Page 16 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

“D

id you bring what I asked for?” Rian peered at his reflection in the square mirror above his fat dresser, trimmed with gilded edges that lapped over the corners. “Or are you still overly fond of those too?”

There were moments where Castil liked his brother, hell close to even loving him. There were tender times that they both shared, savoured and kept buried away deep before any one of their deaths could occur and wipe them away for good. He remembered being introduced to Rian from the very first day, and thinking that perhaps this brother wouldn’t be as terrible as the rest. He could recall quite a bit of enjoyable times together, which was why Rian was his favourite out of all of his family members.

But even with those rare seconds of joy, Rian was still an ass. There were times when it was proven to him too, like the incident in the corridor. One that chilled his blood to frost-bitten scarlet and caused red to enter his vision. One that seemingly they’d both wiped away, pretending like it never happened. They were both stubborn and prideful, and he blamed that for the reason why.

Castil had a sinking feeling that this entire game was nothing but that. A game, one that Rian was desperate to win. One meant to mock him alongside it.

“I brought them.” He assured and reached behind him, tugging the two simple blades free. “But I still think it’s a terrible idea.”

He cleaned them before he brought them.

Rian rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. Do you think anything is a good idea?” He took the daggers and flipped them over, one by one as he admired the craftsmanship of the fine steel.

Castil observed him as he tested the weight, balancing one of them on his two fingers and seeing if it fell. “I thought keeping her alive was a good idea.”

“Only as a pawn to keep yourself in Father’s good graces.” Rian deemed the weapons to be good, shoving them back into their black sheaths and passing him as he bent down to place the knives atop his bag.

“He doesn’t have any good graces.”

He chuckled. “That’s true, even if he does have favourite heirs.”

“You mean yourself?” The male asked, without a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice. Something that Brioc wasn’t entirely happy about considering he was the oldest remaining heir.

But Brioc was the definition of never happy. With his short onyx hair that spiked up in the front and his amber eyes, a pleasant expression had never once crossed over his features. He’d always held himself rigid like a metal pole as if he could never find an ounce of joy in the world without fear of it being the very thing that ended him. Of course, Brioc had had multiple assassination attempts, as had they all, and survived every single one of them without so much of a drop of his blood touching the floor.

Hence why he remained in his tight ways.

The youngest Prince wandered over to his decanter, pulling the crystal ball out and pouring himself two fingers’ worth of the smoky liquid. Grey, with black swirling around it.

A typical drink of Carylim, known as Vengeance.

It was a cool drink, with a bitter spice that kicked up after swallowing. There was hardly any flavour except that of pepper in the front of the taste, with a smooth texture.

No one knew who named the common liquid, only that the royals seemed to be the only ones with access to its stores and the knowledge of how to make it. Their father often drank a glass a night, offering it to all of his children, who all refused him.

It was always a test.

Because the King of Carylim had built up a tolerance to certain poisons over the years and added a dose to every glass that he could possibly find. Just in case someone tried to take him out with a cup of Vengeance.

The only reason that Castil knew that their father tried to kill them as well, to see if they were wise enough to refuse any drink that wasn’t poured themselves, was because he’d survived an attempt. He’d slipped up the very first time, after his father specifically poured a glass and set it in front of him, congratulating him on a victorious win that he’d hated.

A battle that Castil had fought against him, trying to save as many men as possible. But the King was ruthless in his declarations of war and didn’t care how many men he had to sacrifice if it meant victory to feed his ego and his pride. Which had meant sending a hundred men towards the back of Niroula as two hundred more swept around the front, led by Brioc himself.

The fight resulted in the killing of a Niroulian Prince, the eldest one, and victory for Carylim. Rian had taken out another.

A plan that his father personally made him plan out after he refused to fight in the army, and refused to let one hundred souls die in order to kill a single, worthless royal.

So a toast was made.

The rest of his siblings had taken out their own vials that they’d brought with them, adding them to the empty chalices and drinking deeply in his honour.

Castil had initially refused the drink, pushing it back towards his father. But then a demanding look, sheer intensity and commanding thrill filled his father’s face and he refused to back down as he took a swig of his own, poured from the same bottle that filled Castil’s cup. With a hesitant wrap of his fingers around the glass, he’d plucked it off the table and swirled it, peering inwards as if there could be some miraculous trick.

He’d taken the barest sip but acted like he’d taken a large one, his father intently watching his thin throat bob as he swallowed the obscure liquid and set the glass back down. It seemed to please their father as he turned his attention towards other matters, other sons.

Three hours later, the symptoms began.

It hadn’t been more than half an ounce and yet his stomach turned on him. Castil had coughed violently as the poison began to settle within his system. It turned his insides to water, creating havoc that he felt through most of the night.

Bloodbane, by the looks of it.

His skin was clammy and his throat felt closed, air barely passing into his crying lungs as he panted for most of the night. His blood felt as though it was burning, boiling him alive and he vomited several times. He’d collapsed on the floor on the way to his bathing chamber, to hurl the contents of his stomach up and blackness had swept in.

When the cruel morning came and Castil woke, he was more than surprised to find himself alive. He looked like the seven hells had frozen over themselves, but he was alive.

His father was shocked to see him alive, too.

When Castil had dragged himself into the throne room, he’d held himself higher than he physically felt as best he could. He ached all over, in areas he hadn’t even known could hurt, and he felt as though his knees might give out at any second but he held himself firm. His gaze met with the King’s and he shoved every bit of anger, of strength, of power that he could into it.

The King of Carylim studied him as if searching for an answer to the question of why he hadn’t died in the middle of the night.

So Castil had simply lifted his chin in the vicious way their father liked to do when making others feel weak and said, “Don’t underestimate me, King.”

The courtiers had fallen into a dead silence.

There was no sound in the massive chamber as the King took him in, with what appeared to be a flicker of pride for his fourth son.

“Well met, Castil.” He tilted his head to the side in a half bow. It was as much respect as he’d ever show his heirs until one took over in his stead.

Rian had smirked like a wild plains-cat from Niroula, impressed by his survival. Brioc surveyed him now as a more serious threat and had never let his guard down since. Regulus, the brother above him, had begun to consider him a challenge as well, clear in his black eyes.

Castil hated them all, except for Rian.

But since that day, Castil had taken a page out of his father’s book. One, single page because he refused to let himself succumb to something that horrible again.

So he’d started studying poisons and their effects, learning every bit of information he could about each individual one that grew in either Kingdom. He ingrained the knowledge into his brain and never let it go.

And then he’d taken it one step further.

He’d started ingesting small, non-lethal doses of a few different poisons in order to build up a tolerance, like his father had. At first, it was completely wretched.

His already pale skin had turned nearly translucent as the toxins mixed, creating a sickening effect. Then he couldn’t keep any food down, liquid being his sole way of staying alive. For months after he’d started the mithridatism, he’d barely felt alive. A ghost, in the hallowed halls of a King that wished him dead.

How ironic, it seemed to be that he could have killed himself if he’d measured the wrong amount, or added too much of one atop the other.

For months, half a year actually, he’d withered to the point of alamort. Rian, with his clever eyes, had seen it and commented about his appearance. Castil blamed it on an illness, one he’d contracted from the battle and it seemed that his sibling believed him without any more questions on the subject.

But then everything changed.

And he’d regained his strength.

Day by day, he’d added more and more of each poison into his diet until he could withstand a full dose of each, allowing him to relax on the disgusting practice.

Now he only required a few spoonfuls a week of the selected toxins to keep up his tolerance. If he didn’t, his body could begin to withdraw, needing the very thing that could kill him if he stopped altogether.

Castil returned to the present from his trip into his tightly-guarded memories, the ones that he held firmly onto in case he needed to dredge something up.

Rian sipped at the cup slowly, “Father may say that I’m his favourite, but we all know that he could easily switch his choices up within the next day, the next hour. He prefers whichever heir is strongest, whichever one makes him the most proud.”

“Except myself.”

“There was once where I thought he might shift his attention in your direction.” Rian disagreed, tossing another bit back.

“Once, in a brief moment, yes. But I think he was just impressed with the fact that I didn’t succumb to death like he desperately wished.” Castil spat out, bitterly and a bit annoyed that it hadn’t worked.

Sometimes it seemed easier to give in, to let go of the wicked world that they lived on and let the others battle it out for the throne.

But that was pathetic, and he was not pathetic.

If anything, the fact that his father tried to kill him only made him want the throne even more. Something he still had his eye on, and would do anything to take, even if it meant letting his siblings wipe themselves out.

Hence why he didn’t care about any of them.

Rian grimaced as he finished his drink. “He’s a cold asshole, isn’t he?”

“Honestly, I’m surprised that no one has tried to slit his throat in the middle of the night.” The fourth Prince added, keeping an open ear on the corridor just behind them to listen for sentries footsteps.

It wasn’t forbidden to visit with other siblings, but wasn’t recommended. The guards reported back to his father if any were seen together outside of council meetings and battles.

“Careful, Cas.” Rian’s lips folded upwards as the whites of his teeth showed. “You might just be giving me ideas here.”

“No,” He protested. “If anyone is killing the cruel bastard that produced us, it’s going to be me. ”