Page 37 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

A mir guided Rian to a guest room, one that locked from the outside on the first floor, nearest to the cells in case of an incident as Vrea refused to move until he was out of her sightline. Amir wouldn’t take him anywhere else, not when he swore to follow her instructions but they were in a castle known for killers and murders. There was no question that Eamin would try something, even Alpheus.

The Prince didn’t fight, didn’t try to argue, didn’t do anything but allow himself to be led away for a controlled, watched-over seclusion. He found her once, meeting her eye level as his throat bobbed. Strain swirled in the bright blue that had darkened, worry that whirled with silvery waves, tension that coursed through the male. She couldn’t blame him, but it was his turn to trust her. He’d asked the favour of her, now she was requesting it in return. With a slight roll of his neck, he signalled that he did.

Amir tugged him into the corridor that led towards the part of the castle where he’d be set, until a decision could be made over his fate. Until Casta could make that final call after hearing all sides of the argument.

She had yet to see her mother.

If nervousness was a tiny flutter of a butterfly inside her chest at the sight of one of her brothers, then it was a snarling beast locked in a bone cage at the thought of facing her mother after so long. There was a tang of disappointment that she expected, for failing to put Rian down. A swipe of sorrow for how long she’d been held captive. A slap of anger for her refusal to finish the task she’d been sent out to do.

For the enemy she’d knowingly, willingly, brought into their home.

Some would call her a fool.

Three years ago, she would have been one of them. Now, she wasn’t exactly sure who she was, what she’d become. Uncertainty filled her gut with a tight pause that made her reconsider her actions, things she never doubted herself on before. But they were here and things had already been set in motion. There was nothing short of killing Rian that could undo it all.

Vrea waited until she could no longer see Rian, falling back into a normal pace as she examined the parts of her home that she could never forget, no matter how long it had been since she’d last seen it. The beige stones stacked atop the others to create the impressive height, the endless balconies where the inhabitants of Vasthold enjoyed basking in the summer sun, the wild plains-cat section around the back.

She couldn’t wait to experience it again, watching a handful of hulking cats chased around the large dirt oval behind the castle. Bets were placed, anticipation high as the huge felines raced for victory and money was lost and won. It was a twice a year tradition, one where the entire day was spent outdoors under raised cabanas and chilled refreshments were passed around for all and any who lacked them.

She’d missed it for the last three years.

It was one of the things that bonded her and Teminos, as much as they could. Together they’d placed bets on the same tan cat, admiring the fur that protruded from the pointed ears that curled inwards, the black that lined their eyes and nose, the ivory that ran up the bridge of their face. The animals were large enough that they could ride them if desired, but that would require a brave soul to tame and train them first.

Something no one dared to try.

Not with the giant padded paws that held savage claws inside, as long as a finger. They could rip a man to shreds within minutes, along with their vicious teeth that were half as long in length. The cats didn’t purr, but she supposed they had no reason to. They were fed fresh, raw camel meat from the unsalvageable parts deemed unsuited for human consumption. The cats had no problem with them, fed off of long sticks with thin spear heads attached. The handlers remained a few feet away in order to remain intact, tossing the dripping sinew and bloodied flanks into the cages.

Each year, new plains-cats were caught, herded and lured into the gated habitat along with scorpions that roamed the dunes and scaled lizards with long tails, chasing them as the prey ran for their lives.

Vrea could see the enclosure from there, the empty pens that waited for the feline occupants. With the timing of the year, in accordance with the weather, she estimated that they still had a few months before it took place. The events were scheduled six months apart, in order to enjoy both of the polarising seasons.

She entered the main section, admiring the large throne room that dipped down the set of fat stairs that reached from wall to adjoining wall. Each step was around five inches thick and a foot and a half wide in order to stretch from the top to the carpeted floor.

An azure bolt of clean velvet ran the distance from the bottom of the stair, all the way to the thrones, that sat high on a platform dais. Bronze and sapphire were corded into a three strand braid, sewn down each long sides of its entire thing, tipping it off. In the direct middle of the fabric lay an embroidered badger in its entirety. Not just the bared fangs of the head, but the figure with raised claws and a striped back.

Vrea traced the top of her shoe around it, following the animal shape as she admired it. A hard lesson, but one she learned nonetheless.

Her focus drifted up and past the badger to the pillars of carved marble, drizzled with white and black throughout the thick roundness of them. The hall was large enough for twenty-four chairs evenly spaced, with a ceiling that rose in a tapered shape, reminding her of a chalice. The bottoms replicated it, ending in squares. In between the pillars, doors entered into other parts of Vasthold, decorated with multiple paintings in oil and water colours, framed with silver and gold.

Vrea studied the hall where she’d grown up, took in the ten chairs that twisted together from planks of teak, wrapped in an intricate design that suggested the people who sat upon them were not just anyone. Though, considering the placement of the thrones, she highly doubted anyone would ever think anything else.

Ten chairs.

One for her mother, one for the King that was killed, never to be sat in again until one of them took over in her stead and married a suitable prospect. Four off to each side, for the children they bore. Only five thrones remained full, the other five empty for Cyril and Tessa, Mira and Zara alongside their mother’s partner.

She took pride in the fact that her throne was directly next to her mother’s, the left hand of the Queen.

Teminos sat next to her, then Malik.

Eamin and Alpehus took up the right.

Vrea pursued the biggest throne out of them all, picturing herself on it, just as her mother secretly promised to her all that time ago. There were days in her confinement in Hawksmoor, when she vanished into her mind to ward away the full hours that ticked by at a sluggish pace. Days where she pictured her coronation, gloriously clad in crimson and gold. There were small details that she placed, marking them for a future reference as she mentally described the crown to herself, the long cape that her mother would drape over her shoulders with combed badger fur.

Imagining her brothers next to her, the ones that she didn’t have to kill.

Malik didn’t seem to be a threat, reaching the age of twenty-two. He was still young, seven years younger than she was. But his ideology had been the same as Teminos’s the last time she’d spoken with him, a little over three years ago. For now, he wasn’t an issue. If that changed, so would the matter of his life.

Teminos would never be a problem.

Eamin, on the other hand, would always be one.

Vrea was free of Hawksmoor Keep, of Prince Castil and the King and the rest of the Moordians. Her plan to escape had worked and she was here now, home. Which meant that her mind was free to whisk up another plot, and the first one she wanted to work out was how to kill Eamin, before he ultimately decided to try and kill her.

Alpheus would come next.

“The bitch is back!” A disbelieving, high-pitched female cried out from somewhere behind the pillars. “I almost can’t believe my eyes!”

Vrea contained her excitement as Imogen emerged from the back of the room, arms crossed over her chest. “Colour me surprised that no one has killed you yet. Especially since I haven’t been here to back you up, if your opinions get you into a fist fight.”

Her strawberry-blonde hair was tucked into a messy braid, swinging around as she raced for her one and only friend. Vrea clasped her shoulder, patting it twice in friendly greeting, smiling widely at the stunning female.

Hazel eyes that were lit with delight, tanned skin with freckles that broke out all over. Lean muscle that wasn’t to be ignored was packed into her arms, her shoulders, her long back. She stood half a foot taller than Vrea, even if she slouched every now and then. But compared to her partner, Amir, the height wasn’t as absurd.

“I heard about your little romp in the war tent. Guess you weren’t quiet enough.” She smirked like a wild plains-cat who had just won the race and its freedom. “A Moordian, huh?”

Vrea tucked her lips together as shame licked her cheeks, reddened her deep-set skin and turned her crimson. “Your husband likes to spill my intimate moments with you.”

“Of course he does, at least to me.” She shrugged and guided them both in the direction of Vrea’s room. “He’s gone for long periods of time, so he makes up for it with everything he hears on the road. It keeps me entertained until he can come up with smart ideas on how to make it up to me.”

“I’m assuming that he’s still making up for this length?” She questioned with a suggestive pull of her face. The pair were notorious for their experimental ideas.

“Let’s just say that he’s waiting in our bed.”

“And you came to see me?”

Imogen playfully smacked her shoulder. “Of course I did. I haven’t seen you in three years. Four months is nothing compared to that.”

A dot of warmth spread in her chest.

“It’s good to see you.” She wrapped her arm around the taller girl’s shoulder as they walked up the set of stairs that led to her old room, pondering if it would all look the same as it used to. Everything else seemed to be in the exact same place as before, so she assumed her room would remain untouched from how she left it last.

“Is he here?” Imogen peered around the corner, as if someone could be hiding in the woodwork or carved statues. “Amir said he was in Vasthold, but he wouldn’t give me any clues.”

“Who?”

“Rian, of course.” She dramatically groaned in dismay. “Who else? The King of Carylim himself? No, the Golden Heir, the most attractive Prince in the Moordian.”

Vrea bit her tongue before she said that he wasn’t the most attractive, considering his sibling was as fair as the moon and stars themselves, but Rian made up for it with his personality in comparison to the dark shadow of an asshole that Castil always wore.

“He’s a floor down, locked away and under eye, if your husband has any say over it.” Vrea said, wrenching her friend towards her room, pausing before the door and reaching for the golden handle.

“Amir is definitely cautious when it comes to anyone from Carylim. Something about his blood and where he’s from, I’m not entirely sure where the prejudice stems from, you know? I think he’s being unreasonable.” Sarcasm wasn’t strong enough of a definition for what came out of her mouth, the lilt of the intense satire.

There was a friendship that always existed between the two of them, one that slowly, carefully developed thanks to her lack of trust. One that still held an edge of caution, but one that dulled over the years they’d gotten to know each other. Imogen had helped her through Tessa’s death, through Cyril’s. She’d fought alongside her during the war and provided a necessary comfort that only a friend could do. It didn’t hurt that she was married to the one other person that Vrea trusted completely.

Amir wasn’t the sort to make bad decisions regarding his life, and he only allowed those he would trust wholeheartedly within a certain distance of the royal family. If Amir trusted them, then so did Vrea.