Raistor looked burned out. Gray, soot stained, abandoned. The sky pressed down. Steam and smoke drifted over the spaceport, and the landing beacons blinked in the fog like they couldn’t be bothered.

  The Outcast sat at the edge of the pad. Old, but stubborn. Fresh patches of metal caught the light against old soot and dents. Scratches from micrometeor hits ran along the sides, and a few panels were scorched. The crew worked in silence, each of them busy with something. Goodman watched them and knew they were putting on a face. Because if they stopped, they’d start thinking about why they were still here.

  Today they were saying goodbye to Lord Dragon Paris Clartor.

  And waiting for whoever came next.

  Captain Terry Goodman dropped the vacancy notice onto the Nest channels as calmly as if he were announcing a route change. Only one person answered. Terry hadn’t even expected that. Lucky, in a way.

  By the ramp, under the wing’s shadow, Tomos Goff stood smoking. Tall and wiry, one cheek pulled tight by an old burn, he kept glancing at the captain.

  “Bad feeling, Cap. This new kid. You trust young blood, you pay for it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” the captain said, sounding worn through. “We have to trade. Competitors will eat us alive. We’ve been in the red three runs straight. Relax.”

  “Alright. I said my piece.” Tomos Goff flicked ash away. “I’ll keep him on a leash. If he screws up, that’s on me. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Try not to,” Goodman muttered. “Lord Dragons are the strongest things in the galaxy. They’re conduits for the Nest. Some of them can become Dragons. Real Dragons.”

  Tomos only snorted.

  “I don’t care what they are. I’ve got a piece, so the job gets done. I’ll handle it.”

  A shout rolled across the pad.

  “Lord Dragon arriving!”

  A boy stepped out of the fog. Eighteen, maybe. Ash blond hair combed neatly back. Bright green eyes, sharp. Pale, not ghost pale but sick pale, like he’d lived under harsh lights for too long. He came alone. No guards. No escort. Like he’d shown up to his own funeral and it didn’t impress him.

  At the ramp he spoke flat, like a report.

  “Lothar von Finsterherz.”

  “What kind of…” Tomos started.

  The boy’s mouth tightened, almost embarrassed.

  “I know. The name isn’t great.”

  Goodman stepped in fast, like he could keep the moment from going sideways with his body.

  “No, no. Of course. Lord Dragon. Captain Terry, Outcast. Paris Clartor is waiting. Please.”

  Finsterherz nodded once.

  “Right. We don’t have much time.”

  Then he walked up the ramp.

  Inside the Outcast it smelled of metal, antiseptic, and old wiring that had been heated and cooled a thousand times. He moved through the corridors without hesitation, like he already knew the way. The crew made space for him. Even the big deckhand who usually looked down on everyone went quiet, jaw working like he was chewing anger.

  Paris Clartor’s cabin sat behind a double airlock. Heat seeped through the seals. The medics all said the same thing in different words. The old man was burning from the inside and his body couldn’t keep up.

  Paris lay almost motionless on the bunk. Half blind. His face was cracked with gray fissures like dried clay. He breathed rarely and with effort.

  Finsterherz leaned close and spoke in a language that wasn’t human.

  “ūk ekek jāneshin e man? Miri shekvetile!”

  Goodman swallowed.

  “He can’t talk like we do anymore,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Tomos leaned in and whispered, low and ugly.

  “Every time he opens his mouth, it hits us too. Head turns to lead, gut flips, like you’re about to puke. Just wrong.”

  Lothar nodded as if that matched what he expected.

  “He says you came. He calls you his heir. He says, welcome,” Lothar translated, calm.

  Then he straightened. His fingers folded into a strange sign, practiced and exact, and he answered in that same hard tongue.

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  “Man ekek, yepar e man. Dabi tva perdai. Man ba in sudun peyvand shudam. Dā man tajriba tva u jan tva. Bē zor tva man ē, na rasad ān be hamē gnezd.”

  And then, in plain speech:

  “I have come, my brother. Give your knowledge to Dabi. I have bound myself to this vessel. Give me your experience and your soul. Let your strength be mine, and let it not pass to the whole Nest.”

  Paris twitched like he wanted to say more. His lips moved, and something nasty crept into the room, the feeling you get right before you faint. Tomos broke into sweat and took a step back. Paris dragged in air with a wet, ragged sound, then exhaled hard.

  And that was it.

  Silence. Not holy, not pretty. Just silence so flat that the click of a relay in the corridor sounded too loud. Lothar froze. For a second his pupils stretched thin, reptile thin, and the green in his eyes went darker. The air felt like it tightened and then let go. He blinked and stepped back.

  “That’s it.”

  Tomos cut in, trying to sound bored and failing.

  “So what, he croaked?”

  “Gone,” Lothar said. “Not all of him. But gone.” He paused. “Part of it went into the Nest. Part stayed in me.”

  Tomos gave a crooked grin.

  “You things are broken. Only problem is, without you we don’t lift off. If we didn’t need you, I wouldn’t think twice about putting you down right here.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Goodman snapped.

  Lothar looked at him without anger, more like cold appraisal.

  “Captain Goodman, he isn’t completely wrong. In a way.”

  Tomos stepped closer.

  “I’m not wrong. Not at all. You’re a monster. Give me the word and I bury you right here.”

  Terry went pale, the way people do when they picture blood on their own floor.

  “Lord Dragon, if you want, you can…” He swallowed. “You can end him.”

  “No,” Lothar said, simple. “We’re taught not to use what we know on civilians. If I do that, what kind of Dragon would I be? Are we leaving soon?”

  Goodman grabbed the work voice like a handrail.

  “Yes. Lord. We were stuck here because of Paris. He couldn’t carry us anymore.” The captain exhaled. “We need Ypsilon Station. Now.”

  “Neighbor system,” Lothar said. “Two jumps for an ordinary ship. One for us.”

  He raised both hands.

  A dull glow bloomed around the hull, dense like a shield. The light folded into the outline of a dragon and spread until it wrapped the entire Outcast.

  Inside, everything went muffled, like cotton shoved into your ears. The ship didn’t accelerate. It simply jerked forward, and the stars smeared into lines. Outside, dust, rock, and debris flashed by and struck the field, bouncing away like shot off armor.

  Navigation blinked.

  A different sky.

  Ypsilon Station hung near a gas giant, wrapped in rings of docks and lights.

  Comms filled with voices. Controllers. Dock crews cursing. Cheap ad loops. Even the smells changed. Fuel. Fried grease from port stalls. Sweet hookah smoke drifting through the docks. Somebody on the crew let out a nervous huff. Alive. Made it.

  Tomos kept his voice low as they strapped in for docking.

  “Hey. Watch your tongue.”

  The captain didn’t answer.

  Goodman stared at the panels but didn’t see numbers. He saw inspection stamps, fines, seizure lists. Ypsilon called itself neutral, but everybody fed here. Competitors, creditors, volunteer inspectors, and the gray ones.

  Goodman ran his tongue over dry lips and remembered how Ypsilon loved fresh traces. The kind you couldn’t explain on a manifest.

  Dock bots floated up to latch cables. The beacons glowed so close it felt like you could reach out and touch them. The Outcast slid into the docking corridor. Metal scraped. Locks clacked. The hull jolted.

  The field collapsed. The Outcast sagged and became just a shuttle again.

  Lothar sucked in a sharp breath and started breathing fast, ragged. His fingers shook.

  “Tincture,” Goodman barked.

  A flask appeared in a hand. Lothar drank, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Give me a couple minutes,” he said. “I won’t be able to see. It’ll pass.”

  “You need rest, Lord Dragon,” the captain said carefully.

  “Call me Lothar,” he replied. “No titles.”

  Tomos gave a crooked grin.

  “Alright, Cap. I’m out. Going to pour a couple shots of vodka into myself. Later.”

  Goodman opened his mouth to answer, but the hatch hadn’t even finished lowering when the sound hit them from outside. Boots. Organized. Heavy. Not dockworkers. Not the usual chaos.

  The ramp came down.

  They were already surrounded. Gray cloaks. Helmets with lenses. Seals on chests. Red laser dots skated over faces and hands like they were looking for a reason.

  A woman stepped forward.

  Inquisitor Wilt Norcutt.

  Blue eyes. Fair hair almost white, like it had been bleached out. Her face stayed calm, but her gaze was hard and mean. She looked at people like the verdict was already signed.

  “We’re looking for a renegade Dragon,” she said loud enough for the dock to hear. “Anyone who helps him get away will be punished. Hard.”

  Her eyes moved to Lothar. She held them there, squinting as if measuring him.

  “No. Not you.” Disappointment slipped into her voice. “Shame. I would’ve enjoyed burning you.”

  Tomos Goff gave a crooked grin and leaned toward the captain. Quiet, but not quiet enough.

  “She gets it. I told you, Cap. It’s not just me thinking it.”

  The captain shot him a look that said shut up. Too late.

  Heavy steps came from the left. A giant in powered armor pushed out of the crowd. Not just plates and padding, a full exosuit with assist motors. A sigil like a bird sat on the chest. One of the dockhands whispered the name, Nightingale. The man stood close to three meters tall, shoulders like a doorway. He moved slow and sure, like a crane that knows nobody can argue.

  He stopped beside Norcutt and spoke dry.

  “We didn’t find him.”

  Norcutt didn’t look surprised. Her jaw tightened.

  “I know. Where’s Crispin?”

  The giant waited a second, then answered in the same flat tone.

  “Dead.”

  Something human flickered across Norcutt’s face. One moment. Then stone again.

  “Damn it,” she breathed. “Without a Dragon we won’t take him fast.”

  Her gaze traveled over the Outcast, then settled on the captain, then slid across the crew, like she was picking the easiest thing to break.

  “You,” she said to Terry. “Want to work for the Inquisition?”

  The captain froze. He didn’t want this. They came to trade, not to get dragged into someone else’s hunt. But refusing an Inquisitor wasn’t an argument. It was a one way ticket to a colony world if you were lucky. If you weren’t, you got blacklisted and then you vanished.

  Terry swallowed and forced a smile.

  “Of course, Inquisitor. It’s an honor.”

  Norcutt nodded like that was the only answer.

  “Good.” She stepped closer. “Adam Graf must be taken at any cost.”

  She paused to let it land.

  “I’ll pay. Generously. But if you try to play games with me, I’ll know. And then you won’t need trade at all.”

  Tomos stayed silent, but his eyes burned. Lothar stood steady like none of it touched him, yet Norcutt kept looking at him anyway. Not like a target she could handle today, more like a problem she’d come back to.

  The dock went quiet. Even the wall ads sounded too loud.

  “This is how it is,” Norcutt said. “From this moment on, you work for me.”

  The ring of gray cloaks tightened.