Page 32 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

“What?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. Her eyes didn’t blink.

It was like she was trying to solve him.

Theron simply held out the belt and knives in both hands, an offering.

Layla’s mouth parted slightly as she took in the items in his hand, a beat passed before she tentatively accepted them.

He watched tentatively as she tied the belt tight around her waist and began sliding each blade into its designated slit.

She glanced down at her sides, where the twin knives Kain had given her were already sheathed—everything on her seemingly in its rightful place now.

And yet, he caught the faint furrow of her brow.

“I thought you preferred small blades? Is that not right?” Theron said, his voice low and even, but hesitant.

“I do. I just…” She stuttered, blinking at him.

“Thank you. This is perfect. Thank you,” she said again, more firmly this time.

He gave a short nod in response. He didn’t understand her confusion, did she think I wouldn’t want her prepared ?

She needed to protect herself, even if he’d do everything in his power to keep her from needing to.

But he let the questions fall away as he turned, motioning for her to follow. Not so that she could witness the ritual, he just needed her near for a moment longer. Before duty claimed him. Before war pulled him somewhere she couldn’t follow .

He stepped toward the brazier that had been placed at the core of the Circle, its flames already stoked high with sacred ashroot and bone-char.

The heat lashed at his skin, but he welcomed it.

The altar beside it waited, stone worn smooth by generations of warriors.

Upon it lay the ceremonial blade—dark steel veined with etched runes that shimmered faintly as if breathing.

This was something they only did before a big battle, never wanting to ask too much of Varyn but knowing the importance of his blessing all the same.

Theron lifted the bowl of mud in his other hand, almost anxious for the next step.

Dipping three fingers in and dragging them across his own eyes in broad strokes, then down the length of his unmarked arm.

The motion was practiced, grounding. The cool grit of earth steadied his pulse and narrowed his thoughts.

The old ways were never for show. They were meant to ready a man—mind, body, blood.

But today, the markings carried more than tradition.

Today, they would grant him stealth in the shadows.

.. and strike fear into any who met his gaze.

He set the bowl of mud on the altar, fingers still streaked with grit and ash.

Then he reached for the ancient blade resting beside it.

Theron took it in his palm and with steady purpose, he drew the blade.

The slice was clean, diagonal across the flesh of his hand.

He turned his palm over the brazier and let the blood fall freely into the flames.

The fire hissed, cracked— then flared with a sudden burst of deep blue before settling once more into gold. It was a sign. Varyn saw them.

He pressed his bloodied palm to his chest, whispering the words passed down from his father: “For blood. For tribe. For valor.” The flame hissed in response, licking higher into the morning air.

As he stepped back, he could feel it begin—the slow, searing stitch of skin pulling itself closed.

Not by medicine. Not by time. By will. By Varyn.

The blood stopped flowing. The wound sealed, thread by unseen thread, as if the God’s invisible hand dragged a burning needle through the torn flesh, binding it back together in sacred silence.

One by one, the others stepped forward. Each warrior bled for the God of Blood and Valor, and each time, the flame flared in acknowledgment—as if Varyn himself watched from beyond the veil, collecting their offerings.

A chant began to rise among them, low and guttural.

It was not sung, but felt—a rhythm like a second heartbeat, ancient and unrelenting, echoing through the stone and soil beneath their feet.

Theron stood still, the bowl of mud cooling in his palm, the ritual near complete.

And then he saw her. Layla had stepped forward.

Unbidden. Uninvited. And his breath caught.He hadn’t motioned to her.

Hadn’t expected her to participate in this sacred rite.

His chest tightened as she reached for the ceremonial blade.

What is she doing? A flash of panic surged through him.

She didn’t understand. This wasn’t a simple wound—it wouldn’t close unless Varyn allowed it.

Unless she was blessed. And if she wasn’t…

She’d bleed. Maybe worse.He didn’t want her hurt—not like that, not at all.

His mouth parted, ready to stop her. But the words didn’t come.

Because Varyn’s flame didn’t flicker in warning at her presence.

It flared—high and wild—before she even touched the blade, stopping him cold.

He watched as she drew the blade across her palm and the moment shifted.

The forest stilled, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what she had done.

Her blood hit the fire and the flames surged.

Not just blue—but violet, edged with white, a flash so bright it stole the breath from his lungs.

It roared like a scream of approval, then fell quiet again, embers pulsing like the beat of war drums. And her wound…

it vanished just like all of theirs had, causing all of the warriors beside him stir in shock.

He watched as Layla blinked down at her hand, clearly stunned.

Theron’s gaze lingered on the rapid rise and fall of her chest that was too quick to be calm.

But it didn’t seem to be pain that gripped her, but awe or fear.

Maybe both . Varyn had accepted her. The God of Blood and Valor had marked a foreign princess as one of their own.

Theron’s throat tightened. He stared as she pressed her hand to her chest in a shaky mimic of the vow, and Theron realized she wasn’t actually mimicking, she meant it.

Sparrow reappeared a moment later, painted and composed as always.

He stepped forward to complete the ritual as Layla moved to stand beside Theron once more.

With steady hands and effortless precision, Sparrow moved through the sacred motions.

When he finished, he set the ceremonial blade back in its place.

The flame gave a brief, sharp burst of acknowledgment—then extinguished itself in a whisper.

Sparrow stepped up beside Layla, grunting to imply they were good to go. Theron barely registered him through the haze still clouding his mind. What in the Gods had just happened? But he just forced himself to nod. “Stick by Sparrow,” he said to Layla, voice rough and uneven. “You’ll be safe.”

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the chaos loose from his mind.

There was no time for questions. No time for attempting to make sense of what he’d seen.

Whatever Varyn had done—whatever it meant—the god had claimed her.

Marked her like he had all of the others.

And that alone should have been enough. Theron couldn’t afford to dwell on why.

He should be grateful. She was protected now.

Not invincible—none of them were—but watched.

Chosen. And that would have to be enough.

Because he had warriors to lead. A battle to win.

And his mind needed to be clear, his blade steady.

As Theron approached the front of the assembled cohort, he could feel the weight of his mother’s stare like a dagger between his shoulder blades.

But he didn’t look at her. Not now. His focus needed to be sharp, honed like the blades hidden along his frame.

He scanned the tribe. Each warrior now smeared in mud, armed and alert.

They were ready. With a single nod, he set them into motion.

They fanned out into the dense trees, heading in a southeastern path toward Graystonia.

All proceeding to thread through the forest like a snake’s tongue.

Theron’s boots pressed into soft earth as branches bowed around him.

The sunlight slipped in slivers through the thick canopy, illuminating dust and sweat in the air.

It was late August. The heat was already rising, and the air clung heavy to his warriors skin.

But his people would not slow. They were Antonin.

They would reach Graystonia by nightfall.

Then they would wait. Observe. And at sunrise—strike.

As he confidently navigated through the dense brush, he couldn’t help but think that he still didn’t want Layla anywhere near the fight.

Varyn’s blessing didn’t change that. Just because the God had marked her didn’t mean she belonged in the blood and chaos of war.

She would point out the tunnel entrances once they were there and that would be all.

He’d made that decision long ago. She didn’t need to see more violence. Not again. Not if he could help it.

But even as he told himself that, the truth pressed in.

He had seen a woman in need of protection.

A fragile princess ripped from her palace, grieving, afraid.

That was the Layla who had stirred something deep in him—something instinctive, fierce, unshakable.

But now... he was starting to see what he’d missed.

She wasn’t just trying to survive. She was preparing to fight.

There was strength in her, buried beneath the softness—steel, waiting in silence.

A fire that no longer flickered, but burned with direction.

Purpose. Resolve. She wasn’t just a princess in exile.

She was a wildfire. A warrior. And she was ready to go to war for her kingdom.

And gods, he still wanted to shield her from it all.

Even now. Especially now. He didn’t know if she needed his protection anymore.

But he would offer it all the same. Even if she never asked for it.

Even if it meant standing between her and the fire she had become.