Page 42 of Nightingale (The Broken Kingdoms #1)

V rea Greenvass was tired of the piss-stale air around her, the shivering temperatures of Carylim and the rudeness of those who lived there. Their passing glances weren’t as slick as they thought they were, or perhaps that was the point. She knew that she didn’t blend in with them. Her skin wasn’t porcelain pale, her eyes weren’t a piercing shade of glass and she lacked all the sharp facial points that most of them bore. Nor was her hair light, shimmering, perfect.

Her hair was short, cut close to her chin so that her natural curls were more defined, her rounder face easier to detect her homelands and the shade of her skin was proof enough that she hailed from the country across the way. The enemy country, Niroula.

In her opinion, because it was a fact as well as a thought, Carylim was the enemy, not Niroula. But she was here on a diplomatic mission for her country, her Queen, her Kingdom.

For her mother.

Queen Casta Greenvass, who had sanctioned a mission suggested by her third-born son, the one that was still alive, and brought to her attention since her particular set of skills came in handy. Her second-eldest brother, Teminos called her a sand-serpent for a good reason.

Vrea had the innate ability to sneak into places unnoticed, even this country that stared at her like she was molding bread in a bakery, and finish the job. It wasn’t a hard topic to convince herself to continue, not since her target had already killed many of her countrymen and attempted to kill her family as well. Theseus, Prince Regent of Hawksmoor Keep and if either of the royal families kept with tradition, the heir apparent to Carylim.

Of course, it was rumoured that Rian, the youngest son of the King was being primed to take over the Kingdom one day. It wasn’t unusual, since her own mother was eyeing her for the role. An honour she wore high on her head, one that helped her wish to succeed in missions such as this.

Hence why she’d been sitting in this reeking tavern for a week now. Sneaking into Hawksmoor wasn’t the problem. There were stolen blueprints carefully tended after in her family’s vaults that were more precious than any treasure. Well guarded secrets that allowed any member of the Greenvass family to get in and out. But being unnoticed was her specialty, hence why she’d been the one sent on this task instead of Eamin, who originally brought it up. Someone who had been all too happy to surrender the task to her, as if he hoped she’d get caught and someone else would kill her for him.

Though, she couldn’t imagine that he’d ever want to pass that responsibility off to another when he so clearly savoured the idea of murdering her in her sleep. Proof by the scar on her leg from the night he set a wild badger free in her room. It didn’t matter. She was the one that walked out of that fight in the end, and Eamin was the one screaming when Vrea deposited the bloody hide, guts and teeth onto his bed while he was sleeping.

A sound that replayed in her mind often as a source of joy.

Vrea shrank back into the shadowed booth, her face hidden by the coarse hood that covered the majority of her curly hair. She’d chosen this spot in particular to listen to the conversations that wrapped around the popular tavern. When the drinks flowed, the conversation and secrets usually flowed freer. Even if her room was a tiny corner of the floors upstairs, her bed no better than a pile of rocks in a pillow case, her blankets thinner than the wind, it was worth it.

Already, she’d learned about several points of access that would allow her to stay beneath any members of the royal family. She wasn’t sure how easily she’d be recognised since none of them knew her face unless they’d commissioned a portrait from the few times she’d entered the war grounds, which was doubtful. Either way, better safe than sorry. Vrea liked to think that her mother would start another war to get her back if anything happened.

The perks of being the favoured heir.

Though Malik was slowly sliding up that role.

She could always kill him if it inched too close.

Though, if she was offing brothers, Vrea wanted to start with Eamin. Little bastard.

One day, she would.

To satiate her thirst for royal blood however, the eldest Prince of Carylim would do for now.

She’d arrived seven days ago to scout out the area and learn the mannerisms of the rival country. If she was going to blend in seamlessly, then a study of its countrymen was necessary. There were already several plans in motion that she was slowly crossing off as issues arose for each and every one. So far the winning idea was to steal a uniform and serve her way into the large stronghold at the end of the continent.

Rocky mountains graced the left side of the keep, a territory that fed directionally into Niroula if one wanted to dare the trek past the Blackleg Spiders, the bandits and the horrible snows that were rumoured around these parts. Instead, she’d crossed over the borders and snuck past the war camps in the dead of night. From there, it was a straight trail to the cluster of inns and taverns and towns. Vrea didn’t speak to anyone but those needed. Her voice did not carry much of an accent but to foreigners, they might pick up on certain ways she spoke.

Vrea packed light.

A single bag with food and water and spare clothes for when she needed them. Her currency pouch was currently tucked into her person since she didn’t trust any of those around her to leave it in her bag. Easier to pickpocket versus the inside pocket of her coat which she would certainly feel if an attempt was made. She didn’t pull it out in front of others either, in case any of them were studying her.

One more day to make up her mind about what to do in order to successfully pull this task off, then she’d head for the keep. It seemed as though many of the servants came down here after their working hours were over to drink, let off steam, to tumble with others. There was no judgement of their own kind, only hers. She’d overheard several of them mention the servants’ tunnels to the right of the main entrance, the uniforms and strict policies the royal family placed, which would allow her to blend in better.

Maybe she could search the rooms and find a discarded uniform. She wasn’t picky. A guard’s attire might be a little big on her but it was better than wearing what she currently had. A serving girl would be preferable and easy, since many of them came around this particular tavern over the last few days. She didn’t have much to her figure like some of the other girls from her country, but it meant that she was a smaller target, which was preferable to vanity.

Her mother wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world but she was powerful. And that’s what Vrea wanted to be seen as. Powerful, like her mother.

A conversation shifted at the table to her left, men laughing loudly as they slammed down their mugs. Ale frothed over the rim, and onto the wooden table that was already soaked with years of the spilled drink. She turned her attention towards it, curling back into the shade even further until Vrea practically became it.

“Aren’t they throwing that strange banquet again?” His thick beard moved with him, his upper lip covered in black hair that aged him. “One night for every Prince or some bullshit?”

“Seven hells, is it that time again?” The one across from him groaned, “The keep is going to crowd and even the air will feel tight.”

Seemed like a perfect time for her to slip in.

Vrea angled her gaze away from them to appear like she wasn’t listening in if any passersby noticed her.

“Right. So many nights of unnecessary drinking, whoring, gambling and food.” The black-beared man grinned, his yellowed teeth peeking out from a mountain of hair. Even his head bore a large proportion of it, curling behind his rounded ears. A slice cut the left one in half, a thin scar left behind.

“You might enjoy it, but I don’t.” The other muttered, toying with the handle of his cup. “It’s too rigid.”

“Come on, we could catch a glimpse of the illusive Princess.” The first egged his friend. “Don’t you want to see if she even exists?”

Vrea toned out the rest of the conversation before she could hear whatever nasty sentiment they were about to express. It was known far and wide that the last daughter of Carylim had been stowed away like a beautiful pearl meant for trading and bartering, nothing more. There was a part of her that couldn’t blame a father keeping his last daughter safe when the tide was only just settling on the fate of his last.

Daria, who had tried to rally for peace.

Daria, who had been made a slave under Eamin.

Daria, who had run and died.

Her death still rattled Vrea in an uncommon way, as if the fading monarchy of the Moordians was something to be concerned with. Perhaps it was more to do with how the girl had been treated under Eamin’s control, the disgusting things he made her do. Prisoners of war were commonly offered death or slavery, in which many chose the latter. Terrible things were done to them when they entered the chains of slavery, but nothing like Eamin enjoyed. He was a different kind of terrible.

For three hours, Vrea sat in that taproom.

She listened and waited.

She studied and planned.

When a serving girl found the lap of a privateer who’d placed his cream hat off to the side, Vrea slowly stalked them like a wild plains-cat back to their room. Up the stairs and down the hall, waiting until the slap of skin finished, the breathing evened out and sleep was apparent in both of the involved parties. It wasn’t hard to pick to lock and creep in, nor was it difficult to find their discarded clothes and swipe the set she needed.

A kitchen wench.

Perfect.

Eamin was a master in the craft of poisons. He’d supplied her with a couple different options before she had left Vasthold, and if she could get into the kitchen to dose the food of Theseus, then it was a perfect plan. She supposed she could kill them all with the dosages that her brother gave her but there was no fun in that. Poison was quick, effective yes, but boring. The Moordian’s deserved to suffer and Vrea wanted to play a part in that.

Especially when it came to the White Knight of Carylim himself. Castil Moordian. Fourth heir to Hawksmoor and known as the Argent Prince in comparison to his younger brother, the Golden Heir, Rian.

The stories of the White Knight fueled her rage, her reason to murder. How he effortlessly slayed her people on the battlefield, efficiently wiping out large batches by the day. How he cut through her lands like they were a ribbon the wind. How his cool and collected manner allowed him to appear unbothered by everything. She’d never seen him in person, never understood what made him so fascinated by the servants that pranced in and out of this stinking tavern. But his title was strewn far and wide, something she couldn’t escape throughout her travels.

A mockery, she was sure.

There was nothing white about his actions.

The Bloody Knight fit him better.

Vrea swiftly changed into the serving clothes, grimacing at the levels of dust and flour that clung to the rust apron as she tied it around her thin waist. She left the girl her shoes since the sizes weren’t the same and there was a little baggage in the puffy sleeves but for the most part, it fit. She fixed the beige cap over her hair, making sure to tuck most of it away before fixing the skirt to the proper place. It sank on her waist due to the difference in proportions but the apron held it firm.

Vrea stole one glance at herself in the cracked mirror above the fireplace and barely recognised the person staring back at her. She didn’t even look like her own people, which meant that no one would look twice at her. Especially not in serving garb.

There were no other delays to keep her in the tavern, which meant that it was time to kill a Prince.