Page 2 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

V rea Greenvass had been bred for war.

It wasn’t a talent, it wasn’t something that she thrived on or in which she earned a place for herself. No, it was the sheer cause of her birth and the sole purpose of her life. She’d been told from day one that the reason for her existence had been to take down the Moordians, who wished for everything that did not belong to them. The rival Kingdom pushed their metal-tipped toes over the borders and tested their limitations. The Kingdom had already stolen three of her siblings from her family.

Her youngest sister, Tessa, was gone with a swift stab of an assassin’s blade in the middle of the night five years ago before the girl had even turned eight. Her younger brother, Cyril, succumbed to a battle wound caused by the favourite Prince of Carylim.

Rian.

An arrogant male who knew no bounds when it came to his pride, his boldness, and his importance, which was self-imposed. Not that any of his brothers or sisters were any better, but he’d been the one to wound Cyril, a horrible cut that he’d succumbed to. His older brother, the White Knight of Carylim himself, had taken out Idris, the oldest Greenvass heir.

He hadn’t lasted another week.

Niroula suffered greatly on both days, but revenge was soon enacted. Because her second, now the eldest brother, Alpheus, found a way to silence the Queen of Carylim for good. They were neck and neck with their war, a never-ending story of bloodshed and battle. It would continue until the very last royal on either side perished. Until only one victor emerged and crowned themselves overall.

They were black and white pieces on a chess board, fighting with strategic moves and wiping away their opponents’ advantages with clever switches and easily used pawns. As for which shade belonged to which side, it entirely depended on which side was asked.

At least, that’s how her mother saw it.

Her mother, Queen Casta of Niroula, and ruler to all. After Niroula retaliated for the loss of their heirs, Carylim saw fit to rid Niroula of one of their leaders.

And so the King was lost.

On and on, this battle went.

Which was why she was born.

A prodigy of her mother, sharing only half of the blood of her elder brothers. Their mother declared her a full heir, allowing her to take her place on the pole of royal children. Should any of her three elder brothers fall, she would rule in their stead without any issue.

However, the status of their birth wouldn’t be the determining factor in who ruled next. Their mother would be.

Vrea didn’t know her father, nor did she care to. It didn’t matter when all her life he hadn’t been around. Her mind was honed like a sharp weapon and she was utterly focused on the task that her mother laid into her; to finish off the Moordian line and wipe the earth clean of their foul presence.

A task that she didn’t take lightly.

She was a weapon in the form of a woman.

Vrea couldn’t say that the Moordians wouldn’t see it coming, because all fought once they reached a certain age, men, women, and children alike. She’d succeeded in sneaking into the enemy’s castle and taking out one Prince with her last visit. That had been four years ago. A well-placed victory in her Kingdom’s hands. And recompense for her own losses. But this last time, the attempt that took place a year after the last trip, cost her dearly.

Vrea meant to scour the castle with the sole intent of ending the life of the Golden Prince, Rian, only to find herself in the wrong wing of the palace. A wing filled to the brim with guards who shouldn’t have been there according to Eamin’s specific instructions and the blueprint he’d provided. Guards raced after Vrea, ones that she refused to give in easily to. s who fought valiantly after Castil had given her over to them, but ones that finally managed to subdue her.

She was sick of being the Moordians’ prisoner.

Well, not a prisoner.

Hostage.

Because the only reason for her capture instead of her execution had been to gain whatever the royal family needed from her. Two Kingdoms, constantly warring with each other to rule over the entire continent as one instead of equally dividing the land between two heirs. A ridiculous, greedy notion, to own everything and leave nothing behind.

Not even the scraps.

Vrea knew she was nearing three years of her sentence. She knew because there were marks on the wall that she’d made with each passing day. Marks that added up to nearly three years. Three dingy years, sitting and rotting in a stinking room.

It could have been worse.

At least it wasn’t a cell.

That would have been worse.

There was a faint memory of one that kept popping in and out of her mind, refusing to let her be. It was as if she’d spent a week in a cell before they’d moved here to this room, but it couldn’t be accurate. She’d woken up in this room and the servants tending to her told her that she’d been taken directly here, not to the dungeons.

Vrea blamed it on her boredom, on her mind making up scenarios in order to fill the gaps of time.

The marks were well hidden with the tapestry that she pulled aside to add a new mark every twenty-four hours when the moon was at the highest apex in the sky and most of the castle was asleep. The marks were from a white piece of chalk that she’d stolen before they locked her inside, with nowhere to go but down if she was tempted enough to try to fling herself out of the balcony.

She wasn’t.

At least not yet.

That day might come soon enough if she was stuck here for any longer. Her mind was going crazy with each day that came and went when there was nothing to do but sit and wallow in her misery.

No one came to let her out.

The fourth Prince, the White Knight of Carylim, had visited her often, but only to rub his freedom in her face; to taunt her with endless mind games and shove book after book in her direction so that he could have someone to discuss their topics with.

For three straight years.

Vrea slept and ate.

She stared out the window.

She accepted the trays of food and water handed to her three times a day and the simple gowns that kept her from finding anything on them to use as a weapon. No glass beads to smash and blow into her guards’ watchful eyes. No intricate thread that she could use to strangle them and escape with. No buttons that she could file against the stones to make a makeshift dagger.

They slipped on and off, that was it.

For the first week, she’d refused to wear them. To even look at them, because that would be proof that she was considering wearing them. Ten days later, Vrea couldn’t take the smell reeking off of her clothes any longer. With a begrudging snatch from the overly smug maid at her submission to take the gown, she submerged herself in a bath and scrubbed herself clean. After her brown skin sparkled with a non-scented soap, she vexingly allowed the woman to help her into the raiment.

Now, that was all she wore.

There was no sign of her old clothes, nor did she ever expect to see them again. Her weapons had been removed since day one, and she knew that the Moordians had to have sent them back to her family as a sign of her well-being and proof that they held her in their iron-tight grasp.

They wouldn’t recognize her either, her family.

Her four remaining siblings would have let loose gales of laughter at the pink dress she currently wore or the way her once short hair had been braided in a precise plait down her back. She loathed the long length and would have cut it if they’d allowed her a knife to do so. They didn’t, so it fell between her shoulder blades instead of an inch or so below her chin, as she preferred it. Shorter hair was easier to fight with, to keep control of and less of an advantage for an opponent to grab onto.

Vrea hated that the simple dresses were always in the prettiest colours too like she was some sort of prize they’d won and claimed after securing their semi-win. As if dressing her in Princess attire would make them, make her, forget that she was a warrior and a weapon first and foremost. Because, of course, neither side wanted to officially give in and surrender to the other. Not as long as either was still standing. Needless to say, stubbornness ran in both sides, as strong as an ox.

She preferred to call it determination.

She missed the company of two out of the three elder brothers, even if they could be some of the most obnoxious people in the realm. She had one other sibling that fell after her, but she didn’t care much for him. Her eldest one, the one she took after, Alpheus, had a short attention span and was primed to take over once their mother stepped down.

Or was killed, whatever happened first.

Vrea had a feeling it would be the latter.

Especially regarding who held her captive.

The Moordians weren’t known for their kindness or their mercy. She was continuously surprised that they left her alive, left her confined to this chamber instead of ending her life and stringing her up for her family to see. An act of war, that was what that would be. Considering they were already always at war, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Enough was enough.

Vrea knew this room frontwards and back, up and down, which was a sign enough that it was time to get the hell out of there. She’d formed a brilliant plan, or at least one that she considered to be brilliant. A plan that she was currently in the middle of creating.

It had taken days to figure out to make sure it was smooth sailing and didn’t result in another prolonged capture. That was the very last thing she wanted. Death sounded better than sitting away and wasting the remainder of her already short life in this room. It was a cell, by another name. No one could convince her otherwise, and she didn’t particularly want to listen to anyone who would try.

Even if the White Knight disagreed.

She often dreamed about pushing him out the window. About taking his long locks and wrapping them around his tall neck. About strangling him and tossing him out the window until he choked on his spit.

Vrea smiled at that pleasant idea, continuing to prepare everything. She was halfway through her plan, finishing the last knot of her multiple bedsheets. They linked together, creating a distressed rope that held firm as she tested it with a fast tug to each section. There was no give, no groan of threads and she smiled. Vrea weighed barely a hundred and twenty pounds, perhaps even soaking wet. Her body had been honed into that of a fine fighter by her brothers and their daily practices with her.

It didn’t matter if she was a girl.

She was a weapon, first.

Which was why the dresses were insulting.

didn’t add gems and glitter to a steel blade, not for practicality. At least, Niroula didn’t. Carylim may have been different.

Vrea tossed the tied sheets over the limestone railing, grasping the edge to peer over. It would work, that she was sure of. At least if she lost her grip and plummeted to her death, it would be quick and by her own hands. She wasn’t worried about that part, not in the slightest. She was worried, however, about being caught.

The men that kept her inside this room weren’t made from the sharpest steel, but, then again, they somehow managed to become enlisted in the guard. It took at least a smidge of courage and brains.

The ruined sheets toppled down, falling and unfurling until they reached the second balcony, a floor down. Whose room it entered into, she had no clue. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she was going to use them to swing down. Her bare feet slapped against the tiled floor as she ran for the door.

, two, three.

She opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could. Quickly, as soon as the sound ended, she raced for the doors and hid behind them as one slammed open, two armoured men rushing inside to see what had happened. She was moving faster than they could turn around, shutting the door and locking them within the confines of the chamber with a nearby candelabra sliding through the curved handles.

“Hey!” They pounded against the doors but Vrea was already moving. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would be enough time for her to run. She hated the dress even more because the skirts were long and cumbersome. She reached down and gritted her teeth as she tore the hem clean off. The fabric withered to the floor like a discarded flower petal and with the way the garment fell to her knees, she could hasten her pace.

She ran like the wind, with all the speed of a cat and the cunning of an eagle, dipping behind decorative curtains whenever she heard the clambering of boots coming towards her. She ducked behind chests and armoured knight statues as they passed, slipping out before too long had passed. Step by step, she took the corridor staircase as they all made for her chamber.

The banners of the Moordians bristled as she ran by, their embedded hawk looking as though it were flying alongside her with its raised wings on either side.

The palace was practically empty, and she knew it well enough thanks to her nightly raids and previous assassination attempts. Servants milled about, paying her no heed. The coin that lined their pockets was the same that paid the men to fight, to provoke the war even further. They held no allegiance to either ruler, only their jobs. She couldn’t blame them for it.

Not when it was their husbands, their sons, their daughters and their wives who fought and died for Carylim’s pointless battles.

Vrea stumbled as a quick turn appeared before her, one that she didn’t remember seeing on any of the blueprints for the Hawksmoor Keep before she enacted her plan. she’d memorised before making for Carylim and Rian.

But those were guards coming.

The stomp of metal on stone told her that they were coming her way, and fast. It would only be a matter of time before the guards found her. Guards that she couldn’t afford to meet head-on without any sort of blade to fight back with. Not when she hadn’t been able to defeat them before, loaded with weapons. So she turned, only to run smack into a hard body.

She let out an oomphf and would have nearly tripped backwards had a gloved hand not grabbed her and prevented a terrible fall.

Vrea heard the light chuckle in his curious voice, mingled with mirth, as the man said, “Well well, what do we have here?”