Page 1 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter one

Layla.

T he blade pressed cold and sharp against Layla’s throat — a steel whisper daring her to breathe.

One inhale, even a shallow sigh, and it would drink from her neck like it longed to.

Her sword lay only feet away, lost in the blur of the last clash.

Close, but useless. The fear clawed its way up her spine, ruthless and loud, but Layla caged it.

She would not falter. Not now. Not today.

Do not defeat yourself. Sir Charles’ voice echoed in her mind, not as advice, but as a command etched into her soul.

She moved with the grace of a ghost wind — swift, silent, certain.

Her fingers found the hilt of the dagger at her waist as her body spun backward in a practiced blur.

The sword's edge sang through empty air where her neck had been.

A heartbeat later, her feet landed firmly.

She flipped the dagger, blade first in her grasp and released.

The weapon soared, slicing through the space between predator and prey, burying itself deep into the man’s right bicep.

A grunt. A clatter. His sword fell with a ringing clang, followed by the dull thud of hilt against stone. Layla’s eyes locked onto his.

Even wounded, Sir Charles instincts flared. She watched as his left hand darted toward the blade now impaling him. A mistake. She lunged.

Snatching her second dagger from the sheath at her back, she closed the distance.

Her left hand gripped his wrist as her right drove the blade toward his gut, stopping just before the tip pierced skin.

Her breath hitched as the realization of what she had just accomplished hit.

Triumph welled as she watched the familiar brown eyes stare down at the poised steel taut against his abdomen, then up to her.

“You’re learning,” Sir Charles said, pride glinting through his pain.

“Now go get dressed before your mother comes and slits both our throats.” A laugh escaped her lips before she could catch it, sharp and genuine.

The image of her regal, dagger-terrified mother wielding a blade was as absurd as it was delightful.

She released his wrist, stumbling back with a grimace as her gaze caught the dagger still lodged in his arm.

“I’m sorry for the wound,” she murmured, guilt pulling at her gut.

“Never apologize for defending yourself, Princess,” he said with a gentle firmness.

“War is coming, you must learn to survive, so that our kingdom’s future can too.

” He added, glancing at the bloodied blade, “I just pray it never comes to this.” He met her eyes again, his stare unwavering, etched with a quiet resolve.

She nodded, not because she believed the gods would answer that prayer, but because believing anything else would break her.

Sir Charles pulled the dagger from his bicep without flinching.

The wound wept red and Layla swallowed hard.

The battlefield felt closer now, no longer a nightmare in the distance.

She absentmindedly watched as he cleaned her blade on his shirt before offering it back, hilt-first. She took it with a respectful nod and returned it to her waist.

“Put those thoughts aside tonight,” he said softly.

“I shouldn’t have spoken of the war.” Layla’s jaw tensed.

There it was again. That subtle dismissal—quiet and well-intentioned, but unmistakable.

He shouldn’t have spoken. Because she was a woman.

Because war, bloodshed, and strategy were matters meant for men. Not for her ears.

In Graystonia, women were raised to be ornaments of virtue, not weapons of will.

They were trained to bear heirs, not bear arms. A queen consort, not a sovereign.

They were expected to smile politely at banquets, nod quietly through council meetings, and disappear when talk turned to policy or war.

Power was spoken in deep voices around heavy tables while women waited in silk, ever graceful, ever silent.

To lead—to rule —was not theirs to imagine, let alone pursue.

“I appreciate your honesty,” she replied, words smooth and steady, a fragile thread wrapped in sincerity.

Her smile was soft, practiced. “And thank you, Sir Charles. For everything.” His shoulders eased at her words, unaware of the tension hidden behind her gaze.

He offered a weary smile in return as she politely changed the subject. “Will I see you tonight? ”

“You will, now get going.” He winked, waving her off like an impatient uncle. Layla turned and ran up the stone steps, away from blades and blood, toward her own battlefield.

The castle corridors whispered of duty and preparation.

Maids fluttered around her like nervous birds, giving her the same half-disapproving, half-knowing glances .

A princess running with weapons strapped to her hips, how scandalous.

Layla offered her best fabricated smile as she passed them, the weight of decorum pressing against every movement.

Tonight will decide your entire future. Please do not dally, my dear Layla…

Her mother’s voice rang like a bell of doom in her mind as she skidded to a halt before her chamber door.

Brass turned, and the door swung inward into her sanctuary.

Her private bedchamber greeted her like an old friend, familiar and gentle, unchanged by war or expectation.

The last of the summer heat drifted through the open balcony doors, thick with the scent of sun-warmed stone and distant hearth fires.

It brushed against her face, rustling the sheer curtains in playful swirls—like a lover whispering daring secrets.

The Lammas celebration stirred beyond the castle, its laughter and music rippling across the rooftops in distant echoes.

Lammas. The end-of-summer festival devoted to Serelai , the Gilded Bloom —the goddess of harvest and abundance, whose blessings had made Graystonia the most fertile land on the continent.

It was said that Serelai once walked the valley barefoot, and where her feet touched, crops bloomed wild and wheat turned to gold.

For centuries, the people had honored her with feasts, bonfires, and fresh-baked bread- offerings of gratitude for her quiet favor.

Though Serelai had never spoken, never shown her face, her hand was evident in every golden field and heavy-laden orchard.

And it was whispered that other kingdoms- those who had forgotten her name, abandoned her rites- had seen their lands wither.

Soil gone dry. Seeds refused to root. To forget Serelai was to invite blight.

To honor her was to ensure another season of bounty.

Layla and her sisters had once adored Lammas.

Bonfires in the palace courtyard. Bread baked with their own hands.

Running barefoot beneath starlight, their giggles mixing with the melody of a thousand others.

There had been joy in honoring such a generous, radiant goddess, but there had also been joy in simply being girls.

Girls allowed to dance, to laugh, to live.

But not this year. Not when everything joyful felt wrapped in mourning.

Not when her future, and her kingdom’s, was being decided behind closed doors.

There was no room left for starlight and flour-dusted hands.

Only strategy. Sacrifice. Survival. She was no longer the girl who once danced barefoot for Serelai. The world was no longer letting her be.

With a sigh, Layla’s gaze flicked to the bed, neat and untouched.

Her favorite novel lay on the pillow, waiting like an old escape route.

For a heartbeat, her fingers twitched to grab it, to fall into another fantasy world and not face the weight of reality.

But not tonight. She turned toward the washroom and exhaled as tension unwound from her shoulders.

The tub was already drawn, steam curling upward in fragrant spirals of lavender and vanilla.

As always, Marilla had anticipated her needs.

Marilla- sweet and steady, with soft brown hair always swept back in a proper bun and a gentle sort of command that could quiet tempests.

In her mid thirties now, she’d been with Layla for over ten years.

She was more than a handmaid, more than a companion even.

If Layla was being honest, Marilla was her dearest friend.

There had always been a pleasant ease to her, one that softened the edges of even the worst days, but she never failed to keep Layla firmly on track and more or less on time.

Layla slid out of her sweat-dampened shift, letting it fall to the stone floor, and sank into the bath.

The heat coiled around her limbs, drawing out the ache she hadn’t admitted to anyone.

Her hair floated around her in a chestnut halo.

For just a breath, the world stilled. Then the thought returned.

Tonight, I must find a husband, she could put it off no longer.

It hit harder than she expected, like a cuff to the gut.

Her hands curled around the edge of the tub, knuckles white with the effort to remain composed.

She closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths as the panic rose.

Her mother’s voice rang louder now. But she was quickly yanked out of her fear filled thoughts as the door creaked open behind her.

Layla stiffened, only to relax slightly when she heard the familiar footfalls. Marilla.