Page 11 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter five

Layla.

T hree days had passed. Three days since she woke in the branches of that damned tree, her world turned upside down, her home burning behind her—and now this pit.

This cursed pit. No food. No water. No sunlight beyond the slivers that pierced the grate overhead like mocking fingers of hope.

Time had twisted into something meaningless.

Her lips were cracked. Her throat, dry as ash.

Even lifting her head from where it rested against the packed wall took effort she could barely muster.

And still, her mind wouldn’t quiet. Between bouts of restless sleep and hallucination, memories crept in—soft at first, then sharp as blades.

“A woman’s weapon is her presence,” her mother’s voice whispered, too close, too clear. “History and strategy are for kings and generals. Not for daughters of the realm.” Layla blinked hard, trying to banish the echo. “Smile, even when you want to scream. That’s how a queen commands a room.”

Other voices followed—tutors, instructors, stewards of etiquette over the years and silence.

“ You must be pleasant, not powerful… A husband leads, a wife supports… You are to be graceful, obedient, and wise enough to keep your mouth shut.” She curled tighter in the dirt.

Those teachings had once been gospel. She’d worn them like velvet—lush to the eye, but heavy and suffocating beneath the surface.

Now they felt like chains, rusted and cold.

But one voice had always cut through the rest. Her father’s.

“If you had a brother, this wouldn’t fall to you,” he’d said once, jaw tight with something like guilt.

“But you don’t. And one day, you’ll bear the heir.

If anything happens to you, Layla… the line ends.

” So, once a week—beneath the judging eyes of courtiers and the quiet disapproval of her mother—he trained her.

In the courtyard, not hidden, but never praised.

He trained her how to move. How to block.

How to survive. And if he was away, Sir Charles carried on the lessons without question.

But what good had any of it done? No one cared how she smiled or how poised she was at the bottom of this pit. And her training? Clearly useless. Useless against hunger. Against silence. Against the dark. None of it had prepared her for this.

And yet… something in her spine refused to bend. Refused to let her wilt like the polished princess all of those instructors ha d so badly wanted her to be. She wouldn’t give up. She would get out. She would find her family. She would save her kingdom.

A shuffle of boots overhead snapped her back to stillness, to the present. Voices. Two of them.

“Tynan, who forced you on such a miserable position?” One asked, smooth and rich, his tone wrapping around the words like silk over steel. The sound of it made her eyes flutter open. Something about that voice felt dangerous —not cruel, but quiet and deliberate. Almost amused.

“Who do you think?” Tynan’s harsh voice answered with a sneer she could practically hear.

“Ahh, yes. How is our little prisoner?” the velvet voice asked, tone light but weighted with curiosity.

Layla stayed still. Wanting to see who the voice belonged to, but knew she couldn’t see anyone or anything from down here.

All she could do was listen. Velvet Voice.

Was this her captor? The man who had carried her like she weighed nothing, while her traitorous body had burned with confused desire and resentment at his touch.

She hated him. She hated all of them. But she still remembered the heat of him.

The restraint. The way he had tried, however subtly, to shield her from the gazes of the tribe.

“She hasn’t tried shit with me here. Wish she would, so I could be the one to slit her throat,” Tynan laughed sharply. A cold coil of dread wrapped around Layla’s spine.

Then Velvet Voice responded, his words a whisper barely louder than breath: “You know… you could always say she tried something. No one would question it. And you'd be remembered for it.” Layla’s breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. No, no, no .

“You’re a good man,” Tynan replied with a sick grin in his tone. He was going to do it. He was going to kill her—and no one would stop him. “When did you get back?” Tynan asked after a moment.

“Just now,” the man replied, casually. “She was right. They took the castle.”

They took the castle. Layla’s eyes snapped open and pulse surged.

She pressed herself up weakly against the wall.

My home... Tynan just grunted in response.

Her mind spun, the dry haze of hunger momentarily cleared by adrenaline.

Someone else knew. Someone else believed me.

But was that what this was? Confirmation?

Or the prelude to her execution? Then, something hit the dirt beside her.

She jerked back as her eyes strained… An apple.

It rolled slightly across the ground before settling in the dust. Dirt clung to its bruised skin.

Layla stared at it like it might vanish.

She didn’t dare move. Didn’t trust it. Why would they feed me now?

She squinted upward, expecting Tynan’s ugly face to leer down at her.

Waiting for the joke. The cruelty. But nothing came.

No gloating. No mockery. Just the soft sound of footsteps retreating.

Still, she waited. Then finally crawled.

She dragged herself to the corner, her body shuddered from the effort.

The apple waited for her like some impossible miracle.

She picked it up with shaking fingers, turned it slowly in her hand, checking for cuts, for poison, for anything that might reveal the trick.

Just a bruise. Just fruit. Just ... hope?

Her hunger shattered every doubt and she bit into it.

Sweetness exploded in her mouth. Her entire body shuddered with relief.

The apple’s juice ran down her chin as her eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. Enough to survive a little longer.

Enough to believe she might still find a way out.

And deep in her gut, Layla knew—whoever Velvet Voice truly was… this was not over between them.

Theron.

“Are you sure starving her to death is the best plan?” Theron asked, sharper than he intended.

The words left him too quickly, they were urgent, almost reckless.

He cursed himself the moment they echoed off the wooden walls of the queen’s hut.

Queen Okteria turned from the table at the center of the room and leveled a slow, appraising gaze at her son.

Her expression was unreadable, but her silence was never idle. She was measuring him.

“This isn’t like you,” she said, her tone smooth and quiet. Dangerous. “Do you know something, Theron?” He straightened immediately, shifting his posture into neutral discipline. His expression closed off like a fortress gate.

“No,” he replied with calm precision. “I just feel it’s…

wasteful. Our people are eager. They hunger for retribution.

” The words tasted bitter, even as he spoke them.

What he didn’t say was that the image of the Graystonian princess-alone, starving, half-conscious in that pit-was clawing at him more than it should.

He’d seen death. Dished it out by the blade.

He’d never flinched before. But this… this wasn’t death.

This was something slower, crueler. And for the first time, it felt like it was rotting something inside him.

From across the room, Kain leaned lazily against a timber beam, arms crossed, eyes glittering with amusement.

Theron didn’t even have to look to know the smirk was there.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day,” Kain drawled.

“Big brother's questioning the queen herself.” Theron ignored him.

Okteria turned her attention back to the map, fingers tracing lines and borders that had long since ceased to be diplomatic. Now they marked bloodlines. Graves.

“I’m just saying,” Kain continued, clearly bored. “If the idea is to kill her, at least let the warriors have a little fun with it. A trial by fire, maybe. Let her bleed in the Circle. Starving her is so… quiet.”

Theron saw the way their mother’s eyes flicked upward, how a smile ghosted across her lips.

Damn it. Kain knew exactly how to play to her appetite for public spectacle.

And worst of all, it worked. Theron’s stomach twisted.

Something in him recoiled at the image. Layla-no, the prisoner - brought out into the Circle for sport, for public humiliation, for execution.

That wasn't justice. That was theater. And he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because she was noble or because she was beautiful.

Because something in her—delicate yet unyielding—spoke to something buried in him .

“If she lives,” Theron said, forcing his voice into neutrality, “we can use her as leverage. A bargaining chip.” Okteria’s gaze snapped to his. There was nothing hidden in her face now, just annoyance and the slow flicker of suspicion. She never hid what she felt. She wielded it.

“Why would we need leverage?” She snapped.

“Graystonia has already fallen. The Bartorians have done what we should’ve done years ago.

” She stalked toward him, the full weight of her queenly authority coiled in her stride.

“And thank Feyric that they brought her right into our hands. The last spoiled relic of a dying house. We can kill her slow or fast. That is my decision. Unless…” Her smile widened, smug and sharp.

“Unless you’re challenging me , Theron? ”