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Two sons down, one to go.
That was how Zane's parents had to see it. And his brothers. And his uncle, the king.
Him? No, he didn't see it that way at all. Rook and Vex could descend into happy matrimony as much was they wanted, but he would enjoy bachelorhood for at least another decade—or three.
What was the point of being the youngest if you didn't get to have some fun?
That fun was currently being curtailed by a certain determined matchmaker and a family summons that was impossible to ignore.
You will meet with Shade and hear her out. You will meet with the lady she chooses.
No "or else." There was no need when the person giving the ultimatum was the king.
It was days like these that Zane wished he was a normal dragon and not a lord. Normal dragons didn't need to meet with the allegedly psychic Royal Matchmaker and hear her out about potential brides.
Normal dragons got to … farm? Possibly? Own shops?
It occurred to him that he had no idea what normal dragons did all day. He should probably know that. As a lord, he was theoretically responsible for thousands of them. But that's what stewards were for.
Normal dragons probably didn't slum around Aetis, playing the tables, flirting with beautiful women, and winning and losing a fortune every night.
What miserable lives they must lead.
But Zane had a plan. He was good at plans. The youngest of three, he'd had to get good at plans as a child if he ever wanted to get one over on his brothers. Rook had brute force and Vex had strategy. Zane had learned to be creative.
It was pretty simple. He couldn't ignore the king's summons. And at this early stage, he doubted he'd be forced into marriage. But there were only so many eligible ladies he could turn down before it became an issue.
So he'd just make sure she turned him down first.
Brilliant and simple, like all the best plans. And it started here in the outer shipyards on Aetis.
He'd been tempted to go to the lower city to find something truly seedy, but Zane wanted to actually survive the flight. The ships in the outer shipyards were in decent enough repair, and their captains could afford the security fees that kept the rabble at bay, but the captains there were also just a little desperate.
Perfect. Zane was just a little desperate too.
He passed by half a dozen ships trying to find something that would work. One was too new, another too shiny. He was pretty sure he owed money to the captain of another one, so that certainly wouldn't work. He made a mental note to send credits to the captain and hope that settled things between them. Zane paid his debts, but sometimes he could be a bit … forgetful.
There.
Perfect.
The ship looked flight worthy, if a bit dilapidated. The name ALTO appeared on one side, along with an identification number. There were dents and scratches, but it all looked cosmetic to Zane. A faded decal of what might have been a cheerful sun or possibly a fried egg was peeling off near the cargo bay door.
Exactly the kind of ship he'd never board.
The maintenance panels were mismatched colors, clearly scavenged from other vessels, and scorch marks decorated the underbelly. Someone had tried to clean them off but had given up halfway through. The landing gear on the port side had been welded at an angle that would make any proper mechanic weep.
It was the last place you'd find a wealthy, respectable Dragon Lord. He'd taken a first-class private transport to Aetis, where they'd served him meals on gold plates. Real gold, not plated. Utterly wasteful, and he'd loved every minute of it. It was possible this ship only had ration bars.
Was he really doing this?
Before Zane could decide otherwise, a human woman came down the gangplank and looked him over. Her eyes flicked up and down, expression completely unimpressed. She was short, with brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense tie, serviceable gray pants, and black top, all covered by a bulky flight jacket.
The jacket had seen better days, patches at the elbows and a tear along one pocket that had been expertly mended. One patch was bright purple, clashing spectacularly with the jacket's faded olive green. Either she didn't care about aesthetics, or she'd grabbed whatever material was handy. Her hands were bare, showing calluses that came from manual work, not leisure.
She had the build of someone who shoved a ration bar into her mouth when her stomach finally screamed at her and slept even less. Sharp cheekbones, shadows under her eyes. But those eyes were alert, taking him in with the kind of assessment usually reserved for faulty engine parts.
