Page 24 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

“That he is,” Illyada said, her smirk softening.

“He’s… different than Theron. Raised by the queen more so than the king.

It is my opinion that she taught him how to bend rules, to read between lines instead of charging through them…

. Don’t let the grin and attitude fool you—he cares more than most. And he’ll break every law we have if it means doing what’s right.

” She paused, her voice dipping lower. “And he’ll smile while doing it.

” The clear admiration was there in her tone as Illyada spoke of Kain.

Which thoroughly confused Layla with the image of him that was already being created in her mind.

But Layla allowed this new information to shine a sliver of light on a possible different view of the repugnant man.

Her thoughts drifted—unbidden—to that moment in the Circle.

When everyone else had stayed still, silent.

And he had stepped forward. Not with pity, not with mockery—but with quiet resolve.

Offering her his daggers. His sword. Giving her the chance to fight.

Still, that didn’t mean she liked him. Or trusted whatever game he was playing beneath that smug grin.

She exhaled slowly, pushing the memory aside.

“He’s still vile,” she muttered, more to herself than to Illyada, and went back to work like the conversation hadn’t shaken her more than she cared to admit.

Illyada burst into laughter as she turned and made her way toward the vegetable garden behind him.

Layla softly laughed in response, but the conversation vanished from her mind in an instant as she watched Illyada walk away.

Her stomach flipped. Finally. A chance .

Her eyes darted to the now unguarded knives along the prep table, heart pounding with sudden urgency.

She carefully tracked Illyada’s steps, waiting—watching.

When Illyada completely turned toward the forest’s edge to gather ripe tomatoes, Layla moved.

One smooth sidestep. A quick grab. The smallest blade slipped into her palm, then disappeared into the waistband of her skirt.

She turned to check if she’d been seen—And that’s when the Bartorian guard exploded from the woods.

Illyada barely dodged the first strike, stumbling back as the man’s sword tore through the air.

His second swing caught her arm, slashing it open.

Blood bloomed along her sleeve. Illyada reached for her sword, but the Bartorian was faster.

His blade crashed against hers, sending it flying to the dirt.

Layla’s heart stopped. Without thinking, she whipped the stolen knife up beside her cheek and hurled it.

The blade spun through the air and struck the guard square in the eye.

He dropped instantly. Illyada turned in stunned silence, her eyes wide, locking with Layla’s.

Layla gave her a nod in response, right as six more Bartorian guards burst from the trees .

Illyada snatched her fallen sword and charged the nearest enemy.

Layla grabbed two more knives from the table and threw them with deadly precision.

One caught a man in the chest, the other in the neck.

She turned to grab another blade and help Illyada finish them off.

But before she could throw it, an assault of Antonin warriors rushed past, slamming into the enemy with a brutal clash of steel.

In moments, it was over. The clearing was littered with dead Bartorian soldiers.

Layla stood frozen, her breath coming hard, the final knife clenched in her hand.

She calmed enough to quickly slip it into her waistband with a flick of her wrist before someone noticed.

“You!” A voice roared. An Antonin warrior she didn’t recognize stormed toward her, sword drawn, violence in his eyes. “This is your fault!” He raised his blade, pressing it against her throat. Before she could react, Illyada’s voice cut through the air.

“Stop! She saved me. Don’t harm her, or you deal with me.

” The man instantly faltered at her words before glancing at Illyada’s bloodied arm, then back at Layla.

Confusion flickered in his eyes but he reluctantly lowered his sword.

Then spat at Layla’s feet before stalking away.

Layla realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled shakily.

“Come,” Illyada said, gripping her wrist and tugging her down the path. “We need to tell the queen.”

They approached a modest looking hut nestled off the main path.

Layla’s eyebrows rose. This was where Queen Okteria lived?

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t guarded. It looked like every other hut in the village.

Layla’s opinion of her shifted ever so slightly.

Everything Illyada had said about her and now this?

The queen wasn’t what she’d expected at all.

The flap opened and Queen Okteria stepped out.

Eyes narrowing the moment she saw Layla.

“We’ve been attacked,” Illyada said plainly.

The queen’s focus snapped to her. “Explain.”

“Seven Bartorian guards came at us by my hut. Layla killed three of them, we got the rest.” Okteria stared, clearly caught off guard. Then her gaze swept back to Layla. Suspicion. Disgust. But maybe, just maybe… curiosity.

“Are there more?”

“Not that we could see,” Illyada said. “Xaden took a small unit to sweep the perimeter. He’s waiting on orders.” The queen gave a curt nod and disappeared down the path. Layla exhaled.

“What now?” she asked.

Illyada shrugged. “Now we get back to work. If they need us for anything else, they’ll let us know.”

The quiet between Layla and Illyada became something almost sacred.

Not warm, exactly—but understood. There was a mutual respect in the silence that passed between their steady hands and shared rhythm over the prep tables.

Illyada had saved her in a way, and Layla had returned the favor.

The debt was even now. And maybe, just maybe…

In some small way, Illyada had started to see her.

The mid-afternoon sun slanted down through the tree canopy, filtering dappled gold over the mess of bloodied feathers and animal hides.

Layla worked without complaint, her hands sure and practiced now.

Every time her fingers brushed another knife, she remembered the one hidden in her waistband.

A cold weight against her hip. Her escape. Her guilt.

She shouldn’t feel guilty. But she did. Even after killing three Bartorian guards, her enemies, there was a tight ache in her chest. Not regret.

Not fear. Just the stark realization that every time she wielded a weapon now, it meant something irreversible.

It meant someone didn’t get to go home. Didn’t get to live.

She supposed that’s what made her different from the Antonin.

They wielded death like it was another tool on their belt. She wielded it like a last resort.

Illyada, sensing her mood perhaps, finally broke the quiet. “You think too much.”

Layla blinked, glancing over. “Excuse me?”

Illyada didn't look up. “When you kill, you hesitate. I can see it. You’re not soft, but your heart still makes noise. One day, that will get you killed… or save you. Not sure which.”

Layla frowned. “I don’t want to become numb to it. To killing.”

Illyada paused her knife mid-slice and finally met Layla’s gaze. “Then don’t. But be fast enough that it’s them who bleed, not you. ”

Layla stared at her for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.” The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun. But the moment lingered, threaded into something that might one day resemble trust.

Not long after, Xaden sauntered over, dirt-smudged and grinning, clearly just returned from the forest perimeter.

“Well, well,” he drawled, throwing an apple up and down in one hand. “Look who’s still alive. Thought for sure you’d die this time.”

"The gods can’t seem to agree on how I should go,” she said, washing her hands in the bowl nearby. “Guess you all are stuck with me until they decide.”

Xaden chuckled and leaned one elbow on the prep table, clearly watching her. “So... what’s the deal, Princess? You planning to assassinate us one by one with those dainty little knives? Those throws were wicked.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replied coolly, finally glancing at him with a mock-sweet smile. “Don’t worry, I saved your death for last. You seem like the type to make it long and dramatic.”

Xaden laughed loudly at that. “Damn. You’re almost Antonin already.”

“Careful,” Illyada muttered without looking up, “I might start liking her.” Layla’s lips twitched in a faint smile.

Despite everything, despite the blood on her hands, the knife in her waistband, the constant ache of worry for her family, she wasn’t entirely alone here.

Somehow, amid the gutting tables and wary glares, she had carved out the tiniest space of acceptance.

Not safety. Never that. But maybe something close to survival.

She’d take it. For now. Because tonight, she would escape.

She would find her family. And nothing, not kindness, not camaraderie, not even the flicker of warmth she felt when Theron looked at her like she was more than a pawn, would stop her.

But still, part of her whispered: You don’t have to hate them all to save your own.