Page 4 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Still staring at him while deep in her thoughts, she watched as Ryker’s smile faded.

His body stiffened in alarm. His eyes shifted, not toward her, but toward the opposite direction.

Layla sat up straighter, her chest tightening.

What does he see? she wondered. She craned her neck, eyes scanning the crowd.

But something in her bones had already begun to whisper. Something was wrong .

Layla watched as Ryker's head whipped back toward her, his eyes wide, wild.

A flicker of terror sparked in his face the moment his gaze connected with hers once again.

Then, without hesitation, he ran. He ran like a man possessed, shoving bodies aside with a seemingly singular intent: reaching her.

She stood frozen for a breath, her pulse roaring in her ears, then the room erupted into shrieks. Shrieks of fear. Of chaos. Of death.

Around her, the impossible unfolded: bodies dropping, thudding onto the marble floor.

Pools of red spread like ink through the ballroom.

And not just any bodies, Graystonian Guards.

Her guards. Their throats were slit, clean and fast. Layla's breath caught in her chest. Then instinct overtook her.

She grabbed the knife from her plate, the familiar weight grounding her for a moment, and bolted from her seat.

Her eyes frantically scanned the sea of panic. W here was her family?

There . Her mother stood some distance away, dangerously close to the heart of the mayhem still erupting across the ballroom.

With both arms wrapped tightly around her youngest daughters, anchoring them behind a marble pillar, using her own body as the only barrier between them and the violence.

But no guards. No steel. No shields. Where the hell are their damn guards!

? Layla’s mind screamed as she tore across the chaos toward them.

Two Graystonian bodies lay in her path, their eyes were still open, but lifeless.

Blood pooled beneath their necks in wide, glistening circles.

Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t. Her eyes stayed locked on her mother and sisters— alive, for now.

Then she saw him. A man, someone she didn’t recognize, was closing in on them.

His attire mimicked Graystonian nobility, but Layla knew .

She had spent her life memorizing faces, families, bloodlines.

This man wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t theirs .

A predator among lambs. Layla skidded to a halt and centered herself.

Her grip tightened. The knife hummed in her hand—an extension of her will.

Then she released it. The blade sliced the air like a whisper of justice and struck.

Right in the outstretched arm of the stranger.

He staggered back with a roar of pain, blood spurting from his wound.

Layla was already in motion, closing the distance to her family before he could, but he turned and lunged for her before she could reach them.

His hand closed around her forearms with bruising force.

Even with blood pouring from his gash, he was strong.

Too strong. He wrenched her around and yanked her against his chest.

“Stop fighting, you little bitch. You’re coming with me!

” he hissed, hot and foul against her ear .

Like hell I am! She slammed her elbow back hard into his ribs.

He yelped, his grip faltering just enough.

Layla twisted free and dropped low, her eyes locking on a serving tray nearby.

She snatched it, and without pause, swung.

It cracked against his skull with a sickening thud and she watched him collapse.

Layla stood panting, heart hammering. There was no time to process what she’d done.

She had to move . She looked toward the pillar again, her family was gone.

Panic surged through her veins. She spun in frantic circles, scanning the pandemonium.

What remained of the ballroom was a hellscape.

The gilded elegance of the evening had shattered- replaced by screams, blood, and the clang of steel.

The guards—what few remained—were fighting at the ballroom doors.

Her father among them, sword flashing as he battled to protect his people’s escape.

Ryker was nearby, fists flying, fighting off two enemies with raw fury.

Finally, her eyes found them. Her mother.

Her sisters. Farther across the ballroom now, heading toward the east wall.

Her mother was trying to lift Ciana off the floor but seemed to be struggling.

Aerilynn stood beside them, seemingly paralyzed in shock.

Tears streamed down her face as she watched the horror unfold. Layla ran.

“It’s my ankle!” Ciana cried as Layla closed the distance, her face twisted in pain.

Layla dropped to her side, a rush of relief flooding her as her hands moved instinctively to help.

Together, she and their mother pulled Ciana upright, her weight sagging heavily between them, arms looped over their shoulders for support.

Ciana turned her head, her tear-filled eyes locking onto Layla’s, wide and terrified.

Layla met them with a firm nod, fierce and steady. They were going to get out.

“Mom! Who is this? Who is attacking us?” Layla demanded as they stumbled toward the northeast exit, the only escape untouched by blood. Her mother’s face was stone and shoulders rigid, tight as a bowstring.

“Bartoria,” she spat. Layla’s blood went cold but before she could react, a hand landed on her shoulder. She spun, ready to kill, ready to die before she let them harm her family.

“Princess—it’s just me!” Sir Charles said quickly, hands raised.

Relief cracked through her like a lightning bolt.

“Please let me help.” He moved in without hesitation, slipping one arm beneath Ciana’s knees and the other behind her back.

With practiced strength, he scooped Ciana into his arms. She sucked in a breath, clinging to his shoulders as her injured ankle finally hung free, no longer bearing weight.

“Sir Charles!” her mother demanded. “Where is the King?”

“He’s with the last of the guards, Your Majesty. I’ll get you out, then go back for him.” Layla nodded. Then turned to Aerilynn.

Her sister still stood frozen, shoulders rigid, tears tracking silently down her cheeks. She stared ahead, unmoving—eyes wide and unblinking, as if her mind couldn’t catch up to what was happening around them.

Layla stepped in close and grabbed her arms. “Aerilynn,” she said, her voice unsteady but unwavering. “You have to move.” Aerilynn didn’t respond. “We need you. I need you.”

Layla seized Aerilynn’s face with shaking hands.

Forcing their eyes to meet, refusing to let her sister drift further into shock.

“Move. Now,” she pleaded, much more forcefully this time.

Finally, Aerilynn blinked. Her lips parted in a soundless breath as she gave a small nod, allowing Layla to quickly pull her into a tight embrace.

The embrace lasted only a second before Layla shoved Aerilynn forward- away from the chaos and towards the others.

Then Layla turned. She couldn’t bring herself to leave without a final glimpse of the only home she'd ever loved.

the only place she'd ever known. But the ballroom held no trace of her home now, only the echo of carnage.

Blood slicked the marble floors. The scent of blood and scorched stone burned her nose, the air thick with the clash of steel and screams of the wounded.

And now she saw them—truly saw them. Bartorian soldiers, their noble finery a disguise, their blades already dripping red. They had hidden in plain sight.

Her gaze found her father—fighting, relentless, surrounded. His back pressed to the last standing guard as they held the line with nothing but fury and steel. That sight caused her instincts to flare. Layla swiftly spotted a nearby table. Knives. Not proper weapons, but enough.

“Stay with Sir Charles!” She said, as she turned to dart away. “He’ll keep you safe. I love you! ”

“What?! No! What the hell are you doing?!” Aerilynn shrieked, reaching for her.

Layla slipped free of her sister’s grasp, snatched the knives, and surged forward before Aerilynn could stop her.

These aren’t daggers, but they’ll have to do.

She moved like a shadow, weaving through pillars and bodies, heart pounding, breath shallow.

The crowd was distracted enough that no one saw her coming.

She stopped, took aim and released. The knife struck true, embedding in the shoulder of a Bartorian about to strike her father.

The soldier stumbled, and in that half-second, the King turned and cleaved his head clean off.

No sooner had the head landed than her father’s eyes whipped around to find the source of the hurled blade. They quickly landed on Layla.

“Layla, no! Run!” King Aiddeon roared across the battlefield that had once been a ballroom.

She froze, the force of his voice ricocheting in her chest, but she didn’t obey.

She couldn’t. She swore she saw something flash in his expression- was it surprise?

Agony? Fear ? He turned back to his opponent, his sword already mid-swing.

His sweat-soaked chestnut hair clung to his brow in thick strands.

Steel clanged and rang through the air like thunder. The chaos was deafening.