Page 3 of Nightingale

Niroula suffered greatly on both days, but revenge was soonenacted. Because her second, now the eldest brother, Alpheus, found a way to silence the Queen of Carylim for good. They were neck and neck with their war, a never-ending story of bloodshed and battle. It would continue until the very last royal on either side perished. Until only one victor emerged and crowned themselves overall.

They were black and white pieces on a chess board, fighting with strategic moves and wiping away their opponents’ advantages with clever switches and easily used pawns. As for which shade belonged to which side, it entirely depended on which side was asked.

At least, that’s how her mother saw it.

Her mother, Queen Casta of Niroula, and ruler to all. After Niroula retaliated for the loss of their heirs, Carylim saw fit to rid Niroula of one of their leaders.

And so the King was lost.

On and on, this battle went.

Which was why she was born.

A prodigy of her mother, sharing only half of the blood of her elder brothers. Their mother declared her a full heir, allowing her to take her place on the pole of royal children. Should any of her three elder brothers fall, she would rule in their stead without any issue.

However, the status of their birth wouldn’t be the determining factor in who ruled next. Their mother would be.

Vrea didn’t know her father, nor did she care to. It didn’t matter when all her life he hadn’t been around. Her mind was honed like a sharp weapon and she was utterly focused on the task that her mother laid into her; to finish off the Moordian line and wipe the earth clean of their foul presence.

A task that she didn’t take lightly.

She was a weapon in the form of a woman.

Vrea couldn’t say that the Moordians wouldn’t see it coming,because all fought once they reached a certain age, men, women, and children alike. She’d succeeded in sneaking into the enemy’s castle and taking out one Prince with her last visit. That had been four years ago. A well-placed victory in her Kingdom’s hands. And recompense for her own losses. But this last time, the attempt that took place a year after the last trip, cost her dearly.

Vrea meant to scour the castle with the sole intent of ending the life of the Golden Prince, Rian, only to find herself in the wrong wing of the palace. A wing filled to the brim with guards who shouldn’t have been there according to Eamin’s specific instructions and the blueprint he’d provided. Guards raced after Vrea, ones that she refused to give in easily to. Ones who fought valiantly after Castil had given her over to them, but ones that finally managed to subdue her.

She was sick of being the Moordians’ prisoner.

Well, not a prisoner.

Hostage.

Because the only reason for her capture instead of her execution had been to gain whatever the royal family needed from her. Two Kingdoms, constantly warring with each other to rule over the entire continent as one instead of equally dividing the land between two heirs. A ridiculous, greedy notion, to own everything and leave nothing behind.

Not even the scraps.

Vrea knew she was nearing three years of her sentence. She knew because there were marks on the wall that she’d made with each passing day. Marks that added up to nearly three years. Three dingy years, sitting and rotting in a stinking room.

It could have been worse.

At least it wasn’t a cell.

That would have been worse.

There was a faint memory of one that kept popping in and outof her mind, refusing to let her be. It was as if she’d spent a week in a cell before they’d moved here to this room, but it couldn’t be accurate. She’d woken up in this room and the servants tending to her told her that she’d been taken directly here, not to the dungeons.

Vrea blamed it on her boredom, on her mind making up scenarios in order to fill the gaps of time.

The marks were well hidden with the tapestry that she pulled aside to add a new mark every twenty-four hours when the moon was at the highest apex in the sky and most of the castle was asleep. The marks were from a white piece of chalk that she’d stolen before they locked her inside, with nowhere to go but down if she was tempted enough to try to fling herself out of the balcony.

She wasn’t.

At least not yet.

That day might come soon enough if she was stuck here for any longer. Her mind was going crazy with each day that came and went when there was nothing to do but sit and wallow in her misery.

No one came to let her out.

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