Page 23 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

She turned her thoughts toward Illyada’s hut.

The knives laid out in rows. She remembered seeing one particularly small blade with a black handle.

Sharp. Light. Easy to hide. That one. Tomorrow, she would take it.

Discreetly. Illyada was tough but not infallible, there would be a moment.

Plus Layla had nimble fingers, always had.

The question now was what came after. Would she kill someone to get out of here?

Her gut twisted as her mind echoed with the image of Sparrow’s kind face, who now stood guard outside this hut.

His quiet, steady presence beside her lately.

His attempts at gentleness. His clear loyalty to Theron.

Could she kill him if she had to? So that she could slip out tomorrow night while Theron was sleeping?

The rational part of her, the queen-in-waiting, the strategist, told her yes.

If it meant getting out, reaching her people, finding her mother, her sisters, her father , then yes.

She could do anything. But the girl inside her, the one who had never killed another living soul until that horrible day with Tynan. That girl wasn’t so sure .

Layla turned onto her side, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.

She thought back to the blood on her hands that day.

What would it be like this time? Worse? She stared at the wall in front of her, muscles taut, her nails digging crescents into her forearm.

Her heart hammering even in the stillness.

You can do this, she told herself. You must do this.

And she would. Because if she didn’t, her kingdom would be nothing more than ashes and screams in a nightmare that she would never wake from.

But gods help her, it was going to destroy whatever piece of innocence she had left.

She closed her eyes, but sleep never came.

Theron slowly stood and stretched, the early morning light catching on the ridges of his muscled torso.

Layla, still wide awake but feigning sleep, let out a deliberately timed yawn and sat up slowly.

Brushing her hair from her face as if she’d just stirred too.

She watched as Theron bent to retrieve his leather armor and shirt from the ground, shook them out, and pulled them on with deliberate ease.

The movements pulled every muscle in his arms and chest tight.

She didn’t mean to watch, but she couldn’t seem to look away.

And gods help her, it was a really nice view.

Once dressed, Theron grunted and gestured for them to go.

Layla followed silently, her limbs stiff with exhaustion.

As they emerged from the hut, Sparrow stood exactly where they’d left him the night before—posted by the entrance, waiting with quiet patience.

She glanced at him-still, silent, loyal- and a pang of guilt flickered through her chest. If her plan worked, he might be the first casualty.

She reminded herself why she had to do this.

Her people. Her kingdom. Her family. Still, it hurt more than it should have.

The three made their way to the morning gathering. As they stepped onto the main path, Layla felt the weight of every eye on her. Same as yesterday. Same judgment. Same distrust. She held her chin high and kept her spine straight. She wouldn’t let them see her shrink.

Sparrow’s arm reached out in front of her, and she stopped beside him once again.

Clearly, this was her place during these assemblies.

She obeyed without argument, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Queen Okteria, perched with calculated poise and that same expression of cold satisfaction.

The queen’s lips twisted ever so slightly.

Layla could only assume she found satisfaction at the sight of Layla’s blood-smeared face and filthy clothing.

The message was clear: Good. Let them see what you are now.

But Layla wasn’t going to give her the gratification.

She wasn’t going to try to hide. She was going to stand tall as ever.

Theron stepped forward. “No news. Go on,” he said simply, then turned without another word. Layla blinked, startled by how brief it was. Then again, he didn’t seem like the type to waste words.

He swiftly escorted her to Illyada’s station without ceremony, nodding once before striding off toward the training grounds. Illyada barely looked up from the massive turkey sprawled across the table. She pointed a bloodied blade toward a bowl of innards for Layla to start sorting.

Layla sighed and stepped up. Her stomach turned at the sight and smell, but she just took a deep breath and got to work.

Still caked in yesterday’s grime, she must have looked feral.

Face streaked with dirt and blood, hair sticking in messy clumps around her cheeks.

But no one had said anything. And she hadn’t dared ask for water to wash.

Until Illyada dropped a wooden bucket of clean water beside her with a soft grunt and handed her a rag.

“Here. So you can clean off,” Illyada said without fanfare, then turned back to her chopping.

Layla stared down at the clear water like it was holy. She blinked, overwhelmed by the simple kindness. “Thank you,” she said softly, genuinely, turning to face Illyada fully.

Illyada didn’t look at her though, just got straight back to work.

“The queen wanted to see you humiliated. Bloodied. Letting you stay filthy was the easiest way to keep her content. But I figured one day was enough.” Layla almost laughed.

Of course . Strategic cruelty, disguised as obedience.

Clever. She crouched and scrubbed herself raw, relishing the feeling of blood and dirt sliding off her skin.

When she stood again, damp and cleaner than she’d been in days, she gave Illyada a small but sincere smile.

Feeling a bit lighter as she returned to the task at hand.

“I know you probably think she’s a monster,” Illyada said, not unkindly.

“Okteria may have married into the title, but make no mistake—she rules in her own right. No one dares question her. She’s not cruel without cause, but she’s unflinching.

A force of nature when it comes to protecting this tribe.

She upholds the law because the law keeps us alive.

Survival, order, loyalty—that’s what matters to her.

And she’s never hesitated when hard choices had to be made. ”

Layla simply blinked at her, not sure why Illyada was even telling her this.

But a knowing question at been eating at her that she desperately wanted to know the answer too.

“But… how is that allowed? For a woman to rule alone?” Her voice caught on the word queen, like it didn’t belong on her tongue—like it defied everything she’d ever been taught .

lllyada blinked, clearly confused by the question. “How does she not?” Layla stared. Illyada shrugged. “We bleed just the same. We fight just as hard. Sometimes harder. Don’t mistake gentleness for weakness. The queen commands because she’s earned it. Because no one leads like she does.”

Layla absorbed the words, each one unsettling something inside her. She thought of her mother—stern, cold, loyal to her king above all else. She thought of herself. Of what might’ve been, if she'd been born on the other side of the border. She let her mind continue to wander.

“And her sons?” Layla asked, voice quieter now. “What can you tell me about them?”

Illyada softened, just a touch. “Theron was raised by the late king, King Aric. Trained to follow orders without hesitation. Duty. Loyalty. Discipline. That was carved into him from the time he could walk. His father taught him that protecting the tribe comes before everything. That obedience keeps people alive. He’s deadly, yes—but never without cause. He waits for the order. Then he acts.”

Layla’s breath caught as the memory of Theron’s ferocity slammed back into her.

She had seen Theron fight—twice now. Once in the forest, when Visen had assaulted her.

Theron had come out of nowhere, a storm of fists and vengeance, beating Visen nearly to death.

And then again at dinner, when Visen had dared to mouth off.

Theron hadn’t hesitated then either. And yet, outside those violent bursts, Theron was composed.

Controlled. Always standing just a little too straight, jaw clenched, voice low but sharp.

Like his entire existence had been trained to obey—bound by duty, carved into discipline.

Every breath he took was permissioned by something deeper: loyalty to his tribe.

Orders first. Everything else second. Now, Layla saw it more clearly.

That restraint wasn’t quiet. It was dangerous.

And somewhere beneath her ribs, something like awe twisted—sharp and uninvited.

“So all the warriors here are like him?” she said, masking it with sarcasm. “Stoic saints with blades for hands and a moral code carved in stone?”

lllyada chuckled. “Most of them.”

Layla arched a brow. “What about the other brother, the one with the apple and the oversized ego?”

Illyada snorted. “That would be Kain.” She paused and shook her head slightly. “And believe it or not, there’s more to him than sarcasm and swagger. Though he does enjoy getting under people’s skin.”

Layla rolled her eyes and muttered, “He’s exceptional at it.”