Lothar von Finsterherz came back too fast.

  It did not feel like waking from sleep. It felt like someone had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back by force.

  The first thing he understood was that sensation was gone.

  No legs. No back. Not even the simple weight of a body.

  Panic hit him at once.

  He tried to breathe deeper, but his chest felt bound tight, as if a strap had been cinched beneath his ribs. He opened his mouth, and only a thin rasp came out.

  Then, somewhere nearby, he heard a click. Short. Metallic. Then another.

  Something inside him loosened.

  Air came in more easily after that, steadier, as if someone had adjusted a valve.

  He tried again.

  One finger twitched.

  Barely. But it moved.

  Lothar froze, afraid it had been an accident. Then he did it again, this time on purpose. His fingers obeyed. Slowly, reluctantly, as if they needed to be persuaded.

  Next came the arm.

  It lifted, but the sensation was wrong. Not pain. Not numbness. It felt as though the limb belonged to something else, like a crutch bolted onto his shoulder.

  A voice came from the side.

  “Easy, kid. We patched you up as best we could.”

  That voice was familiar. Rough, lazy, always carrying the shape of a grin even when nothing about the situation was funny.

  “Tomos... is that you?” Lothar croaked.

  He forced his eyes open.

  Dim clinical light. A white ceiling that had seen better days. To the left stood Tomos Goff, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, looking tired enough to fall over. To the right stood Terry Goodman, straight as ever, though the shadows under his eyes made him look ten years older.

  Goodman gave him a smile with no warmth in it.

  “Well. You’re breathing. That’s a start.”

  Lothar tried to turn his head. Even that came slowly, as though something in his neck resisted the motion.

  Then he saw the restraints.

  Splints. Thick straps. Metal braces running along both sides of his body.

  “You were on the edge,” Goodman said. “They built you into an exoskeleton. Doctor says you cannot run it all the time. Too much wear, too much heat, too much risk. Only when you are desperate.”

  He pointed.

  A wheelchair stood nearby. Not the cheap rattling kind you found in broken clinics. This one was expensive. Solid. Built to support and protect.

  “You’ll be moving in that,” Terry added.

  Lothar swallowed. His mouth felt dry enough to crumble.

  “Exoskeletons cost more than a ship,” Finsterherz said at last. “Where did the money come from?”

  Tomos let out a short snort.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Where do you think? It fell out of the sky.”

  “From the Inquisition,” Goodman said.

  Lothar gave a dry, bitter laugh. It stung his throat.

  “Nice. They usually have one solution for people like me. A pyre. And instead they buy me a suit.”

  The senior deck guard gave him a sideways glance.

  “Don’t worry. The pyre can wait. Right now you’re useful.”

  Finsterherz tested his legs again. This time he felt the exoskeleton catch the intent. Not fully, but enough. It was like having an invisible hand beneath dead muscles, lifting where flesh refused.

  Carefully, he pushed himself upright.

  A hollow ache answered from deep inside his body, dulled and distant beneath the drugs.

  He stared at the wheelchair. Then at his hands. Then back at the braces.

  Yes, it felt wrong. Borrowed. Alien.

  Yes, it terrified him.

  But it was not nothing.

  The Nest was still there. A thin thread drawn tight somewhere inside him.

  And deeper than that came the familiar pressure.

  Azure.

  Lóng Tiānyán was quiet, but Lothar could still feel it as a weight in his chest, like some great beast curled up behind his ribs, sleeping with one eye open.

  He lifted his gaze toward the captain.

  “Where’s the Inquisitor?” Lothar asked. “I want to... at least thank her.”

  The senior deck guard shrugged.

  “No idea. Gone.”

  “Gone?” Finsterherz tensed. “When?”

  “After you went down, everything turned into a mess,” Goodman said. “Clans, shooting, this hospital, Boris, then the whole mess at the plant. Wilt left and never came back. No contact.”

  Silence settled over the room for a few seconds.

  “And the money?” Lothar asked quietly. “If she’s gone, how did it come from the Inquisition?”

  Goff answered in a flat voice.

  “We took it ourselves, kid. Off the code. Captain’s idea.”

  Goodman did not deny it. He only looked away, as if hearing it spoken aloud made him sick.

  Lothar lowered his eyes.

  Then, slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

  The exoskeleton helped. Not smoothly, not naturally, but enough. One step. Then another.

  A moment later he lowered himself back down into the wheelchair.

  It was too comfortable. That only made it worse.

  He closed his eyes.

  Wilt had taught him a method.

  First, inward.

  Calm the breath. Find the self as a single point.

  Then outward.

  Search, not with eyes or ears, but with what remained of his power.

  His fingers tightened around the armrest.

  “Inquisitor... where are you?”

  The words did not matter.

  The thought did.

  He nudged the Nest. Just enough to send a signal. Thin. Precise. No desperation. No shouting.

  At first, there was nothing.

  Then something caught.

  A чужая head. A чужое body. And nearby, the trace of Wilt, faint as smoke caught in cloth.

  Lothar reached for it.

  And fell through.

  For a heartbeat the world vanished.

  Then sight returned, but not through his own eyes.

  A body lay on its side. The breathing was a woman’s, quick and uneven. Her throat burned. Her hands were either bound or so numb they might as well have been. It took a moment to tell.

  Someone stood in front of her.

  A woman. A stranger.

  Her face would not come into focus. The light was bad, and she was too close.

  “Well,” the woman said calmly, like a doctor checking a patient. “You’re awake.”

  A чужой voice answered.

  “Where am I... who are you?”

  The woman smiled.

  “Good. I was starting to think your brain got scrambled. But you’re asking questions already.”

  Understanding came down hard.

  Wilt was in danger.

  And there was very little time.

  He did not argue. He reached instead. Not with force. Only with sense.

  Wilt was unconscious. Exhausted. It felt as though something heavy sat between her and the world, sealing her away behind layers of fatigue and pain.

  Something inside him trembled. Even there, inside that borrowed body, his throat tightened.

  Do not tear it. Do not force it. You do not have the strength.

  He let himself be pulled back.

  His eyes snapped open in the ward.

  His hands shook. Sweat cooled on his forehead. His breathing had gone shallow and heavy.

  Terry was at his side immediately.

  “What?” the captain asked. His voice had gone flat and sharp.

  Lothar took a few seconds to gather the words.

  “I found a trace,” he said hoarsely. “She’s near someone. I got into her head. She’s been taken. I can feel it.”

  The senior deck guard straightened.

  “Where is there?”

  Lothar closed his eyes again, this time more gently. No plunge. Just direction.

  The place formed in his mind like a stain on a map. Not a clean address. More like a district. A smear of location and pressure.

  “Outskirts,” he said. “Not the center. Closer to the industrial zone. I can get you there if I don’t lose the thread.”

  The captain nodded at once.

  “Rest for a minute,” Terry said. “Then we go.”

  “I don’t want to rest,” Lothar said. His voice came out rougher than before. “If they’re holding her, every minute they can...”

  The sentence broke apart because he did not need to finish it.

  Everyone in the room already knew.

  Tomos pushed himself off the wall and headed for the door.

  “Then here’s how it works,” Tomos said. “You keep the line. We drive. And if anyone gets in our way, that part is on me.”

  Deep inside, the Azure dragon listened.

  And suddenly Lothar understood something with awful clarity.

  If he reached back into the Nest again, and went deeper this time, Lóng Tiānyán might wake with him.

  But there was no choice left.

  He gripped the wheelchair’s armrest and spoke quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Fine. Let’s go.”