Page 5 of Nightingale

The ruined sheets toppled down, falling and unfurling until they reached the second balcony, a floor down. Whose room it entered into, she had no clue. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she was going to use them to swing down. Her bare feet slapped against the tiled floor as she ran for the door.

One, two, three.

She opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could.Quickly, as soon as the sound ended, she raced for the doors and hid behind them as one slammed open, two armoured men rushing inside to see what had happened. She was moving faster than they could turn around, shutting the door and locking them within the confines of the chamber with a nearby candelabra sliding through the curved handles.

“Hey!” They pounded against the doors but Vrea was already moving. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would be enough time for her to run. She hated the dress even more because the skirts were long and cumbersome. She reached down and gritted her teeth as she tore the hem clean off. The fabric withered to the floor like a discarded flower petal and with the way the garment fell to her knees, she could hasten her pace.

She ran like the wind, with all the speed of a cat and the cunning of an eagle, dipping behind decorative curtains whenever she heard the clambering of boots coming towards her. She ducked behind chests and armoured knight statues as they passed, slipping out before too long had passed. Step by step, she took the corridor staircase as they all made for her chamber.

The banners of the Moordians bristled as she ran by, their embedded hawk looking as though it were flying alongside her with its raised wings on either side.

The palace was practically empty, and she knew it well enough thanks to her nightly raids and previous assassination attempts. Servants milled about, paying her no heed. The coin that lined their pockets was the same that paid the men to fight, to provoke the war even further. They held no allegiance to either ruler, only their jobs. She couldn’t blame them for it.

Not when it was their husbands, their sons, their daughters and their wives who fought and died for Carylim’s pointless battles.

Vrea stumbled as a quick turn appeared before her, onethat she didn’t remember seeing on any of the blueprints for the Hawksmoor Keep before she enacted her plan. One she’d memorised before making for Carylim and Rian.

But those were guards coming.

The stomp of metal on stone told her that they were coming her way, and fast. It would only be a matter of time before the guards found her. Guards that she couldn’t afford to meet head-on without any sort of blade to fight back with. Not when she hadn’t been able to defeat them before, loaded with weapons. So she turned, only to run smack into a hard body.

She let out anoomphfand would have nearly tripped backwards had a gloved hand not grabbed her and prevented a terrible fall.

Vrea heard the light chuckle in his curious voice, mingled with mirth, as the man said, “Well well, what do we have here?”

Two

Two Weeks Prior

Whenever Vrea was bored, she would sing. It didn’t matter what the song was about, just that she could clearly remember enough of the music to follow the tune to near replication. It was something she prided herself on with an imaginary clap on the back since there was no one else to do it, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let one of the Moordians touch her. But the guards were always listening outside of her room, something she didn’t quite enjoy. Especially not when the entire castle was abuzz with life and flowing presences that could overhear her at any moment.

She had a feeling that if the King of Carylim heard her voice, he would prop her up on a stage and force her to sing for hours among hours for his entertainment. Lavish revels and expensive feasts that only her mother could rival for finery. Often, she could hear the jovial buzz from her room on the third floor, the raucous laughter from the courtyard or the singers that crossed over borders. Vrea loved to sing more than she loved to fight, but it was something that felt more private than killing. To have the King privy to that innocent shred of her, it felt wrong, oily, stripping.

That was the very last thing she wanted to do, considering that she’d seen the events that the Carylimian singers often participated in after they finished their vocal performances.

To be convinced off the stage, whisked away into another area as they showed off theirotherskills.

Anencore,of sorts.

Especially whenever Regulus was involved.

The second heir could never keep his hands off of them, refusing to remain hidden in private and instead, turning his passion into a public show for all to see and join if they so much as wished to.

Shame was not something well-known in Carylim. They were like dogs, rutting in front of all without a single care in the world, showing their lust and passion in public. Sex seemed more of an act, a quick fuck where it was a cultivated art form in Niroula. Even the Moordian heirs were pushed to procreate, to secure even more of their line. None had taken wives yet, which was strange but their beds were never empty if the moans that echoed down the hallways were any indication. They mostly came from Regulus’s room, only a handful of rooms down from her own if her assumption was correct.

That, or he was extremely loud.

Which she wouldn’t put past him.

There were too many of the children to keep count of, despite their dwindling numbers.

Theseus, the eldest brother might have been the best out of them all if he hadn’t been overly fond of food. The Prince Regent was known for his devotion to pastries and sampling morsels, information that had helped in his demise. Gone, by her own talented hand at sneaking poisons into unsuspecting stews at a banquet feast. Then there was Brioc, who was more mammoth than man, the second son and now the Prince Regent of Carylim. It was said that the wisdom of their father had skipped him, but the brute strength and warrior skills had not.

Regulus followed suit, the third son and the heir who would destroy the Kingdom if he had his chance at it. Vrea suspectedthat he wouldn’t last much longer, due to his wandering eyes and even further creeping hands. One of his conquests might see fit to end him before he could end her.

There was Castil, the fourth son and third Prince who had two moods. Silent as the grave, or as foul as the rest of them with his quicksilver tongue and thorned retorts that could draw blood if he so wished it. Either one was unpleasant and she doubted that he’d even have a shot at the throne.

Orla was the first daughter and was said to be terribly beautiful. To the point where her father kept her away for all days and all nights. A similar sentence to her own. Rian was next, a devilishly handsome heir who was said to be his father’s favourite and promised to take the throne after his death or abdication. As if the latter would ever happen. Then there was Daria, the second daughter who the Greenvasses had killed.

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