Page 21 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

F or three nights and four days, they saw no trouble. Not a single sign of it appeared on their travels, which meant that something was coming. It was only a matter of time and they both knew it, in the deepest parts of their dark, murderous souls. They were a few days away from entering the well-known parts of the mountain range that they’d been riding through. The one that was marked on every map for heavy encounters with bandits and thieves of all varieties.

Those who threatened with small blades for a handful of jewels and family heirlooms. Those who cut down one of the few trees in the area and placed it in front of a path for carriages to stop as they dropped down and stole bags and chests full of valuable items. Those who weren’t afraid to kill to get their hands on precious things.

Vrea didn’t remove her sight from the road ahead as her horse swished its large hips, moving down the rocky terrain with ease, and an occasional huff of protest when she urged it past a couple mounds of viridian grass. The beast, who was aptly named Onyx as the Prince educated her after the horse tried to eat a dandelion that was far off the path, liked to eat anything and everything that could be considered tasty. Which put Vrea in a horrible mood, minus the lack of sleep.

If she missed anything from her capture, it was the endless amount of rest that it allowed her. Not that there was much else to do within her confined chambers.

She’d taken the first watch last night, and woken him up. He’d given her a sleepy smile and let her take up a spot on the bedrolls in an attempt to catch a few hours before they set off with the sun. For the last few evenings they’d swapped who went first and last to better allow their bodies to relax for the allotted requirement, even if it meant getting less than normal. There was an ache in her bones, a weariness in her muscles and an uncomfortability in her joints from the stiff rocks that had become her bed, even if under the thin roll.

He seemed to lack energy as well and they didn’t engage in casual conversation for most of the days, which was perfectly fine by her. It had rained hard on the second day, dousing them both until they were soaking and shaking in their sleep, enough so that even the flickering fire didn’t keep them warm for the night. He’d taken the second watch and she’d woken to find a wool blanket draped over her figure, and a Prince who refused to admit that he’d given it to her, no matter how hard she demanded an answer from him.

Vrea had to admit that she admired his determination. As well as a few other things that she shouldn’t have admired at all, let alone looked at. Before they’d left for the morning, he’d stripped off his clothes and taken a quick wash in the frigid stream since it was the last river that they’d see in quite some time according to him.

He’d unabashedly tossed his dirty clothes off, promising to wash them before he was done and set a clean set off to the side of the muddy bank while he bathed. Rian had shown her the yucca plant he’d packed as well, a floral that when rubbed and dampened with water could cause suds. An item in the place of soap that took up far less space in a pack. He’d given her a small handful and told her to bathe after he was done.

But as the bronzed skin sank into the water, she’d peeked from her spot by the horses. Watched as he ran the sudsy flower all over until parts of him were shining and clean, causing a natural reaction in her nether regions that led to an uncomfortable ride for the rest of the day.

Rian had no tattoos like Brioc did in his triangular patterns around his biceps, or the star that Regulus had on his low hip, but he didn’t need any. He never wore jewellery and his clothes were fancy but nothing overstated. Especially not now. His skin had darkened a shade or two in the sun as they rode through the mountains, but nothing compared to the blistering heat that summer bore.

Her own bath had been quicker than lightning, as if he knew that she’d seen him and would retaliate by observing her in the water. Fair would be fair and he’d seen her twice now, but there was still something sensitive and private about it. She’d considered crawling into his bed mat twice now to soothe the desire that radiated through her from her dry spell, not by her own part. They’d almost gone through with it before, why was it any different now?

The Prince didn’t show any signs of similar thoughts if he had any at all, instead mostly ignoring her presence for the journey as if she wasn’t there. It didn’t annoy her and she rather enjoyed the silence as they rode side by side. Even if her nights were filled with the sight of his bare body now, thanks to his wash in the stream.

Thankfully, Vrea wasn’t the sort to talk in her sleep or give away any details about her dreams.

Nor was he.

He barely moved in his sleep, to the point where she’d kicked him with the tip of her boot once to make sure that he was still alive. His breathing had been slow and almost impossible to detect, as if he’d trained himself to look dead as he slept. Considering who he’d grown up with, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

Her mind floated back to Castil.

By this point, he had to know that she was gone.

Did the King of Carylim know, too?

He had to have returned from his trip by now and would have found his favourite son missing, as well as his pretty prisoner. They should be keeping an eye out for Carylim soldiers hot on their heels, even if they were three or four days ahead. She wouldn’t put it past the sovereign either to send men after them.

Would Castil take up the lead?

He seemed the sort to take some sort of sick enjoyment out of hunting them down, even if it was his own brother. Maybe he’d move up the line of succession with a stab in the back, even if Rian was around six years younger or so. Vrea ran over the idea of Brioc and Regulus attacking the redhead and stealing the spot of the Golden Heir.

She was honestly surprised that none of them had yet since the King was nothing if not obvious in his devotion towards the male. Vrea was confident that she was her mother’s treasured child, but that was because Queen Casta hated men, regardless of if they came from her loins or not. Even her brothers joked about how long they would live; going so far as to place bets on how long they’d live for. It was morbid, but also hilarious enough that she set one on her own lifespan.

One that she’d outlived already, but undoubtedly her siblings thought her to be dead. The Carylimian King didn’t let on if he’d sent any letters to Niroula to plead for her trade, but she highly doubted he’d let her rot away in the chamber without any reason or attempt to negotiate her release with her mother.

A sudden thought struck her dumbfounded.

In all her time in Hawksmoor Keep, she’d never once overheard the King’s name. She couldn’t recall it from any of the texts she’d poured over in her studious research before infiltrating the castle in either of her tries, nor did any of his sons mention his official name.

My father.

The King.

The sovereign of Carylim.

Vrea had only ever heard Castil call him as such, trying to think over any time with any of the sons as well before she inquired about it with Rian.

She snuck a peek towards him, only to find his eyes closed as he rested his back on the end of the horse, hands tucked under his head in a makeshift pillow as he took a fast nap. There was no reasonable way that it was actually comfortable, but any amount of sleep would be appreciated by either of them.

There was no name in her memory, no sign of the first letter than it began with, and a strange feeling filled her lungs like water as if she were drowning.

“Rian,” She called to him, his body jerking up as he rotated to see her better. He didn’t rise fully to his normal height, but blinked a couple times.

“Hmm?” The male flicked a stray piece of auburn out of his vision.

“What’s your father’s name?”

He didn’t answer which struck her as odd.

She twisted in the saddle to look at him, only to find him staring directly up at the cloudy sky.

“I-” He stumbled, fingers lacing over his wide chest. “I don’t know.” He sounded surprised in himself, as if it should be something he could easily answer instead of pausing to pass it over in his head. “He’s never told us and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone mutter it before, servants in the shadows included. I don’t think even Castil knows, and he’s the one that likes to know everything.”

“That doesn’t seem like something someone should hide.” Vrea concluded, “Even for a King.”

“Something for me to look into when I return from Nirouola, then.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t let him know that there was almost no chance that he’d be leaving Niroula again. Everything inside of her screamed that he’d be forced on his knees, a silver collar slapped around his neck and donned in the ramients of a Niroulian slave. Something low in her stomach felt nauseous at the idea of that sort of imprisonment, especially when the first week was the worst. Her brothers Alpheus and Eamin took turns beating the new additions into the help, until they took every ounce of will from them, until they were a broken shell that didn’t try to rebel, didn’t try to flee or escape. If they lasted longer than two years without any incident, then often they were given more freedom, depending on how high in the Carylim stature they stood.

Men from the war often turned sides, happily working for Casta and her heirs after years of servitude, finding freedom at the end if they earned it. But the royals, the heirs of Carylim, would never find freedom at the end of the chain. Daria had been the only one they’d managed to capture before, and Vrea hurled her stomach contents up after Eamin had his way with her.

She’d asked her brother in confidence to retreat from the first trial conditions, to leave her alone instead of decorating her in the bruises that the newest slaves were supposed to wear in honour, in pride. But he’d shoved her away and growled at her like some sort of mad beast, shouting that she shouldn’t have an ounce of pity for any of the Moordians, regardless of what lay between their legs.

Daria had shaken so violently as Eamin had entered her cell, the dusty square chamber with no windows or bars. Just a door that locked them away from the outside world and any company.

The walls were thick, but not thick enough.

Her splintering screams could have been heard at the tallest spire of the palace. And when she’d been forced to emerge after seven days and seven nights, the bruises were imprinted in places that could only mean one thing. A punishment that usually wasn’t inflicted on anyone, and Eamin had acted as though he’d stepped up a peg on the pole of succession afterwards, which confirmed Vrea’s worst thoughts.

She’d slipped Daria some healing herbs in secret, whispering careful instructions before slipping back into the shadows so that neither of them could get caught. The girl was thankful but it didn’t do much in the end.

For a couple of years, Eamin kept her close.

Too close.

Enough that after it was all said and done, when Vrea had finally convinced her brother to let Daria into her care instead, when he became bored with her after he’d fucked every bit of her away, the Princess had broken into a run one day. She’d run and she hadn’t stopped, not by her own volition.

The archers stopped her.

A direct hit through the back of her neck, a hit that sent her flailing to the floor as she choked to death on her own blood, spitting and gasping for air as her body thrashed and curled inwards.

It was a wretched death, but her brothers took it one step further. Teminos sided with her, as he tended to do, disagreeing with their violent actions.

They’d sent pieces of her back to Carylim as a message of what Niroula did to Carylim royals.

One that was heard loud and clear.

Suddenly, Vrea pictured Rian in his sister’s place. Her gut twisted inside out and she felt sick thinking of marks along his rich skin, his lovely red hair shorn close to his skull, or dark bags under his bright blue eyes that could turn towards smoky sapphire in certain times.

And at that moment, Vrea didn’t want to take him home. She didn’t want him to become a trapped slave, and that terrified her.