Page 30 of Nightingale

“He doesn’t have any good graces.”

He chuckled. “That’s true, even if he does have favourite heirs.”

“You mean yourself?” The male asked, without a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice. Something that Brioc wasn’t entirely happy about considering he was the oldest remaining heir.

But Brioc was the definition of never happy. With his short onyx hair that spiked up in the front and his amber eyes, a pleasant expression had never once crossed over his features. He’d always held himself rigid like a metal pole as if he could never find an ounce of joy in the world without fear of it being the very thing that ended him. Of course, Brioc had had multiple assassination attempts, as had they all, and survived every single one of them without so much of a drop of his blood touching the floor.

Hence why he remained in his tight ways.

The youngest Prince wandered over to his decanter, pulling the crystal ball out and pouring himself two fingers’ worth of the smoky liquid. Grey, with black swirling around it.

A typical drink of Carylim, known as Vengeance.

It was a cool drink, with a bitter spice that kicked up after swallowing. There was hardly any flavour except that of pepper in the front of the taste, with a smooth texture.

No one knew who named the common liquid, only that the royals seemed to be the only ones with access to its stores and the knowledge of how to make it. Their father often drank a glass a night, offering it to all of his children, who all refused him.

It was always a test.

Because the King of Carylim had built up a tolerance to certain poisons over the years and added a dose to every glass that he could possibly find. Just in case someone tried to take him out with a cup of Vengeance.

The only reason that Castil knew that their father tried to kill them as well, to see if they were wise enough to refuse any drink that wasn’t poured themselves, was because he’d survived an attempt. He’d slipped up the very first time, after his father specifically poured a glass and set it in front of him, congratulating him on a victorious win that he’d hated.

A battle that Castil had fought against him, trying to save as many men as possible. But the King was ruthless in his declarations of war and didn’t care how many men he had to sacrifice if it meant victory to feed his ego and his pride. Which had meant sending a hundred men towards the back of Niroula as two hundred more swept around the front, led by Brioc himself.

The fight resulted in the killing of a Niroulian Prince, the eldest one, and victory for Carylim. Rian had taken out another.

A plan that his father personally made him plan out after he refused to fight in the army, and refused to let one hundred souls die in order to kill a single, worthless royal.

So a toast was made.

The rest of his siblings had taken out their own vials that they’d brought with them, adding them to the empty chalicesand drinking deeply in his honour.

Castil had initially refused the drink, pushing it back towards his father. But then a demanding look, sheer intensity and commanding thrill filled his father’s face and he refused to back down as he took a swig of his own, poured from the same bottle that filled Castil’s cup. With a hesitant wrap of his fingers around the glass, he’d plucked it off the table and swirled it, peering inwards as if there could be some miraculous trick.

He’d taken the barest sip but acted like he’d taken a large one, his father intently watching his thin throat bob as he swallowed the obscure liquid and set the glass back down. It seemed to please their father as he turned his attention towards other matters, other sons.

Three hours later, the symptoms began.

It hadn’t been more than half an ounce and yet his stomach turned on him. Castil had coughed violently as the poison began to settle within his system. It turned his insides to water, creating havoc that he felt through most of the night.

Bloodbane, by the looks of it.

His skin was clammy and his throat felt closed, air barely passing into his crying lungs as he panted for most of the night. His blood felt as though it was burning, boiling him alive and he vomited several times. He’d collapsed on the floor on the way to his bathing chamber, to hurl the contents of his stomach up and blackness had swept in.

When the cruel morning came and Castil woke, he was more than surprised to find himself alive. He looked like the seven hells had frozen over themselves, but he was alive.

His father was shocked to see him alive, too.

When Castil had dragged himself into the throne room, he’d held himself higher than he physically felt as best he could. He ached all over, in areas he hadn’t even known could hurt, and he felt as though his knees might give out at any second but he heldhimself firm. His gaze met with the King’s and he shoved every bit of anger, of strength, of power that he could into it.

The King of Carylim studied him as if searching for an answer to the question of why he hadn’t died in the middle of the night.

So Castil had simply lifted his chin in the vicious way their father liked to do when making others feel weak and said, “Don’t underestimate me, King.”

The courtiers had fallen into a dead silence.

There was no sound in the massive chamber as the King took him in, with what appeared to be a flicker of pride for his fourth son.

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