Page 25 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter eleven

Theron.

T heron was deep in training, demonstrating hand-to-hand combat techniques to a group of young warriors, when Queen Okteria approached.

The moment he caught the tension in her expression, his body stilled.

Something was wrong. He stepped away from the circle, wiping sweat from his brow as he met her gaze.

"The Bartorians attacked. Our people are safe," she said curtly.

His shoulders straightened, muscles going rigid. "Where?"

"Near Illyada's hut. Only seven of them. All dead. There may be more hiding in the woods." Illyada's hut. His stomach dropped. Layla. He clenched his fists to keep from bolting. Okteria said our people were fine. Did she mean Layla too? He wouldn't dare ask. Not in front of her .

"You need to sweep the woods. Take a team, scout, and report back. Whether they came for her or not, they crossed into our home. I won’t tolerate it.

Kain will return soon with more information, but until then, we act.

" Theron nodded. Orders were orders. Even when every nerve in his body screamed to go to Layla.

He turned and moved swiftly through the village, selecting his most capable men with practiced efficiency.

At Sparrow's hut, he leaned in. The warrior was asleep but snapped upright the moment Theron entered.

"Find Layla. Stay with her," Theron ordered. Without a word, Sparrow was up and out of his hut, heading in the opposite direction. Theron let out a breath. At least she wouldn’t be alone… If she was alive that is.

Theron led a group of eight seasoned Antonin warriors to the forest’s edge.

In silence, they covered their faces and arms in mud for camouflage.

Theron marked his face with three thick streaks, melting into darkness without effort.

His ink-covered skin cloaked his form, turning him into a wraith among the trees.

They spread into a wide formation, keeping twenty feet of distance between each man, and advanced southeast, toward Graystonia.

Hours passed. The forest pressed in around them, thick with silence and tension, but no more Bartorians appeared. Finally, Theron signaled the return. It was nearly midnight when they stepped back into the torch-lit village.

He found Queen Okteria near a small fire, warriors clustered around her in quiet conversation. She turned as he approached.

"We swept to the territory line and back," he reported. "No signs of more enemies. Kain might be facing resistance, though."

"He’ll manage," she replied, already turning her focus back to the flames, no doubt plotting her next move. Theron held back a frown. Kain was capable, yes, but unpredictable. Chaos seemed woven into his footsteps, as if it was born to follow him.

"Get some sleep," Okteria said, waving him off. "We’ll wait for Kain’s report."

Theron didn’t need to be told twice. His feet carried him swiftly toward his hut, weaving through fires and warriors still abuzz with the night’s events.

Tankards clanked. Stories grew wilder. He passed Sparrow leaning against his hut, watching the tree line with silent vigilance.

Theron gave him a nod and stepped inside.

Layla sat up the moment he entered. Her wide eyes scanned him, checking for injury? Relief quickly washed over her as her features softened .

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice quiet but full of concern. He nodded, scanning her in return. No blood. No bruises. Nothing broken. Only then did his chest unclench.

With a sigh, he dropped to the ground beside the wall and let his head fall back.

The tension finally began to unwind from his muscles.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and caught her staring, but not at his face.

His lips curved slowly. Her gaze flicked up.

She blinked, startled to find him watching as color rushed to her cheeks.

"I... I was staring," she stammered, gulping.

"At your sword." His brow quirked in amusement.

She instantly panicked. "No! Not that sword—your actual sword. The one by your hip! I was looking at the craftsmanship… In the moonlight… That’s all.

" Theron chuckled, a low, warm sound rumbling from deep in his chest. A real smile tugged at his lips.

For the first time in hours, days even, he felt something close to peace.

She was safe. That was all that mattered.

Layla.

Wow, do I love his smile. The sound of Theron’s laugh lit her chest like a torch.

It was deep, rare, and devastatingly warm.

Layla couldn’t tear her eyes from him as he settled against the side of the hut, looking bone-tired and battle-worn.

She’d never been so relieved to see someone before.

Just hours ago, she’d been convinced she might never again.

When he’d charged into the hut tonight, her breath had hitched. He was safe. He was alive. A fact that made her chest ache with something dangerously close to... joy.

She lay back on the cot now, exhaling softly.

The tension in her muscles melting now that she knew he was all right.

But her moment of relief quickly soured as her thoughts turned back to her plan.

She was supposed to escape tonight. To run.

To save her family. Yet after today’s attack, the tribe was more restless than she had ever seen them.

From the sounds of it outside the hut, they’d be up all night with sharpened blades and narrowed eyes.

There was no chance of slipping away unnoticed.

Frustration and despair coiled tight in her chest, thick and suffocating.

Another day lost. Another day her family might suffer.

Another day her kingdom was left in ruin.

A single tear slid down her cheek, warm and uninvited.

She quickly rolled over to face the wall, not wanting Theron to see her cry once again.

He already had too many pieces of her she hadn’t meant to give.

Thankfully, sleep eventually claimed her.

By morning, the camp buzzed with a strange stillness, everyone waiting for the scouting party—waiting for Kain. At the gathering, no new information was shared. Nothing. That silence was louder than any declaration of war.

Back at Illyada’s, Layla was knuckle-deep in another dismembered squirrel when a sickly, pungent odor crept through the trees. The stench of rot. She turned her head instinctively, face twisting in revulsion.

“They’re burning the bodies,” Illyada said flatly, not pausing in her cutting.

“The Bartorian guards.” Layla followed the dark smoke curling into the late morning sky.

She didn’t feel the need to mourn, to cry.

Let them burn. Those men helped destroy her home, take her people, strip her of everything she loved.

They deserved the fire. And part of her—maybe the deepest part—hoped they felt every second of it.

As the sun began its descent, Layla scrubbed her arms furiously in the water bucket Illyada had filled.

But no matter how hard she scrubbed, the stench of death clung to her like a second skin.

She finally sat back, defeated, her arms red and raw.

She reeked of decay and disgust. Her head dropped just as Theron came into view.

A flicker of warmth spread through her chest, immediately dampened by the realization: if she escaped tonight, this might be the last time she saw him.

She didn’t know how that made her feel. Just that it hurt more than it should.

Theron gave his familiar grunt—her silent signal.

Illyada handed them both a slab of roasted meat, and they made their way toward the communal tables.

The last rays of light filtered through the trees as Layla took her usual place beside Sparrow, eyes low.

Xaden barreled toward them like a charging bear. “Well, I’ll be damned! The knife flinging badass herself!” he bellowed, entirely too loud for Layla’s liking. She blinked, unsure if he was joking or just drunk.

“Me?” she asked, incredulous.

“Who else?” Xaden gestured to her like she was a prize stallion.

“You took down three Bartorian soldiers- with cooking knives! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d say someone was full of shit!

” Layla chuckled despite herself. Praise for her knife skills wasn’t something she was used to, especially not from warriors.

Her chest warmed, pride blooming like fire.

Xaden shoved a tankard of ale toward her.

“To the woman who saved Illyada’s ass—and our tastebuds in the process!

Cheers, princess!” Ale sloshed across the table as he raised his tankard.

Layla laughed, genuinely this time, and tapped her cup against his.

For the first time since her capture, she felt…

welcomed. Xaden’s humor, Sparrow’s occasional smirk, even the banter—it was the closest thing to normal she’d felt in weeks.

By her second, or maybe third ale, Layla found herself gazing at Theron again.

He sat across the table, quiet as always.

Her eyes traced the ink that curled around his powerful arms. Each line of muscle, each symbol etched into skin, pulled at something primal inside her.

Her gaze drifted lower… to those hands. Broad.

Calloused. Capable. She imagined them on her and quickly squirmed in her seat.

Then she realized—he was watching her, watch him.

Over the rim of his tankard, his eyes collided with hers.

Not casually. Not politely. But unapologetically devouring her.

She froze, caught in the heat of it, pulse thundering as she waited for her him to look away.

To stop staring at her like that, but he didn’t stop.

“Well?” Xaden’s voice snapped her attention away just as Sparrow nudged her with an elbow. Layla blinked and turned, cheeks aflame.

“I—I’m sorry. What was that?” She stammered. Sparrow and Xaden shared a knowing laugh.