Page 13 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter six

Theron.

L ike all others in the Antonin tribe, Theron woke before the sun.

It was not out of habit, it but instinct.

The kind bred through decades of ritual and discipline.

When the air still held the chill of night and the forest whispered beneath the weight of ancient roots, that was when Antonin warriors rose.

Theron sat up on his cot, exhaling slowly as the familiar weight of the day settled over him.

His hut was humble by choice- made of tightly bound branches, brush-packed walls, and a ceiling woven so thick with thistle and pine that only slivers of morning light pierced through.

No furniture beyond the cot. No keepsakes.

No distractions. His sword, polished and battle-worn, rested upright by the wall near his gear.

A small bowl of fruit sat untouched at the floor.

That was all. While others in the tribe filled their homes with carved tokens and stories etched in wood or bone, Theron preferred efficiency. Clean. Cold. Controlled.

He stretched slowly, his neck cracking on each side. Normally, his sleep was dreamless and uninterrupted, his mind a silent weapon just waiting to be unsheathed. But lately? Lately, everything had shifted causing restless sleep, if any at all.

He laced his leathers in silence, tugging the cords tight across his thick thighs, then pulled on his armor.

Every piece strapped into place with practiced ease.

The heat already clung to his skin, and he hadn’t even stepped outside.

But he would rather sweat than feel unready.

Still, his mind churned- unsettled, unwilling to quiet. And he hated it.

The woman— Layla . Even her name disrupted the fragile silence in his thoughts.

Her claims had been verified. The castle had fallen.

The Bartorians had swept through like fog and flame.

Yet knowing the truth changed nothing. Not about today.

Not about what he would have to witness.

She was going to die. And he would have to stand there and let it happen.

Theron stepped outside. The forest greeted him like an old companion, cool air brushing over sweat-dampened skin.

The light beyond the treetops was still blue with night’s end, the sun just starting to breathe over the horizon.

He walked toward the Circle, steps steady, calculated.

Queen Okteria was already there, flanked by warriors.

She turned her head slightly as he approached.

“Inform them they will get their vengeance today. No other news from the Bartorian front.” Her tone was smooth. Calculated. Theron nodded once .

“I’d like to stay,” he said simply, as if the words meant nothing.

“To witness it.” His mother gave him a knowing glance, sharp, reading between the lines.

But she said nothing. Just turned and strode toward the stone platform that presided over the Circle like a throne.

Theron continued to the head of the Circle, stepping in front of his warriors.

He didn’t need to shout. His presence commanded attention like thunder before a storm.

“No updates,” he said. “But today, we take vengeance. Let’s make our ancestors proud.” His gravelly voice rumbled through the warriors gathered around. Murmurs of satisfaction, anticipation, even bloodlust, rippled through them. Faces lit up with hunger. Their time had come.

“Sparrow,” Theron called, eyes scanning the group until he found his most trusted warrior.

Sparrow gave a curt nod, his icy blue eyes steady above his braided black beard.

Their bond welded together by wounds and will.

Theron trusted him with his life. “Take my shift this morning.” Another nod.

No words needed. Theron turned and ended the meeting with a simple glance. They all knew what to do.

He found his mother again, still speaking to warriors, likely about the youth combat groups. He interrupted without care. “Who do you want?”

Queen Okteria didn’t even blink at the bluntness.

“Frea,” she replied. A beat passed, and then, with a glint in her eye, “No weapons. We wouldn’t want it to end too quickly.

” Theron’s jaw flexed. He gave a nod and walked away, heart sinking.

Frea. Of course. Their fiercest female warrior besides Okteria herself.

Ruthless, fast, brutal. A shadow on the battlefield.

She was built lean like Layla, but harder.

Sharper. And unlike Layla, she had nothing to lose.

Frea was beautiful, yes, but it was the kind of beauty that drew warriors to worship before they bled.

Theron had never pursued her, despite the challenges fought over her attention.

He didn’t have the time—or the hunger—for women like her.

Strong in muscle, self-reliant, carved from the same stone as him.

Warriors who needed nothing. Wanted nothing.

Just like he was taught to be. But today, her beauty and line of suitors didn’t matter, only her blade.

Layla would die and not quietly. He shouldn’t care.

Rules are rules. He had said that to himself a thousand times before. But today, the words rang hollow.

Layla.

“Let’s go!” Tynan snapped, yanking the heavy grate open and throwing down a wooden ladder with a loud clatter .

Layla stood still on the far side of the pit, her feet anchored by something heavier than fear.

Her limbs screamed in protest after days of stillness and starvation.

Her joints cracked and muscles yelled. “ Now! ” he barked, pointing his sword straight at her chest.

She flinched, just barely, but enough. Her ragged body dragged itself forward, unwilling but obedient, as she gripped the ladder and began to climb. The wood bit into her raw palms. Each step was an effort. This was it. She was walking to her death.

Tynan didn’t give her a moment to breathe.

His sword jabbed at her spine as he shoved her back in the same direction she had be brought from days prior.

The same dirt path. The same thick air, laced with sweat, seared meat, hot metal, and worn leather.

But the woman walking it was not the same one who’d been dragged here days ago.

She was now more fractured, but still not yet broken.

They reached the crowd quickly. A perfect ring of Antonin warriors surrounded the Circle, everybody tense with bloodlust. Layla scanned the crowd as she was shoved forward. Their eyes were not curious, they were eager. Starvation was too slow for them. This… this was entertainment.

Tynan brought the flat of his blade hard against the back of her knees and she dropped.

A searing pain flared as she hit the ground, but she grit her teeth and pushed herself back up.

Every movement hurt. But still, she stood.

And she met Queen Okteria’s gaze. The queen’s expression was practically gleaming.

“Wondering why you’re here, Graystonian?” She called, her tone mocking. Layla said nothing. She kept her back straight, her jaw tight. She would not show fear. Not in front of them. Not now.

“As much fun as it was to know a Graystonian princess was starving in our pit, you were taking too damn long. ” The queen rolled her eyes like this was all terribly inconvenient. “Of course one of your kind couldn’t even die right.” A few in the crowd laughed. Layla didn’t move.

“I’ve decided to give you a chance at one of our customs. A challenge.

Simple rules: you fight. You survive… Or you don’t.

” Queen Okteria’s voice rose with relish.

“Usually weapons are allowed, but we didn’t want to give our dear Frea too much of an advantage.

” Her hand gestured to the left. Layla followed it.

There, stepping into the light, was the woman.

Frea. A warrior carved from obsidian and ruin.

Her movements were like the elusive forest panther- graceful, fluid, and laced with lethal intent.

Her long black hair was braided down her back, and her eyes bored into Layla’s, promising nothing short of brutality.

Hatred poured from her like a heatwave. Layla’s mouth went dry.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t have the strength to fight this woman.

Not like this, maybe not even on her best day if she was being honest with herself.

But you will, she told herself. Or you’ll die on your knees.

So, with a deep breath, Layla raised her hands and slipped instinctively into the defensive stance Sir Charles had engrained in her.

“ Begin! ” Queen Okteria shouted.

Frea didn’t hesitate. She lunged. Layla ducked, the punch whistling past her ear.

The speed stunned her. Frea was already circling again, fluid as a predator.

Layla stumbled sideways. Another blow whistled at her- crack .

Pain bloomed in her side. She gasped, her legs faltering.

Righting herself, Layla swung wildly, a desperate move.

Frea slipped it easily and delivered another punishing strike to her ribs.

This time, Layla crumpled forward. Then- snap .

A fist collided with her face. Her vision shattered.

She went down, dirt rushing up to meet her.

Black crept at the edges of her sight. Get up !

Get up! She pushed herself to her knees—but it was too late.

Frea spun. Layla saw the boot coming only for a second before it collided with the side of her skull. Then- nothing.

She awoke on dirt. Again. The cool, familiar floor of the pit.

Her current sanctuary but also her tomb.

Her body was fire and lead. Her head rang with an unrelenting pulse, each beat a war drum against her skull.

She couldn’t see from her left eye. Her ribs howled every time she tried to inhale.

It was night again. She’d been unconscious for hours, if not days.

At least I’m alive, she thought bitterly.

She leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, pulse roaring.

She didn’t know how long she could keep surviving this.

“You alive?” came that voice . Velvet Voice .

Laidback. Low. Like this was just another night around a campfire.

She squinted toward the sound, pain lancing through her face.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t have the strength for snark or questions.

“You need to figure out some new moves if you're going to win tomorrow, ” he said casually, like they were discussing breakfast plans. Tomorrow? Her stomach lurched. Her skin went cold. She felt the vomit surge, clamping her jaw tight to fight it back. Another fight? Her mind spun, trying to calculate how she could possibly recover in time. The answer was: she wouldn’t.

Not without help. Not without something.

The grate above shifted open again, and she tensed.

A soft thud —then it closed. She opened her eye slowly.

Another pouch. Her shaking fingers reached for the pouch, opening it to find the now familiar items, water, meat, and an apple.

She pressed the cool leather of the water pouch to her bruised face and exhaled.

She didn’t understand him. This man. This voice.

He delivered her to death—and then gave her the means to delay it .

Was it guilt? Or strategy? Or something else entirely?

She didn’t know and honestly she didn’t care at this moment.

She needed a plan. She couldn’t survive another day reacting.

If she wanted to live, she needed to become something else. Not a princess. Not prey. A fighter.