Page 3 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

Weeks Prior

W henever Vrea was bored, she would sing. It didn’t matter what the song was about, just that she could clearly remember enough of the music to follow the tune to near replication. It was something she prided herself on with an imaginary clap on the back since there was no one else to do it, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let one of the Moordians touch her. But the guards were always listening outside of her room, something she didn’t quite enjoy. Especially not when the entire castle was abuzz with life and flowing presences that could overhear her at any moment.

She had a feeling that if the King of Carylim heard her voice, he would prop her up on a stage and force her to sing for hours among hours for his entertainment. Lavish revels and expensive feasts that only her mother could rival for finery. Often, she could hear the jovial buzz from her room on the third floor, the raucous laughter from the courtyard or the singers that crossed over borders. Vrea loved to sing more than she loved to fight, but it was something that felt more private than killing. To have the King privy to that innocent shred of her, it felt wrong, oily, stripping.

That was the very last thing she wanted to do, considering that she’d seen the events that the Carylimian singers often participated in after they finished their vocal performances.

To be convinced off the stage, whisked away into another area as they showed off their other skills.

An encore, of sorts.

Especially whenever Regulus was involved.

The second heir could never keep his hands off of them, refusing to remain hidden in private and instead, turning his passion into a public show for all to see and join if they so much as wished to.

Shame was not something well-known in Carylim. They were like dogs, rutting in front of all without a single care in the world, showing their lust and passion in public. Sex seemed more of an act, a quick fuck where it was a cultivated art form in Niroula. Even the Moordian heirs were pushed to procreate, to secure even more of their line. None had taken wives yet, which was strange but their beds were never empty if the moans that echoed down the hallways were any indication. They mostly came from Regulus’s room, only a handful of rooms down from her own if her assumption was correct.

That, or he was extremely loud.

Which she wouldn’t put past him.

There were too many of the children to keep count of, despite their dwindling numbers.

Theseus, the eldest brother might have been the best out of them all if he hadn’t been overly fond of food. The Prince Regent was known for his devotion to pastries and sampling morsels, information that had helped in his demise. Gone, by her own talented hand at sneaking poisons into unsuspecting stews at a banquet feast. Then there was Brioc, who was more mammoth than man, the second son and now the Prince Regent of Carylim. It was said that the wisdom of their father had skipped him, but the brute strength and warrior skills had not.

Regulus followed suit, the third son and the heir who would destroy the Kingdom if he had his chance at it. Vrea suspected that he wouldn’t last much longer, due to his wandering eyes and even further creeping hands. One of his conquests might see fit to end him before he could end her.

There was Castil, the fourth son and third Prince who had two moods. Silent as the grave, or as foul as the rest of them with his quicksilver tongue and thorned retorts that could draw blood if he so wished it. Either one was unpleasant and she doubted that he’d even have a shot at the throne.

Orla was the first daughter and was said to be terribly beautiful. To the point where her father kept her away for all days and all nights. A similar sentence to her own. Rian was next, a devilishly handsome heir who was said to be his father’s favourite and promised to take the throne after his death or abdication. As if the latter would ever happen. Then there was Daria, the second daughter who the Greenvasses had killed.

The Moordians of Carylim, with their noses permanently stuck up each other’s backsides for how fantastic they all thought they were.

Even their sigil was one of eye-rolling vanity.

The Carylim banners bore a hawk on them, with prideful wings of grey and gold, spread on a tapestry of green like a springfield atop a mountain, trimmed in gold and silver braids. The name of the creature had meshed with their last name, creating the title of the dwelling of the Moordians.

Hawksmoor Keep.

It was a dreadful name, for a dreadful place, filled with dreadful people.

So in a way, she supposed it fit.

At night, when most of Hawksmoor was asleep and she could allow herself that small audience of the sentries and stars, it became easier to sing. Even the moon seemed to lean closer as she quietly recanted the ballads of her homeland, of the one thing they could never take from her.

Which is why she clung to it like dew on a blade of grass in the dawn as the sun rose over the horizon. Because they could never take that one piece of her. It didn’t matter if they forced her to grow out her hair or stick her in simple gowns that were the shades she’d never wear back home. It didn’t matter if they took her out four nights a year as a trophy, or if they called her ridiculous names.

They could never truly take away her home, or where she belonged. Where she’d come from and who she was.

That was what kept her strong.

That was what kept her alive.

That was why she sang.

When she opened her mouth and began the lilting lament of Niroula, she knew she wasn’t alone. She made it through the first half of the song and melted into the second, raising her voice to hit the high notes in all the correct ways. They were light, soft, and beautiful. They were the pearlescent moon on the water as it rippled in a cold night breeze.

The lock clicked after her descent into the final aria, allowing her to know precisely who had entered her room. No one else locked the door. But it had never been for nefarious reasons, only to poke her buttons.

She’d worried at first when he slipped in.

“What a pretty lark you are.” He crooned from his perch on the doorframe like some sort of shadow demon that crawled up from the depths of one of the seven hells. “Chirping at all hours of the night.”

Vrea ignored him as she completed the last melody and ended on a low, drawn-out note. He held his tongue for the remainder of the lament, waiting until she brought her lips together and finished the musical pitch that was an octave or two higher than her normal voice. She steeled her might and sarcasm, leashed her irritation and eventually turned to face the fourth Prince.

“ White Knight .”

A taunt at his title, the one his people called him for how many he’d magnificently slayed on the battlefield. According to the gossip of servants, he was often on the front lines of war, fighting for his Kingdom and country. And when he wasn’t dousing himself in her people’s blood, then he was here, mocking her with his unwanted presence. Once a month, for the last two years.

“Nightingale.” Castil Moordian lowered his head in an angular slant. “Singing another song of your homeland, it seems.”

Vrea could already sense the rising annoyance as he scanned her room, looking for something it seemed and finding nothing. “Should I sing about Carylim and its countless victories instead? Or how my country always pushes back?”

“About the ceaseless war and its endless casualties?” He retorted, holding himself by the door like he always did. Very rarely did he come any closer. Always half basked in shadows, half cast in pale moonlight that made his near-white hair shimmer like freshly captured pearls. Even his lupine eyes seemed to turn towards a light silver. “Please, by all means. Maybe your ballads will bring them back to life.” He scoffed, huffing out in false amusement.

Vrea bit her tongue in an attempt to keep herself quiet, to stop herself from saying something that would order her death sentence. A plan had formed in her brilliant head, one that she needed a couple of weeks to work out the final kinks before enacting. If that failed, then she’d consider pushing the arrogant Prince to the point of no return, and perhaps take another heir with her.

She wouldn’t go alone.

Castil shoved off the wall at last, untucking his arms and her attention caught on the lower left sleeve that was stained with a red colour.

Blood, in a diagonal slash by a thin knife.

Similar to her own.

It had to have been recent since the blood was freshly plinking on her floor and staining his shirt. Within the last hour, if she had to guess by the colour and intensity of it.

Good.

She hoped whatever it had been, had hurt.

He followed her intrusive gaze, jaw clenching firmly as he tucked his left arm behind his back. Anger flashed in a cold fury across his long features. Vrea watched him cautiously as he edged closer, gaining foot by foot as the distance between them shortened.

“The revel is coming up in a couple of days.” Castil flipped the subject of conversation around, ignoring the topic of war and death completely. “I’m sure it will be just as unpleasant as the previous year.”

“I won’t be dragged to that unnecessary celebration again.” She flat-out refused, crossing one arm over the other and stepping down from the balcony. “I was forced to go to the last one, I won’t go to another.”

He circled her in a half-crescent shape, halting just a couple of inches in front like a leaf floating on the night-kissed breeze. “I’m afraid you won’t have much of a choice in regards to your attendance. I suggest that you take it in stride and get through it without any issues.”

“Without any issues ?” She bit out with a flash of fury and the heat of humiliation. “I take great offence to the fact that you and your brothers are allowed to dress me up like some sort of doll and walk me around the palace in your arms like some sort of prized cattle!”

Castil, as usual, didn’t react to her temper. “It’s only a week of festivities. Besides, I’ll make sure that you have plenty of things to do afterwards if you succeed in behaving properly.”

It was no longer a bubbling dribble of determination to keep cool like rushing water, but a hissing stream that shoved and slammed against stubborn stones.

“Behave properly?” Vrea marched closer to him. “I am not your slave, I am not some dog to be led around on a leash. I am not a pretty wife who has been ordered to keep quiet or a toy to take out whenever you all are bored. I am Princess Vrea Greenvass, heir to Niroula and a skilled fighter.”

Castil’s sterling eyes bore into her mouth, only to dart up a second later. There was approximately seven inches of height between them and he used most of it as he slowly bent down towards her. “Let me remind you of something, Vre .”

She didn’t like how much her core flitted about in return for the shortened version of her name. But it did unreasonable things whenever he used that ridiculous bird title.

“What?” Vrea pushed out through clenched teeth.

“You may be one of the heirs of Niroula, perhaps Casta’s favourite because you’re the only one that looks exactly like her. You may be a seasoned sentry with skills to match my own even, but you are a prisoner at the moment. Titles don’t matter, and nor does your will when it comes to the matter of your life. So you can either be a good little Princess and come to the revel that my father will insist that you attend, or you can wallow away in the darkness until he inevitably decides to kill you.”

There was a delicious temptation to punch him in his gorgeous face. She almost gave in to it.

Almost.

Her next sentence felt as sweet as raw, recently harvested sugar as she spoke. “Kill me, then. I don’t know why your father insists on keeping me alive when it’s clear that he has no use for me.”

Castil looked taken aback, his pale skin turning towards a sickly tint of ivory. But within the next second, he shook it off and returned to his normal sneering expression. “If I do that, then my neck is next on the chopping block. I don’t dare go against the King’s orders, even if I’m tempted.”

“Coward.” She slung the insult his way.

He didn’t miss a beat. “ Survivor. ”

Her heart toppled a hundred feet, falling to a cold plunge near her toes at his single word, his one title that he said proudly.

“Looks like I’ve rendered you speechless. Good.” He ambled away, his back rotating as he headed for the door. “Don’t try to fight it when Brioc comes for you in two days. It’s happening, whether you want it to or not. You should heed my advice and go alongside it, lest you want my father to make it extremely painful for you. One way or another, you will be sitting by my siblings and I’s sides, for all evenings of the event.”

Castil dipped out of the room and left her to ponder over his word.

Survivor.

It struck a familiar cord inside of her, one that she didn’t realise she had. Then horror was a wet blanket that draped across her entire system as she understood that she held something in common with Castil Moordian.