Page 6 of Nightingale

The Moordians of Carylim, with their noses permanently stuck up each other’s backsides for how fantastic they all thought they were.

Even their sigil was one of eye-rolling vanity.

The Carylim banners bore a hawk on them, with prideful wings of grey and gold, spread on a tapestry of green like a springfield atop a mountain, trimmed in gold and silver braids. The name of the creature had meshed with their last name, creating the title of the dwelling of the Moordians.

Hawksmoor Keep.

It was a dreadful name, for a dreadful place, filled with dreadful people.

So in a way, she supposed it fit.

At night, when most of Hawksmoor was asleep and she could allow herself that small audience of the sentries and stars, it became easier to sing. Even the moon seemed to lean closer as she quietly recanted the ballads of her homeland, of the one thing they could never take from her.

Which is why she clung to it like dew on a blade of grass in the dawn as the sun rose over the horizon. Because they could never take that one piece of her. It didn’t matter if they forced her to grow out her hair or stick her in simple gowns that were the shades she’d never wear back home. It didn’t matter if they took her out four nights a year as a trophy, or if they called her ridiculous names.

They could never truly take away her home, or where she belonged. Where she’d come from and who she was.

That was what kept her strong.

That was what kept her alive.

That was why she sang.

When she opened her mouth and began the lilting lament of Niroula, she knew she wasn’t alone. She made it through the first half of the song and melted into the second, raising her voice to hit the high notes in all the correct ways. They were light, soft, and beautiful. They were the pearlescent moon on the water as it rippled in a cold night breeze.

The lock clicked after her descent into the final aria, allowing her to know preciselywhohad entered her room. No one else locked the door. But it had never been for nefarious reasons, only to poke her buttons.

She’d worried at first when he slipped in.

“What a pretty lark you are.” He crooned from his perch on the doorframe like some sort of shadow demon that crawled up from the depths of one of the seven hells. “Chirping at all hours of the night.”

Vrea ignored him as she completed the last melody and ended on a low, drawn-out note. He held his tongue for the remainder of the lament, waiting until she brought her lips together and finished the musical pitch that was an octave or two higher than her normal voice. She steeled her might and sarcasm, leashed her irritation and eventually turned to face the fourth Prince.

“White Knight.”

A taunt at his title, the one his people called him for how many he’d magnificently slayed on the battlefield. According to the gossip of servants, he was often on the front lines of war, fighting for his Kingdom and country. And when he wasn’t dousing himself in her people’s blood, then he was here, mocking her with his unwanted presence. Once a month, for the last two years.

“Nightingale.” Castil Moordian lowered his head in an angular slant. “Singing another song of your homeland, it seems.”

Vrea could already sense the rising annoyance as he scanned her room, looking for something it seemed and finding nothing. “Should I sing about Carylim and its countless victories instead? Or how my country always pushes back?”

“About the ceaseless war and its endless casualties?” He retorted, holding himself by the door like he always did. Very rarely did he come any closer. Always half basked in shadows, half cast in pale moonlight that made his near-white hair shimmer like freshly captured pearls. Even his lupine eyes seemed to turn towards a light silver. “Please, by all means. Maybe your ballads will bring them back to life.” He scoffed, huffing out in false amusement.

Vrea bit her tongue in an attempt to keep herself quiet, to stop herself from saying something that would order her death sentence. A plan had formed in her brilliant head, one that she needed a couple of weeks to work out the final kinks before enacting. If that failed, then she’d consider pushing the arrogant Prince to the point of no return, and perhaps take another heir with her.

She wouldn’t go alone.

Castil shoved off the wall at last, untucking his arms and her attention caught on the lower left sleeve that was stained with a red colour.

Blood, in a diagonal slash by a thin knife.

Similar to her own.

It had to have been recent since the blood was freshlyplinkingon her floor and staining his shirt. Within the last hour, if she had to guess by the colour and intensity of it.

Good.

She hoped whatever it had been, had hurt.

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