Page 3 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter two

Layla.

I t wasn’t long before a suitor approached the table and asked for her hand to dance.

Layla had known his name, station, and family before he even opened his mouth.

That was her responsibility, her burden.

It had been drilled into her since she could walk in heels and hold a curtsy: know their name, know their bloodline, know what they want from you. Her mother made sure of it.

“Alexander Morringar,” she recalled silently.

Son of a sergeant in her father’s personal guard.

She had met him before, briefly, and always in the most formal of settings.

Never like this. Never with music, candlelight, and expectations thick in the air.

He was about six feet tall, with neatly trimmed stubble, sun-kissed skin, short blond hair, and deep blue eyes.

Not unpleasant to look at, not at all. But he never made her pulse quicken, never left her with a thought that lingered after he was gone.

Still, tonight demanded an open mind, and that had to begin somewhere. Why not with him?

“May I have this dance, Princess Layla?” he asked, offering his hand as he bowed with effortless grace. Layla looked to her mother first. Always to her mother. The Queen’s slight nod was her signal. Only then did Layla return her gaze to Alexander, meeting his with the softest of smiles.

“You may,” she replied with practiced warmth.

She rounded the table and took his outstretched hand.

His palm was rough- evidence of sparring, of swordplay, of following in his father’s footsteps.

That’s how things worked in Graystonia. Sons became their fathers.

Daughters became their mothers. Deviations were rare, even frowned upon.

But at least his grasp was gentle, appropriate.

He didn’t grip too tightly. He understood who she was.

The ballroom was alive with motion, couples dancing in synchronized elegance beneath the flickering chandeliers.

Alexander led her through the crowd with careful precision, their path carved with quiet authority.

At the center, they bowed and curtsied in time, then joined the waltz in step with the others.

His questions were polite. His answers were thoughtful.

He asked about her sisters, her day, her hobbies- topics rehearsed a thousand times in drawing rooms and etiquette lessons.

Layla played her part. She smiled. She asked him questions in return.

But the conversation lacked the color of passion, the heat of curiosity.

There was no spark. No pull. No danger. And certainly, no magic.

As the music ended, a second suitor appeared- Elric, then another, and another.

They came like waves- polite, charming, and forgettable.

Layla’s cheeks ached from holding the same smile.

Her feet throbbed in her shoes. And yet her heart remained unmoved.

Not one glance, not one word had stirred her.

Not even a flutter. It was frustrating and yet oddly comforting.

Perhaps it was easier to feel nothing. But even that thought frightened her.

What if I can’t feel it at all? She wondered, the truth catching in her throat like a thorn.

The thought of falling in love terrified her, but so did the possibility that she never would.

Then, as another dance concluded, a deep voice cleared its throat behind her, low and vaguely familiar. Layla turned.

Ryker Jameson. Her breath caught. Lord Jameson’s eldest son.

The heir to the largest holding at court, and a man whose family wielded real power.

She had heard whispers of him, his discipline, his reputation, his influence.

But seeing him now... He stood tall, perhaps six-two, with dark, tight curls cropped close to his head and deep brown eyes that held both sharpness and warmth.

His jaw was strong, his face clean-shaven.

His frame, wrapped in formal attire, still hinted at the raw strength beneath.

Broad shoulders. Solid arms. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in both a ballroom and a battlefield.

“May I have this dance, Lady Layla?” he asked. His voice was steady, but something about the way he looked at her- the way his eyes lingered, made her stomach flutter.

She swallowed, schooling her features. “Of course, Lord Jameson. ”

He chuckled as he took her hands. “Lord Jameson is my father.

You may call me Ryker, if you're comfortable.” A genuine smile escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she had to look away to hide it.

“How has your evening been so far?” he asked.

His voice brushed her ear, and she felt its warmth bloom on her cheek.

“I’ve had the privilege of meeting many wonderful members of our kingdom,” she replied, voice poised, polished. Not a lie, but far from the truth.

He laughed softly. “Ah, yes. I’ve seen the line forming. Many men chasing the favor of a very beautiful lady.” She turned away, feeling the blush rise again. Compliments were common in her life, but this one felt... different. Less performance. More intent.

“I’m surprised to see you here tonight,” she said, surprising herself with her directness.

“Last I knew, you were training to be an officer of the guard.” He looked at her, something like surprise flashing in his eyes.

She wasn’t supposed to know that. Daughters weren’t told about armies, or war, or how close the danger truly was.

She was meant to smile, to wait, and remain blissfully unaware of it all.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I should be sworn by year’s end.

” There was pride in his voice, earned pride.

She admired that and she appreciated that he didn’t ask how she knew.

He simply continued, “My father requested I take leave for Lammas so I could attend with my family.” Layla offered a soft smile.

How nice, she thought. Time with his family, in the middle of such a demanding year.

That must mean something. But Ryker wasn’t finished.

“My father also wished for me to officially meet you, Lady Layla.” Their eyes met again, and the warmth she’d been holding at bay threatened to rise once more.

Then it hit her. This wasn’t coincidence.

This was strategy. A setup. Of course. Of course, his father had arranged it.

Of course, Ryker was here not simply to enjoy the festival, but to court her—to be seen with her, to make an impression, to offer himself up for the crown.

Even he had been pulled from officer training just for this opportunity. To be the future king.

The warmth that had begun to thaw her quickly turned cold.

She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, only that it did.

The very idea of being chosen, not for love, not for who she was, but for what she represented…

it made her feel small. Powerless. Layla smiled through it. Mask back on. Chin lifted.

They danced, and though the conversation continued, the spark did not return.

Something inside her had shuttered again.

By the time the song ended, she gave Ryker a polite curtsy and retreated to her mother’s side.

She took a large gulp of wine, letting it burn its way down her throat.

She had known tonight would be difficult, but she hadn’t expected panic .

And she hadn’t expected this—how final it would feel.

Whatever last threads of hope she’d held onto—for choice, for a love match, for something more than duty—were gone. That much was clear now.

As Layla moved the food around on her plate without eating, her mind swirled.

She thought of each man. Alexander. Elric.

Ryker. And all the others. None of them stirred the deep thing inside her.

The quiet part that wanted more than duty.

More than alliances. Ryker made the most sense.

She could see it. She told herself she should be grateful.

He was kind. He was handsome. He had let her knowledge of his training slide.

He hadn’t mocked her. Perhaps, in time, he would even allow her to learn more. He would make a strong king.

But really, none of what was expected of her tonight should have come as a surprise.

She’d known this was coming for weeks—ever since the war council began, ever since the guest list for Lammas had shifted—from the joy of old friends to a lineup of eligible sons and power-hungry lords, all eager to stake their claim.

But still, she couldn’t quite believe it.

That this was truly her fate. That by night’s end, she would be expected to report her choice to her parents.

And if they approved, the engagement would be set, her future sealed beside a man she barely knew, all for the good of the kingdom.

What she couldn’t fully accept was the possibility that her heart may forever remain still.

That duty would be all she’d ever know. And sadness settled in her stomach like a stone.

Across the room, she spotted Ryker in conversation.

He laughed at something. Then he glanced her way and smiled, a smile that reached his eyes.

She returned it, softly, as she begged the miniscule spark to return, but it was ash and her shoulders slumped.

She tried to convince herself: There could be worse men.

He is strong. Loyal . He might even let me be part of more than just the crown.

This could be enough. But the hollowness inside her deepened. A quiet ache she couldn’t ignore.