Page 79 of Nightingale

Rian grinned, “Pleasure to meet you, regardless. Anyone who talks to Prince Eamin like that, I definitely want to know.”

She looked at the door, at the red hand stain. “Yeah well, he can kill his siblings and your people, but he’s not allowed to kill me. Therefore, I have no fear of watching how I speak to him.”

“Still, so elegantly proficient with your insults.” He complimented, wiping at his mouth and licking the residue of blood off his white teeth. It was bitter, just like the male it’d come from.

Imogen mocked a bow, swirling her wrist several times. “I live to serve Vrea.”

His face scrunched and she read his hesitation.

“She wanted me to make sure that you didn’t die before her mother… well, sentences you to die.” Imogen unfolded with a wince, shrugging from side to side.

“My chances are grim, I take it?”

“You may have brought Vrea back here, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re a Moordian. The Golden Prince, and all that bullshit.” She helpfully offered up, agreeing with a flat press of her lips in agreement. “Unfortunately, I’d say so.”

Thirty Eight

As Castil dragged his sight up the mighty keep known far and wide as Vasthold, he studied one of the last free things he’d ever see. Because as soon as he crossed the threshold, as soon as he passed into the gates of the Greenvass dwelling, he could no longer be called a free man.

They would make sure of that.

He jerked Atlas’s lead, ushering the Carylim Riekner to follow. Atlas obeyed, pressing on with the clip of his hooves against the pavement path and the bob of his head in a rhythmic pattern.

A few onlookers paused their daily chores as he walked into the lion’s den, well aware that it was because they knew precisely who he was. His white-blond hair, his sterling eyes, his pale skin, all signs that led to that one conclusion they were already making inside their heads. And as he strode forward with his chin held high, like any from his family would do in enemy territory, he heard the title whispered back and forth.

“The White Knight of Carylim.”

He listened to the name they’d gifted him, the mockery of the good that a Prince was supposed to be, the one he longed to be instead of the one he was made to be. His hands were forever stained in blood, just like the others. The Scarlet Sword felt more appropriate of a title.

“What’s he doing here, of all places?”

His ears picked up on their quiet murmurs, the way theystruggled to determine the reason for his arrival and what it could possibly mean for them all.

“Has he come to kill another of our heirs?”

He opened his senses as a steady tension combed the sky, lacing the world in anticipation and a greasy nervousness that set men towards bloody tasks.

“Is he going to start another war?”

He almost scoffed, almost laughed.

Castil had travelled through Carylim, past the bandits and the Blacklegs that he’d put down himself, he’d snuck past the Niroulian camps before they could spot him, or the wafting, rising smoke and wander over to seek out the cause of destruction. He’d rested in his father’s war camps for three days and three nights, regaining the proper nutrients through flame-seared steak, seasoned with the plain spices of salt and pepper. He’d slept on a raised platform with two blankets to chase away the frigid temperatures of the night, finding a restful sleep that allowed him not to dream for each evening.

The sentries had wondered about the argent smoke that curled from the mountains, followed by the scent that had them pinching their noses in disgust. Even he couldn’t deny that it was putrid, revolting, but he didn’t utter a single word about the cause of it.

Of whathe’ddone.

The men had investigated carefully, celebrating when they returned with the news that the Blacklegs had perished in a mysterious fire, one that left everything but their caverns untouched. Songs had been sung, drinks had been shared and dances around the fire pits that were broken up, commenced. He’d enjoyed a semblance of them, refusing the piss-poor ale they offered him as a kind gesture and relaxed by the nice spread of flames as the Carlymians rejoiced.

A threat was vanquished.

It didn’t matter if it wasn’t the one they would never be able to stop fighting, but one that terrified them enough. He’d stayed up late with them all on the third night, taking in every bit of joy and jubilance before it was all taken from him.

The dawn was nearly upon them when he found his tent, the largest of them all meant for his father or brothers if they deigned to visit. For roughly five hours, he’d slept.

Then Castil had ridden across Niroula, a thin hood pulled over his easily-recognizable head just to hide the shimmering shade of his hair as he crossed through the miles and camped out when the sun set and it was dark enough for him to sleep without the hood. The sun would have cast a golden glow, making him look like a port beacon that anyone could see for yards to come.

For nine days, he hadn’t spoken to anyone.

---