into bone. “Your little attack cracked the boy’s mind open for me.”

  The renegade mage did not answer right away. The stare alone made the space feel tight, like a cell with no air.

  “Because of the Inquisitor, I didn’t get to finish eating the boy’s soul,” Adam continued, sharper now. “But leaving you inside him is worse.”

  The dragon tilted its head, as if it had heard something stupid.

  Then chains burst out of Graff’s chest.

  Not iron. They looked like light, but heavy and filthy, as if dragged out of old nightmares. They shot forward and wrapped Long Tianyan, cinching throat, wings, forelegs. The dragon jerked, but the chains held. Each link bit deeper.

  Pain hit Graff, not his own, like someone yanking a nerve that did not belong to him.

  “No,” the criminal said through his teeth. “You are not coming out.”

  The dragon opened its jaws and breathed fire.

  Not a fire for flesh. A fire for the soul. It struck Graff full on. For a second the world turned inside out. A ragged shadow flared in the heat, and the truth landed cleanly.

  Another heartbeat of this would burn him through.

  Graff recoiled, but the chains did not loosen.

  “Filth,” he hissed.

  The renegade mage gathered himself. Fingers closed on the chains, on the knot of bindings inside Finsterherz, and pulled down hard, like drowning the dragon in black water. Long Tianyan thrashed, voicing a scream without sound, and the dark swallowed it, deeper and deeper, into a place even thought could not reach.

  Graff held it there. Drove it down. Locked it.

  I should eat it, a thought flashed. But there isn’t enough strength.

  Weakness came immediately. Everything inside trembled the way it did after a long fight.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  No need to rush. The point is to keep it from breaking into the physical world.

  Adam opened his eyes.

  He was standing in the bar, in reality. Smoke and alcohol hung in the air. Gray cloaks ringed the room, weapons ready. The patrons in the Goose sat quiet as mice.

  Ypsilon police had arrived as well. A few officers in station uniform with short carbines, careful, standing a little too close to the doors like they did not want to end up between the Inquisition and a dragon.

  Adam understood what came next. Reports. Cameras. Witnesses. He could not afford any of it right now, not after the hit.

  A hand lifted.

  “We fall back,” Graff said evenly.

  One of the cloaked men started to argue, met the stare, and swallowed the words.

  “Leave the bar. Touch no one. We don’t need noise.”

  A turn toward the corridor. Boots on tile. Then the station swallowed the sound. The bar stayed behind like a weight. Somewhere inside, chains held the dragon.

  For now.

  The Lord Dragon came to on the shuttle.

  He lay strapped to a narrow bunk. A thin pillow under his head smelled of plastic and medicine. Ears rang like after a hard overload. Throat dry. Tongue tasting tincture and metal.

  He tried to remember the bar. Nothing came.

  Not darkness. Not sleep. Just blank. Like someone had erased a chunk of life and left a smooth patch behind.

  His eyes closed, and his mind worked by steps.

  First came a name.

  Lothar.

  Then what that name belonged to.

  Lord Dragon. Guide. Heir.

  He sat up too fast and pain slammed into his skull.

  “Damn it. What happened? Where is everything I know? I can’t remember anything.”

  Across from the bunk sat Wilt Norcutt. Hood off. Hair pulled back. Pale face. A bruise on the cheekbone, lip split. The posture was steady, but the breathing ran a little quick.

  “Graff stole your knowledge,” the inquisitor said. “He got into your head and ate part of you.”

  The Lord Dragon stared at her like an enemy.

  “This is on you,” Lothar snapped. “You came in with your bullets. You ruined it. Years of my life, everything I did, it all went in the trash.”

  His hands clenched until the knuckles blanched.

  “What am I supposed to do now? Nest take you, I’m empty.”

  Wilt did not look away.

  “You’re lucky you’re empty,” she said quietly. “Sooner or later the Nest would have eaten you whole. That’s how it ends.”

  “Don’t talk to me about luck.”

  A word surfaced. One word, sharp as a slap.

  “Sāket.”

  Wilt opened her mouth and made no sound.

  She blinked. She tried again. Nothing. Only air.

  Her eyes narrowed. A fast breath through the nose, then an exhale like breaking something inside.

  “Gūyai,” she rasped.

  Her voice returned at once, as if a clamp had been lifted off her throat.

  “So you’re not completely empty after all.”

  Lothar froze. The source of the word made no sense.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t remember the language. I tried and there’s nothing there. But that stayed. Somehow.”

  Wilt watched him closely. No smile in it.

  “Do you understand what you just did?” she asked. “You shut my mouth with one word.”

  “I understand. It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  His hands shook.

  “Can you draw power from the Nest?”

  Wilt held his stare for a second.

  “I used to,” she said. “A long time ago. Now, barely. But the basics are still there. The training is familiar.”

  Lothar lifted his head fast.

  “Then you’ll teach me again.”

  A short, humorless sound left her.

  “I could burn you right here.”

  “Do it,” Finsterherz said flatly. “Without what I knew, I’m dead either way. You said it yourself. Graff ate part of me. That means I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  The shuttle jolted. An engine wailed beyond the bulkhead. Somewhere ahead a comm line clicked. Outside the port was only black, and the sparse lights of the station slid away.

  Wilt nodded slowly, like a decision settling into place.

  “Fine. I’ll help. But you help me hunt him down and finish him.”

  Lothar smiled without any joy.

  “I want payment from that thief too.”

  He dragged a palm over his face, trying to gather his thoughts.

  “Start now, Inquisitor. Don’t drag it out. Not while Graff can come back.”

  Wilt straightened.

  “Then listen. The very first rule.”