Page 23 of Nightingale

“If you’re not good enough for him, then kill the bastard.” Regulus grinned, mimicking the action of stabbing through flesh over and over again, slamming his fist down on the table, loud and hard enough that the plates jumped. Pigeon with parsley and a honey sauce had been served, whipped potatoes with a side of greens that no one touched, but everything else had been wiped clean.

“That’s treason,” Rian warned lightly. “Even if we are allowed to kill each other, killing the current King is another.”

“He killed the other Kings and Queens, and has currently locked his antlers with the last monarch across the warfront.” Castil pointed out, as if that would help the argument. If any sentries walked by and heard even a fraction of what was uttered here, they could all be put down for planned regicide. “We are doing nothing different than he is by imagining his death. You can’t tell me that you’ve never pictured it once or twice before, Rian.”

He had once, when Castil had appeared grimly ill, enough for Rian to suspect ulterior motives by the man who had handed- nay, forced Castil to drink a cup of Vengeance the night prior. But thoughts were one thing. Spoken words passed between brothers could easily become plans, which could lead to bloodshed.

However, if any of them succeeded in killing him, then they could claim the crown left behind and toss away their punishment for murdering the King.

The chances for success were extremely low.

Their father was one of the most clever, well-thought-out men that Rian had ever come across in his life. He wouldn’t let himself be killed by one of his sons.

But if any of them had a chance, it was Castil.

Eleven

She hadn’t seen anyone since the last night of the party. Which was good, since any unwelcome interruptions would have only stunted her way of thinking. No Rian, no King, not even a glimpse of Castil. Just how she liked it. A week and a half had passed with slow days and crawling nights where she watched the moon’s position to confirm how many days it had been. Her tallied wall gained ten marks.

Vrea was tired of being stuck here, unable to control her fate. There were no more kinks to work out, no more issues to solve. So with a twist of her sheets, some tugging and knotting to make sure it would look right, she’d tossed the makeshift rope out the window and took up her place by the door.

A scream later, and she was free.

Twelve

Rian knew she’d always been a smart little thing. Even from day one of her cruel capture, and the way she’d fought against it every step of the way. That day, she’d taken out three guards alongside her on her way to the cells, with the end of a sword pommel brought down upon her head in order to secure her and drag her into the chamber.

Throughout the first two years of her imprisonment, she’d fought. Fists slammed against the door in any vain attempt to break it down, kicks to the thick panelled windows in hopes of breaking the glass that would never shatter. The balcony had been locked for the first two years of her stint, in order to keep her hopes low in her chances of escape. It had only been opened within the last half of the third year because she’d calmed down to a cool fury that was obvious in the expressions she wore like fine gowns and beaded crowns.

But as Rian caught her before she could eat the stones on the ground, he saw it as plain as day. She would never stop fighting, never stop trying to win.

It was clear in her narrowed expression, in the cool green eyes that almost leaned towards grey and the way she held herself. He’d been assessing her for three years now, wondering and waiting for her to escape, to make some sort of plan that led to her inevitable capture.

Honestly, he was surprised it took this long.

His elder brother, Castil, had predicted around three years but he’d visited her often for a different reason. Rian hadn’t ever gone himself, but he listened to the stories that came from visiting her. The ones that his other siblings laughed at, mocking her predicament and the way that their father kept shoving her in those ridiculous gowns that she never suited. Castil never laughed, but he never spoke up about it either.

Considering that he was the one providing the tales, Rian suspected he didn’t have much of an opinion on it since they both knew what their other siblings were like.

Hard and savage, just like their father.

Only a few of them looked even remotely similar, as Castil and he shared a similar eye colour. Handed down from their father, but Rian’s tended to favour dark blue than grey, like as his brother’s did.

Where Rian’s hair was short and auburn, Castil’s was long and a blond so light that it was almost white, with strands of pale gold strung about it. Rian’s skin was rich and golden, resembling the sun even.

Castil’s was the moon itself.

Even their other siblings commented how they were polar opposites from each other in their looks, laughing about the women that produced them.

But that’s how it had always been.

Their father never had a wife until this last half decade. He’d been siring sons and daughters left and right as they all engaged in the competition for the crown. Because they were allowed to murder and maim each other in attempts to move up in the line of succession.

It was one thing the Moordians stole from the Greenvasses, and happily so. His father claimed it was to root out the weak ones and leave the strong behind, to show who could have the iron-clad stomach that was needed in order to rule Carylim.

Out of all of his siblings, at least the ones that were left, only Castil, himself and one other could even claim that. Because they’d been the only ones to kill.

A slip of a blade in the night as the brother directly above him, Raj, attempted to kill him instead. Something that he’d been made fun of, after the panic of taking a life settled in him hard. A kill, no matter who, when or why, was always shocking to the system. But now, he could kill again if he needed to.

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