Page 42 of Nightingale

She’d slipped Daria some healing herbs in secret, whispering careful instructions before slipping back into the shadows so that neither of them could get caught. The girl was thankful but it didn’t do much in the end.

For a couple of years, Eamin kept her close.

Too close.

Enough that after it was all said and done, when Vrea had finally convinced her brother to let Daria into her care instead, when he became bored with her after he’dfuckedevery bit of her away, the Princess had broken into a run one day. She’d run and she hadn’t stopped, not by her own volition.

The archers stopped her.

A direct hit through the back of her neck, a hit that sent her flailing to the floor as she choked to death on her own blood, spitting and gasping for air as her body thrashed and curled inwards.

It was a wretched death, but her brothers took it one step further. Teminos sided with her, as he tended to do, disagreeing with their violent actions.

They’d sent pieces of her back to Carylim as a message of what Niroula did to Carylim royals.

One that was heard loud and clear.

Suddenly, Vrea pictured Rian in his sister’s place. Her gut twisted inside out and she felt sick thinking of marks along his rich skin, his lovely red hair shorn close to his skull, or dark bags under his bright blue eyes that could turn towards smokysapphire in certain times.

And at that moment, Vrea didn’twantto take him home. She didn’twanthim to become a trapped slave, and that terrified her.

Twenty-One

Castil threw shirt after shirt in, angry at himself and angry at his father who demanded he chase after Vrea and Rian. The two people in the world that he cared about, a mistake in itself since they were both being used as pawns against him by the one person who could. The one person in either realm that seemed to not have a single human emotion, empathy or anything like it.

He shoved his pants in, not caring enough to fold them in an orderly fashion. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was coming back here. Not by any reason except his execution, chucked over the war camps like Daria had been, which he was completely prepared for. He was ready for a fast death, which was unlikely considering where he was headed, or one on the road. He thought about ending it himself and letting things fall into their natural place. If it could even be called that in the Kingdoms where natural selection was taken up by whoever felt up to the task, choosing who lived and who died themselves like a voluntary god of death.

Castil tossed his sword atop the pile, a blade named for the brilliant steel that was a mirror of his long hair.

Polaris, like the star pattern in the sky.

It wasn’t the brightest ball of fire to be seen, but one that stood out to him the most. He kept it close at all times, thanks to the murderous trait of familicide that they were all trainedto participate in like some sort of sick entertainment. As if their father marked their scores on a piece of parchment and moved them up by rank depending on how fantastically they wiped their kin out.

He wouldn’t put it past the cruel, vicious bastard.

Kinslayer seemed a more appropriate name for his sword, since they were all urged to wipe out as many as possible before they were wiped out themselves.

He packed a second pair of boots, knowing full well that the road would be rocky, even if he intended to take his white stallion for most of the journey. He tucked in vials of his favourite poisons, the ones that his body couldn’t last without now thanks to his small doses that he took three times a week. He made sure to wrap them in his tunics to protect the glass jars instead of leaving them to roll and clutter around his bag and break into shards that could cut him if he wasn’t careful. He could easily restock on the exact types anywhere, since they weren’t uncommon. The supplies would last him the length of the journey, perhaps a bit longer.

That wasn’t all he added, either.

Castil fingered the last vial, eyeing the crimson plant on the inside, the one he’d been tending to in the garden for two years now as he nurtured it to grow and thrive, to bloom. He’d even given it a name, one that he was proud of.

Nightbane.

A hybrid plant between a poison that his father was tolerant to, mixed with another to create a new sort of subspecies that he couldn’t avoid. It still needed to be tested on someone without mithridatism tendencies, hence why he’d snipped two flowers off the shadow-veined stems and placed them in a transportable vial for his trip, just in case he needed them. It wouldn’t hurt to use it against his enemies, either. He’d given strict instructions to the few servants he trusted that took care of the garden aswell, to keep it alive just in case of a miraculous return.

A play on the name of the plant that his father had tried to kill him with, too. The irony of it being the one thing that would kill him.

But if Castil didn’t return, then using it on Greenvasses wasn’t the worst. Eamin most certainly was the first target to appear in his mind, for the letter he’d sent ahead of his sister.

The one that had alerted his brother to her presence and plan, with a specific description of her looks to keep an eye out for her. Regulus had shared the letter with him, only for the sake of laughing and mocking the inside traitorous acts that occurred with the Greenvasses. Killing each other was one thing, but working alongside the enemy was another.

A line that once crossed, could not be returned from.

Castil pondered over if Regulus was still in league with Eamin, if the two were working side by side to create a havoc-ridden world where they were placed on either throne, ruling opposite with a fucked up kind of respect for the others.

The Kingdoms would burn if that was the case.

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