Page 53 of Nightingale

Rian found her gaze and pinned her to the ground with it. “I like hearing my name, andonly my namein your mouth. I think I might have you cry it out again when I take you for real.”

Vrea swallowed, nodding shallowly.

She still couldn’t form words.

“Suddenly,” The Prince untucked his hand from inside of her, finding the linen and wiping his fingers on it, “I can’t wait till we get to the war camp.”

Twenty Six

Castil caught wind of their trail soon enough after leaving Hawksmoor Keep. It wasn’t difficult considering that most didn’t choose to take the mountain pass, but those who wanted to avoid suspicion, avoid the guard checkpoints layered throughout the main road did. It was a longer trek to take the secluded path, only by six days but far more dangerous as well.

For two people on the run however, the risks were worth it.

If they’d been spotted on the main road, Rian would have been recognized without a shadow of a doubt. His red hair was far too noticeable and Vrea’s Niroulian complexion would have been called into question by his side. They wouldn’t have been able to make it two days, let alone twenty-seven. Carylimians didn’t bear the sepia skin tone, nor the wider eyes that tilted upwards at the very ends. They didn’t have the thicker hair or the natural curls that she did. Even her rounder face shape would have caused some suspicion since his people were known for their long faces, the almond eyes, the paler sets of colours. There were a handful of her people that had crossed over the border for a better life, ones that all went through vigorous interrogations to prove that they weren’t spies, sent by Casta.

Perhaps Castil just paid more attention to Vrea’s features than most would, but he still held a seed of worry for their journey. There was a part of him that was glad to chase after them, tomake sure that they arrived without harm.

For the first four days, Castil didn’t stop.

Not to sleep, not to break, nothing but to empty his bladder and feed his stallion in order to keep up his energy. He threw back a few morsels himself as Atlas ate and drank, but nothing more than a handful of nuts and sun-dried apricots, a few slices of roasted meat with salt or a few berries.

Every heir of Hawksmoor was granted a special breed of horse, known as a Carylim Riekner. They all varied in different colours and markings but the stamina was incomparable to any other breed of horse imaginable. They could run for seven days straight without the need to rest. Their legs were corded with muscle and their bodies were designed to carry more weight than any other beast.

It was one of the rare things that they all looked forward to when reaching their fifteenth name day.

Ifthey reached it.

It was almost like a reward, to live past a certain point. A cruel goal to reach, a savage mindset to have, a wicked way of life. But it was the only one, one that they had no choice but to follow. It was either be weak and allow the others to crush you under their boot, or fight to survive.

Survivor, he’d told Vrea.

Fighter.

Wounded and broken and beaten.

Castil allowed those things to stoke his fire, his will to live, to survive. To prove to others that he wasn’t as fragile as they thought him to be. His shell of a silent watcher only protected him so far, enough to stay alive within Hawksmoor but not enough to stand up it seemed. Because if it had, then he wouldn’t be here, tracking his brother and the pretty prisoner.

Atlas rode hard, his nostrils flaring as Castil pushed him even faster. They were making good time, but it could be better forthe breed. He loved his mount and was surprised that his father even let him pick one in the first place thanks to the disdain that the King didn’t bother to hide.

Brioc had selected a mare that was as tall as the stallions, with a tan coat that was spotted with white and fur that tufted over the grey hooves. Regulus, unsurprisingly had gone for the second largest out of them all, a sable male named Shade that was from the same sire as their father’s pitch-black horse. Rian picked a grey stallion that he named Kohl, finding it beneficial to choose one with more girth than height, understanding that there was a possibility for more power within. Even Orla, on her rare occasions out of her secluded room, had been allowed to choose a mare for herself.

A pretty brown mare that never got taken out by anyone other than the stablehands that hated to see a beautiful beast wither and fade away. The same should have been said about his sister.

But Castil had found a similar expression in Atlas’s stygian eyes that he felt within his own. One that immediately had him claiming the tallest of them all. And within the years, Atlas had proven himself to be the best out of all the stabled Riekners.

Including their father’s.

Atlas could run twice as fast, double the distance and carry thrice as much as any of the horses in Carylim.

Hence why they were flying.

If Castil had to guess, he’d place good money on betting that he was only a day behind them or so, if the winds were kind and stalled the winter until after he reached his destination. Rian would have to make the journey back in the blistering snow, but the cold had never seemed to bother his sibling before.

They’d both fought in multiple battles during the winter before, something they were used to by now. In the last five years, Castil had personally served in seven. He’d fought at the front lines of two, saving the day with Polaris and wiping outmore than a dozen of Niroula’s vanguard personally. Three of the fights had been on a whim as he’d happened to be in the area and hear the horn blow for aid. The last two had come as a direct order from the King, sending him out to war once again.

Battles that he’d remained inside the main tent, meant for any of the visiting royals and plotted a plan of attack with the captains and generals that were more than capable of handling the war on their own. They never complained about the presence of an heir, nor did they fight it but it was clear in their annoyed expressions and irritation in their voices whenever they spoke late into the night that they would have preferred for the Princes to stay at Hawksmoor Keep.

But the King insisted.

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