The frontier system had no official name on most Federation maps.

  In the navigation archives it appeared only as Sector R-19 Trade Relay, a dull administrative designation that meant nothing to anyone who actually lived there. Among pilots, smugglers, miners, and mercenaries, the place was known simply as Dusthaven.

  Zerena saw why the moment the courier drifted into visual range.

  Dusthaven was not a planet. It was a settlement built into a drifting field of shattered asteroids orbiting a pale orange star. Thousands of rocks floated in loose formation, connected by bridges of steel and cables, forming a chaotic web of platforms, docking rings, cargo spires, and habitation domes.

  From a distance it looked like a broken machine someone had tried to rebuild with whatever scraps were available.

  Ships of every possible design drifted through the asteroid lanes—cargo freighters scarred by decades of work, patched patrol craft with mismatched hull plating, racing skimmers with engines far too large for their frames, and dark vessels whose silhouettes suggested occupations that never appeared on legal manifests.

  Dusthaven was exactly the kind of place the Federation preferred to pretend did not exist.

  Zerena eased the courier into the outer docking corridor. The station’s traffic grid immediately lit up her console with automated requests for identification, cargo declarations, and docking fees. She ignored most of them and transmitted only the bare minimum clearance signal.

  The response came instantly.

  Docking authorized. Bay 34.

  No questions.

  That alone told her something about the place.

  The courier slid into the assigned bay with a heavy mechanical groan as the docking clamps locked onto the damaged hull. The landing gear extended reluctantly, settling the craft onto the metal deck with a vibration that traveled through the cockpit seat into Zerena’s spine.

  For several seconds she remained seated, staring at the interior of the bay through the canopy.

  Workers moved along the outer platforms carrying crates and fuel hoses. A group of mechanics argued loudly over a damaged thruster assembly while sparks rained down from a welding torch overhead. Two armed security guards leaned against a wall near the entrance, watching everything with the bored attention of people who had learned that boredom could kill them if it lasted too long.

  No one reacted to the arrival of the courier.

  That, too, was useful.

  Zerena unsealed the cockpit.

  The air inside Dusthaven smelled of machine oil, recycled oxygen, and something faintly metallic that reminded her of old weapons.

  She stepped onto the docking floor.

  For the first time since leaving Kamelot she was walking somewhere without a title attached to her name.

  No palace guards.

  No ceremonial escorts.

  No throne waiting somewhere behind the next door.

  Only a damaged ship and a purpose that most of the galaxy had already decided to ignore.

  The two security guards straightened slightly as she approached. One of them glanced at the courier’s registration plate, then back at her.

  “Docking fee is five hundred credits,” he said.

  Zerena removed a small credit cylinder from her jacket and handed it to him.

  He scanned it quickly, nodded once, and stepped aside.

  “Welcome to Dusthaven.”

  That was the entirety of the greeting.

  She moved through the station’s central corridor, absorbing the environment carefully. The passageways were carved directly into the asteroid’s rock interior, reinforced with steel beams and patchwork panels. Neon signs flickered over doorways advertising fuel depots, weapon brokers, repair shops, and bars that likely doubled as hiring halls for anyone desperate enough to accept dangerous work.

  This was exactly the place she needed.

  Because people here did not survive by following laws.

  They survived by following money.

  Zerena entered the largest bar she could find near the station’s central hub.

  The interior was dim, illuminated by low amber lights and a large holographic display projecting racing results above the main counter. Dozens of pilots and mercenaries filled the tables—some human, others belonging to species common along the frontier trade routes.

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  Tall reptilian traders with scaled armor plates.

  Stocky miners with cybernetic arms.

  A pair of slender blue-skinned navigators speaking quietly over a holographic map.

  Everyone looked up when she entered.

  Not because they recognized her.

  Because strangers were always evaluated in places like this.

  Zerena walked directly to the central table near the room’s data terminal.

  Then she activated it.

  The holographic screen expanded above the table, projecting her image across the room along with the words:

  OPEN CONTRACT — BOUNTY OFFER

  Conversations stopped.

  The room turned toward her.

  Zerena spoke clearly.

  “My name is Zerena,” she said. “Former Princess of Kamelot.”

  Several people exchanged glances.

  Even here, the name carried weight.

  “Kamelot has been taken by a man named Rhaegon,” she continued. “He commands a fleet and five elite commanders known as the Black Judges.”

  She paused.

  “If someone here believes they are capable of killing him, I am offering a bounty.”

  The number appeared on the holographic display.

  500,000,000 Credits

  The reaction was immediate.

  Chairs shifted.

  Murmurs spread across the room.

  A number that large was not a bounty.

  It was a fortune.

  A large human man with a mechanical eye leaned forward from one of the tables.

  “You’re serious?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Another voice spoke from the bar.

  “Five hundred million to kill one man?”

  Zerena nodded.

  “King Rhaegon.”

  The room grew quiet again.

  Not curious quiet.

  Uncomfortable quiet.

  The man with the mechanical eye leaned back slowly in his chair.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “That’s not happening.”

  A ripple of agreement moved through the room.

  Someone laughed softly.

  “Lady,” another pilot said, “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  “I understand exactly,” Zerena replied.

  A reptilian trader lifted his glass.

  “Rhaegon’s fleet broke Kamelot’s shield belt,” he said. “Everyone in the frontier saw the broadcast.”

  Another pilot spoke up.

  “He’s got five commanders who can walk through armies.”

  “Black Judges,” someone added.

  Zerena nodded.

  “Yes.”

  The man with the mechanical eye shrugged.

  “Then the answer is no.”

  The word settled into the room like gravity.

  No.

  Another pilot raised a hand.

  “Look, that’s a lot of money,” he said carefully. “But if we take the job and fail, we’re dead.”

  “And if we succeed?” Zerena asked.

  “You think the rest of his fleet just disappears?”

  The room chuckled darkly.

  A tall woman with white hair leaned against the bar and studied Zerena for a moment before speaking.

  “You’re asking people to start a war with someone who just beat an entire planet.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re surprised nobody’s volunteering?”

  Zerena felt frustration tighten her jaw.

  “This is half a billion credits,” she said.

  “Which you probably don’t even have access to right now,” the white-haired woman replied calmly.

  Zerena said nothing.

  The woman smiled faintly.

  “Thought so.”

  Another voice spoke from the back of the room.

  “You’d need an army.”

  “Or a miracle,” someone added.

  The room gradually returned to its earlier noise level as people lost interest.

  Zerena stood there watching it happen.

  The bounty still glowed above the table.

  Five hundred million credits.

  Enough money to buy ships.

  Enough money to build fleets.

  Enough money to change lives.

  And still—

  No one moved.

  The man with the mechanical eye stood up and approached her table. He wasn’t hostile. He simply looked like someone who had lived long enough to recognize impossible problems when he saw them.

  “You’re not wrong for trying,” he said quietly.

  “But nobody here wants to die.”

  “Everyone dies eventually,” Zerena said.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “But we try not to rush it.”

  He walked away.

  The holographic bounty notice flickered slightly above the table.

  Zerena looked around the room again.

  Pilots were laughing, drinking, arguing over ship parts and racing statistics.

  Life was continuing.

  Kamelot had fallen.

  And the galaxy had already moved on.

  The realization hurt more than the Federation’s refusal.

  Because these people were not politicians.

  They were survivors.

  And survivors had just given her the most honest answer anyone could give.

  Rhaegon was too powerful.

  Too dangerous.

  Too expensive to challenge.

  Zerena slowly deactivated the holographic bounty.

  The light above the table vanished.

  For a moment she considered leaving the station immediately.

  But as she turned toward the exit, a quiet voice spoke from the far end of the room.

  “Five hundred million credits is a lot of money.”

  Zerena stopped.

  The voice belonged to a thin old man sitting alone near the corner of the bar.

  His clothes looked worn but functional, and a heavy gray beard covered most of his face. A battered revolver-style energy pistol rested on the table beside him.

  He wasn’t looking at her.

  He was looking at the empty holographic space where the bounty had been.

  Zerena walked toward him.

  “You’re interested?” she asked.

  The old man snorted.

  “Interested in hearing you out.”

  “That’s more than anyone else here offered.”

  He finally looked up at her.

  His eyes were sharp.

  Too sharp for someone who looked as tired as he did.

  “You said Rhaegon,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And the Black Judges.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back slightly in his chair.

  “Then I’m not taking the job.”

  Zerena felt the tension in her shoulders tighten again.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not suicidal.”

  “That’s the same answer everyone else gave.”

  “Then maybe everyone else is right.”

  The old man lifted his glass and drank slowly before setting it back down.

  “But,” he added, “you’re asking the wrong question.”

  Zerena crossed her arms.

  “What question should I be asking?”

  “You’re asking who will kill Rhaegon.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not how wars like this start.”

  Zerena frowned slightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man tapped a finger against the table.

  “You don’t start by killing the king.”

  “You start by building the people who eventually can.”

  Zerena studied him carefully.

  “Who are you?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Name’s Sagath.”

  The name meant nothing to her.

  But something about the way he said it suggested it meant something to someone.

  Sagath leaned forward slightly.

  “You’re alone,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got money but no army.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got a target so big nobody here wants to touch it.”

  Zerena nodded.

  “So what do you suggest?” she asked.

  Sagath smiled faintly.

  “You stop asking for a king killer.”

  “And start building a crew.”

  Zerena looked around the room again.

  Pilots.

  Mercenaries.

  Engineers.

  People who lived outside the Federation’s protection.

  “You think a handful of strangers can beat Rhaegon?”

  Sagath picked up the revolver-style pistol from the table and spun it slowly in his hand.

  “No,” he said.

  “I think a handful of strangers can start something much bigger.”

  He stood up slowly.

  His movements were slower than a young soldier’s, but there was a steadiness to them that suggested decades of surviving situations most people never lived through.

  Sagath placed the pistol back in its holster.

  “Half a billion credits,” he said.

  “That’s not a bounty.”

  “What is it?”

  He smiled again.

  “That’s the beginning of a rebellion.”

  Zerena studied him carefully.

  “You still haven’t said you’ll help me.”

  Sagath shrugged.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then why are you talking to me?”

  The old man walked toward the door.

  Because,” he said without turning around,

  “I’ve seen kings fall before.”

  He stopped at the entrance and glanced back at her.

  “But they never fall the way people expect.”

  Then he stepped into the corridor and disappeared into the crowd.

  Zerena stood there for a moment, absorbing what had just happened.

  No one had taken the bounty.

  No one had volunteered to kill Rhaegon.

  But for the first time since leaving Kamelot—

  Someone had offered a different path.

  Not revenge.

  Not a contract.

  Something slower.

  Something dangerous.

  Something that might actually work.

  Zerena turned and walked out of the bar.

  Somewhere in Dusthaven, an old outlaw named Sagath had just become the first person willing to help her.

  And if he was right—

  Rhaegon’s war had only just begun.