Page 4 of Nightingale

The fourth Prince, theWhite Knight of Carylim,had visited her often, but only to rub his freedom in her face; to taunt her with endless mind games and shove book after book in her direction so that he could have someone to discuss their topics with.

For three straight years.

Vrea slept and ate.

She stared out the window.

She accepted the trays of food and water handed to her three times a day and the simple gowns that kept her from finding anything on them to use as a weapon. No glass beads to smash and blow into her guards’ watchful eyes. No intricate thread thatshe could use to strangle them and escape with. No buttons that she could file against the stones to make a makeshift dagger.

They slipped on and off, that was it.

For the first week, she’d refused to wear them. To even look at them, because that would be proof that she was considering wearing them. Ten days later, Vrea couldn’t take the smell reeking off of her clothes any longer. With a begrudging snatch from the overly smug maid at her submission to take the gown, she submerged herself in a bath and scrubbed herself clean. After her brown skin sparkled with a non-scented soap, she vexingly allowed the woman to help her into the raiment.

Now, that was all she wore.

There was no sign of her old clothes, nor did she ever expect to see them again. Her weapons had been removed since day one, and she knew that the Moordians had to have sent them back to her family as a sign of her well-being and proof that they held her in their iron-tight grasp.

They wouldn’t recognize her either, her family.

Her four remaining siblings would have let loose gales of laughter at the pink dress she currently wore or the way her once short hair had been braided in a precise plait down her back. She loathed the long length and would have cut it if they’d allowed her a knife to do so. They didn’t, so it fell between her shoulder blades instead of an inch or so below her chin, as she preferred it. Shorter hair was easier to fight with, to keep control of and less of an advantage for an opponent to grab onto.

Vrea hated that the simple dresses were always in the prettiest colours too like she was some sort of prize they’d won and claimed after securing their semi-win. As if dressing her in Princess attire would make them, makeher,forget that she was a warrior and a weapon first and foremost. Because, of course, neither side wanted to officially give in and surrender to the other. Not as long as either was still standing. Needless to say,stubbornness ran in both sides, as strong as an ox.

She preferred to call it determination.

She missed the company of two out of the three elder brothers, even if they could be some of the most obnoxious people in the realm. She had one other sibling that fell after her, but she didn’t care much for him. Her eldest one, the one she took after, Alpheus, had a short attention span and was primed to take over once their mother stepped down.

Or was killed, whatever happened first.

Vrea had a feeling it would be the latter.

Especially regarding who held her captive.

The Moordians weren’t known for their kindness or their mercy. She was continuously surprised that they left her alive, left her confined to this chamber instead of ending her life and stringing her up for her family to see. An act of war, that was what that would be. Considering they were already always at war, it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Enough was enough.

Vrea knew this room frontwards and back, up and down, which was a sign enough that it was time to get the hell out of there. She’d formed a brilliant plan, or at least one thatsheconsidered to be brilliant. A plan that she was currently in the middle of creating.

It had taken days to figure out to make sure it was smooth sailing and didn’t result in another prolonged capture. That was the very last thing she wanted. Death sounded better than sitting away and wasting the remainder of her already short life in this room. It was a cell, by another name. No one could convince her otherwise, and she didn’t particularly want to listen to anyone who would try.

Even if theWhite Knightdisagreed.

She often dreamed about pushing him out the window. About taking his long locks and wrapping them around his tall neck.About strangling him and tossing him out the window until he choked on his spit.

Vrea smiled at that pleasant idea, continuing to prepare everything. She was halfway through her plan, finishing the last knot of her multiple bedsheets. They linked together, creating a distressed rope that held firm as she tested it with a fast tug to each section. There was no give, no groan of threads and she smiled. Vrea weighed barely a hundred and twenty pounds, perhaps even soaking wet. Her body had been honed into that of a fine fighter by her brothers and their daily practices with her.

It didn’t matter if she was a girl.

She was a weapon, first.

Which was why the dresses were insulting.

One didn’t add gems and glitter to a steel blade, not for practicality. At least, Niroula didn’t. Carylim may have been different.

Vrea tossed the tied sheets over the limestone railing, grasping the edge to peer over. It would work, that she was sure of. At least if she lost her grip and plummeted to her death, it would be quick and by her own hands. She wasn’t worried about that part, not in the slightest. She was worried, however, about being caught.

The men that kept her inside this room weren’t made from the sharpest steel, but, then again, they somehow managed to become enlisted in the guard. It took at least a smidge of courage and brains.

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