Page 2 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Relief softened her shoulders for half a breath…

but the quiet comfort didn’t last. Her thoughts returned the moment she looked up.

The weight. The expectation. The helpless knowing of what tonight would require.

Layla watched Marilla’s every movement with a bittersweet mixture of gratitude and dread as she bustled into the washroom, humming so ftly under her breath.

Tonight was once a night filled with celebration, light, and laughter. But not this year.

This year, Layla was expected to secure the future of a kingdom.

She would be paraded like an heirloom before foreign sons and lords, all under the pretense of festivity.

Her father’s armies would soon march to war, and if he didn’t return, Graystonia would need a male heir.

A king—by blood or by marriage. Because even as the eldest, she would never sit on the throne. Not as a daughter. Not as a woman .

“You wouldn’t be rushing if you ever left the training court on time,” Marilla said without looking.

Layla ducked under the water to avoid answering and to steal one more moment of refuge.

“You know you need to hurry, My Lady,” Marilla continued, folding Layla’s discarded gown.

“The festivities have already begun. Everyone’s expecting you. ”

“My husband is expecting me. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?” Layla quipped. Marilla gave a patient, practiced look. She knew Layla’s resentment. She knew her fear. Still, she said nothing. “I know what’s expected of me,” Layla muttered, voice hoarse. “I just… need one more moment.”

She gave Layla one look, took in the flushed cheeks and tense shoulders, and offered a small, knowing smile. “I’ll give you one more moment,” she said gently, placing a folded towel nearby. “But only one. Queen Raynera is already sharpening her tongue.”

Layla sighed, then stood. Water slid from her skin in rivulets, the cool air rushing to meet her like a warning. She shivered. A battle was coming. Not with swords or blood, but with shackles. Shackles that were velvet wrapped and gold-stitched, beautiful but binding none the less.

She stood before her full-length mirror, her shoulders bare in a thin linen shift exposing the curves of her rounded breasts.

Her skin glowed in the late sun pouring through the balcony, painting the stone walls in gold and flame.

The tapestries hung around her, telling tales of kings, not queens, who shaped Graystonia.

Layla stared into her reflection, into the familiar hazel eyes…

but they didn’t look like hers tonight. They looked hollow. Trapped.

The corset gripped her torso like armor worn inside out.

The gown — emerald green and threaded with gold — was breathtaking.

Beautiful, yes. Regal, certainly. But it wasn’t freedom.

It was a promise, a price really. She felt like a painting.

But Layla forced her chin up anyways. Tonight, I am the future of Graystonia.

Marilla stepped back to admire her work, pride lighting her face. Layla smiled. Small. Faint. But there.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Marilla before she watched her handmaid slip out into the hall leaving her that moment.

Alone now, Layla slowly approached the door. Her hand gripped the knob. Her face settled into a serene mask of royalty even as her mind screamed and heart thundered. She would face the men who saw her as prize, not person. She would do her duty.

As the ballroom doors opened before her, music swelled and sweet perfumes rushed her senses.

All eyes turned to the Princess of Graystonia, flawless, composed, radiant.

Layla took a breath. And stepped into war.

She would not let them see her nerves, she would wear the mask they all so dearly approved of.

Upon her approach, Queen Raynera watched her like a hawk—every step, every breath, every blink under scrutiny. Layla knew the look on her mother’s face well. It was the silent appraisal of a woman who had spent her life mastering grace under pressure and expected nothing less from her daughters.

As Layla reached the head table, her mother offered a single, subtle nod of approval. That was all. But it was enough. Thank the Gods, Layla thought, allowing herself the briefest exhale. Tonight would be difficult enough without falling short in her mother’s eyes.

Sliding into place next to her two sisters, Layla took in the Queen’s appearance.

Raynera wore a deep green gown nearly identical to her own, though her bodice shimmered with heavier gold filigree, and her sleeves billowed like silken wings.

The Queen of Graystonia wasn’t just regal, she was radiant.

In Layla’s eyes, no woman alive had ever matched her mother’s beauty.

Her long blonde curls were arranged in effortless perfection, cascading like liquid light down her back.

She didn’t walk, she glided. Everything about her exuded power tempered by poise and strength softened by grace.

Layla had often thought her mother looked like something out of legend, an angel carved from starlight and steel. And Ciana was her mirror image.

Nineteen and luminous, Layla’s younger sister- Ciana, turned heads with barely a word.

The same golden hair, the same honey-hazel eyes flecked with gold, the same glowing presence that made others pause.

The suitors were already circling- ambitious, desperate, eager.

And Aerilynn, the youngest at seventeen, had inherited the golden hair too, but paired it with their father’s deeper skin tone, sun-kissed and warm like the southern fields.

All three sisters bore their parents’ hazel eyes, but Layla alone was different.

Her hair was a deeper chestnut, wavy and heavy like her father’s.

Her eyes were shadowed hazel, darker around the edges, not glinting like gold, but catching light like bronze.

She stood out in ways she didn’t always understand, and had long since stopped trying to.

As she settled into her seat between her mother and Ciana, Layla’s attention drifted to her father sitting on the other side of her mother.

King Aiddeon sat straight-backed, but tension coiled through his shoulders like drawn bowstrings.

His voice was low but sharp, directed at the man beside him—Sir Charles, his most trusted commander.

“We know an attack is coming,” the King murmured, his tone low and tense. “I should’ve canceled tonight. If I’m wrong… we’re risking lives.”

Sir Charles didn’t flinch. “With respect, Your Majesty, you’re not wrong. And I believe the risk of losing Her favor outweighs the threat beyond our gates. ”

King Aiddeon exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the ballroom. “I haven’t forgotten what tonight means. I just question whether our people should be gathered so openly when danger is this close.”

Sir Charles leaned in, voice quiet but firm.

“And I would never question your vigilance, My King. But you know as well as I do—we are the last kingdom still in Serelai’s grace.

To forget Her, even for one night, is to invite blight upon our fields and famine upon our children.

She has blessed these lands for centuries.

We give thanks, not just for tradition… but to ensure our future. ”

Layla’s gaze dropped to her wine glass, fingers tracing the delicate gold leaf pattern.

Her father knew all of that—of course he did.

No one revered Serelai more deeply. But he also carried the lives of everyone in this room like armor on his shoulders.

That he feared for them, even knowing the cost of silence tonight, only proved what she already believed: he wasn’t just a king. He was a great one.

Sir Charles softened. “Just for a few hours, let me handle whatever needs handling. Let your people see that this night still matters to you—that the Goddess is still honored, and tradition still holds. You’ve borne enough weight for a lifetime.

Tonight, enjoy the fire. The laughter. Let them see their king is still with them… unshaken.”

From the corner of her eye, Layla watched her father’s posture ease, if only slightly.

Sir Charles always knew how to bring him back from the edge.

She was grateful for that. Aiddeon had been under unbearable pressure in recent months.

She saw it in his face, in the tired way he moved. He needed this night, deserved it.

Her mother reached over and placed a hand on his forearm, a touch so gentle and familiar it was almost holy.

Aiddeon turned to her with a smile that lit up his entire being.

They were a love match and anyone who looked at them could see it.

Layla had always known that her father ruled a kingdom, but Queen Raynera was his world.

She, Ciana, Aerilynn—they were the rest of it.

And that love, that rare and sacred bond, was why her parents had never rushed her into marriage.

They had wanted her to choose love. Real love.

Like theirs. But love was a luxury now. Alliances needed forging.

The kingdom needed protection. The crown demanded sacrifice.

And so the dream died—quietly, nobly. Layla felt it leave her like breath from the lungs.

A dream briming with love, possibilities, and promises slipped away.

And in its place rose the quiet weight of responsibility.

She adjusted her shoulders, sat taller, and pulled her mask of serene composure back into place.

Then she looked up, scanning the grand ballroom. A battlefield in silk and gold.