Page 12 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Her words hit like a thrown spear. Silence fell.

Even Kain’s lazy smirk froze at the edges.

Theron didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He stared back at her with steel in his jaw but nothing in his face.

This wasn’t a challenge. He knew the line, and he hadn’t crossed it.

But he had approached it, and they both knew it.

He didn't speak. He wouldn't justify himself. But the heat in his chest, the one he couldn’t quite name, was alive and pulsing.

Okteria’s nostrils flared before she turned away, brushing the conversation aside like it was beneath her. “That’s what I thought.” She waved her hand, dismissing them both like a final decree. “Get out.”

Theron dipped his head, controlled and formal. He pivoted and walked out into the moonlit clearing without a word. Kain followed, boots crunching on the hardened earth behind him.

“I like this side of you brother,” Kain teased, practically humming. “Never seen you push back before. Was she a good lay before you dragged her in?” Theron stopped cold. A slow, dangerous turn brought him face-to-face with his brother. Kain grinned. “There it is. Knew you cared.”

Theron’s fists clenched, wrath coiling beneath his skin.

Kain clapped a hand on Theron’s shoulder, voice low and triumphant.

“Interesting.” Was all he said before Kain turned and walked off into the dark, leaving Theron standing alone beneath the stars.

He breathed slowly. Deeply. He wanted to hit something.

Or scream. Or march back into the pit and drag her out himself.

But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring at nothing, the forest trees seemingly whispering around him.

Why her? Why now? He had no answers. Only a growing, burning certainty that what they were doing was wrong.

And that if he didn’t act soon… it would be too late. Yet he knew he couldn’t. He must obey.

Layla.

Night crept in, pressing against the iron grate above her like a weight.

The stars were barely visible, just slivers of distant light, but Layla hardly noticed.

Her mind spun endlessly, tangled in the threads of what Velvet Voice had said that morning.

"They took the castle." Not the city. Just the castle. That meant the Bartorians hadn’t charged through the gates with fire and war, they’d slipped in.

From the inside. Which could only mean one thing. There’s a traitor in Graystonia.

Layla clenched her jaw as a dull heat flickered in her chest, chasing away some of the chill. Someone from her court had betrayed them. Her family. Her people. And they would pay. But vengeance required survival. And right now, she wasn’t sure she would make it through another day.

Her limbs were weak, her head light. The apple she’d devoured earlier that morning had kept her going, but every joint in her body ached, not from injury—but from thirst. A cruel, wringing dryness that left her tongue thick and her vision hazy.

She had enough strength left to think, but barely.

Her thoughts spiraled between questions and survival plans, none of which gave her any comfort.

Then-footsteps neared from above, forcing her focus vaguely to the presence once again. Her heart thudding painfully in her chest as her frayed nerves flared .

“Twice in one day. What’s this about?” Tynan’s voice cut through the stillness. His tone was sharp with suspicion. Layla strained upward, trying to see beyond the angle of her pit, but darkness swallowed everything outside her small world.

“Figured you might want to slink off for an ale,” came that smooth, unshaken voice. Velvet Voice. Layla went utterly still.

Tynan laughed, pleased. “Good man.” His boots thudded against the earth, growing fainter. Then- creak . The grate shifted slightly open. A moment later, something hit the ground beside her with a dull thump, and the grate slammed shut again.

“Drink. You’re going to need your energy for tomorrow,” Velvet Voice said from beyond her view.

His voice was quieter than before. More clipped.

Layla’s eyes darted to the bundle on the floor of her prison.

She didn’t move. Her lips were cracked, and her throat begged for moisture, but her instincts refused to yield to trust.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?” she rasped, surprised by how raw her voice sounded in the dark. A pause. Then—

“You’re going to fight to your death.” She froze. Her mouth parted in disbelief. Her heart jolted once in her chest—then kept thudding, louder, harder. His voice softened, turning almost ghostly. “Don’t lose.”

Then, footsteps. “Thanks, man,” Tynan called out as Velvet Voice’s own footsteps faded into the night.

Layla was alone again. But everything had changed.

Her fingers trembled as she stared at the small bundle lying in the dirt.

Her brain screamed caution. This could be a trick.

Another test. A poison. But her body overruled her thoughts.

She crawled over silently, like prey avoiding a predator.

When she reached the bundle, she untied it with care.

Inside, she found a small leather pouch, a chunk of meat and another apple.

She lifted the pouch first, bringing it to her nose.

Water. She could’ve cried. Layla took a cautious sip, then more.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like life itself.

Cool relief spilled down her throat and across her chest. Her limbs warmed, if only slightly.

She cradled the pouch like a sacred relic, holding it tight against her stomach.

Her gaze shifted back to the piece of meat and apple.

No tricks. No poison. She was sure of it now.

He was helping her. But why? Who was he?

If he was her capture, why would he help her now, after delivering her to this hell?

Whatever the reason, she didn’t have time to puzzle it out.

Because tomorrow… she would be thrown into a fight she hadn’t asked for, with warriors who would take joy in spilling her blood.

Layla leaned her head back against the wall and breathed deeply, letting the water settle in her bones.

She was going to fight. And she was going to live .