Page 21 of Nightingale

She was fuming at him, but she was alive.

That was all he cared about.

And as Castil found her chambers, he was more than happy that it was the last night that she’d be taken out and played. Because for a solid minute there as they danced, she’d been enjoying herself. Relaxed, even if it was with him. Their banter had been playful, nearly on the verge of something else. And he knew without a shadow of a doubt, thatthatwas what had triggered his father.

She was a prisoner, not their guest.

She wasn’t supposed to enjoy herself.

He wasn’t supposed to like her.

Castil shoved his hatred down and opened the door to her rooms. “Till next time, Nightingale.”

Ten

Castil was quiet, which wasn’t unusual for him since his brother normally kept to himself. But the contemplative, complicated expression he worewas.

Rian swirled the glass of smoky Vengeance around his goblet, watching as the Prince thought over something in fine detail. The scrunch of his nearly-white eyebrows, the purse of his lips, the crinkles above his nose- it all pointed as turmoil. There wasn’t anything else to give him away, no fiddling with his hair, no tracing his thumb with his nail, nothing beyond those minuscule signs.

“Castil,” He took a sip, setting it down on the table before leaning on his forearms. “You look lost. Care to share your headspace with us, or will we play a guessing game in order to figure it out?”

All four of them had gathered for a rare supper, sitting in Brioc’s room, a large table brought up for such an occasion. There was no sign of the King, nor would there be. These clandestine meetings were never brought to his attention, nor would they ever if any of them valued their lives. They might have been brothers, siblings, family, but they had not been raised to act as such.

They were enemies, engaged in a peaceful break until the next fight broke out.

“Am I required to share every single one of my troublesomethoughts?” He quietly retorted, pulling his knee up until his boot braced on the ridge of the carved wooden chair.

“It is when your face is as pinched as it currently is.” Rian tapped three fingers rhythmically on the table, enjoying thetap, tap, tapthat his nails made when they hit it.

“I didn’t realise that Iwasmaking a face.”

Brioc snorted. “It’s not too far from your regular but there is a slight vexation to it if one knows where to look.”

Castil ran the end of his thumb along his mouth, tracing the skin there. “Should I be honoured that you know my features so well? Or perhaps threatened that you seem to study me most?”

Rian lifted his arms in pretend surrender. There was a snapping tone that wasn’t to be ignored, one that warned of any further pushing. “We’re not interrogating you, brother. Simply curious to know what burdens you so.”

The candles danced around them, casting them all in the burnt glow of jewelled orange and red, and every so often, hints of yellow. Four candelabras had been lit in the large chamber, a square with a connecting rectangle that hosted Brioc’s bed and washroom in another section.

He sat at the head of the table, across from Rian. A trait that they both reflected from their father; they both liked power and they both wanted others to know it. Regulus and Castil took a place on each side, passing glares back and forth like they were weaponised words. A look could wound just as much as tongue and teeth. They were all heavily skilled in different methods of fighting, regardless of which one they used to win.

So long as theywon.

Losing wasn’t an option in this house.

Losing meant that one was dead.

Better dead than weak, their father always said.

“I am tired.” He sighed, long hair draping over his shoulder, sliding off of the silk tunic he wore. A doublet of the richest blue,illuminated his gaunt features and turned his silver eyes towards an icy sterling. “Of the war, of the games, of waiting for one of you to try to run your blade through my back when I am not looking.”

“We’re all tired, Cas.” Brioc ran his pointer finger along the rim of his glass, empty. “Of it all. Except for maybe you, Regulus. I think you enjoy your bloodlust.”

Their brother smirked; a cruel and cunning thing. “We have the chance to knock the Greenvasses back into the mud where they belong. Of claiming more lands like it should have always been. I relish each of those sand-coated bitches that I can put down. And you all should do the same if you want a fair chance at the throne.”

“It’s not a fair chance.” Castil snapped, his eyes flying back to Rian. “Not at all.”

He swallowed his gulp of Vengeance, his brother’s anger palpable. It wasn’t a fair chance because there was nothing that any of his siblings could truly do to mark themselves above his own place in the line of succession. Their father had made it clear that he wanted Rian to inherit, not any of the others. And when the King had made his mind up on something, it was impossible to change it.

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