Page 5 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Layla scanned the fight, heart pounding against her ribs as she searched for her next shot.

Her hands wavered, but she locked her arms tight, steadying herself against the surging tide of fear.

Another Bartorian came charging toward her father.

She took a breath, cold and clean like mountain air, and released the next blade.

It struck the man in the thigh. He screamed and dropped to one knee, just as her father gutted his current opponent with ruthless precision and spun toward the next, finishing the kneeling Bartorian with a brutal swipe of his sword .

Watching him in motion was like watching a storm made flesh. Even drowning in fear, Layla couldn’t help but marvel at him. That was her father. A true warrior. A true King.

She tore her eyes away for a heartbeat, glancing toward the ballroom’s center and her breath caught.

Ryker . She watched in horror as his body crumpled forward- his knees giving out, then he collapsed as a Bartorian slowly withdrew a blood-slick sword from Ryker’s gut and shoved him to the floor like he was nothing.

“No!” The word tore from Layla’s throat, raw and helpless.

She bolted toward him but her feet left the ground before she made it a foot away.

An arm wrapped around her chest, hard, slamming her back into a massive body.

Her arms now pinned to her sides. A human vice gripped her, yanking her away from everything.

She screamed and thrashed, clawing for any movement she could find.

She forced her hand, still clasping a knife, just far enough away, then plunged the blade into the man's thigh. A howl erupted behind her ear, hot and foul—but he didn’t loosen his grip.

She struck again with her final blade. The man buckled slightly forward with a grunt, but his arms only cinched tighter.

He was a mountain of muscle, and she was drowning in panic.

Her mind raced. Her chest burned. Fuck. This isn’t good.

This is bad. This is so— Her eyes collided with her father’s.

He turned toward her, mid-swing, and in that moment, everything slowed.

His expression cracked. Just for a second.

Just long enough for her to see what lay underneath the warrior’s mask.

Then rage bloomed across his face. And with that rage, he charged.

Sword raised, eyes burning, cutting through Bartorians like they were nothing more than paper before flame .

Layla kicked and bucked, desperate for another inch of movement as her father closed the gap with terrifying speed.

Every heartbeat a battle cry as the seconds slowly passed.

One man, three enemies down in seconds. Her father moved like a god.

Then, without breaking stride, he dropped to one knee, spun, and sliced through the ankle of the man holding her.

The Bartorian’s grip around her instantly shattered.

Layla fell to the floor with a gasp, finally drawing a full breath.

Her father was on her in an instant, dropping beside her.

“Layla! Are you hurt?!” he demanded, frantically scanning her limbs, his hands flying over her arms, her shoulders, searching for wounds.

“No,” she stammered, barely able to speak. She did a quick check herself, mind buzzing. No blood. No pain. Nothing, thank the Gods.

“Thank the Gods,” he echoed, his chest rising and falling like thunderclouds, eyes already scanning their surroundings again.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice steely, fast. “Go down this hallway. Head to the castle’s west wing.

Find the library. Behind the west bookshelf, there’s a hidden tunnel.

It’ll take you directly out of the castle.

Get to the old oak tree on the edge of the forest. You know the one.

Your mother and sisters will meet you there.

” He lifted her to her feet like she weighed nothing, and then spun around, ending the life of the crippled Bartorian loudly writhing in pain with a swift thrust to the chest. The man choked.

Blood spilled from his lips. Then silence.

“No! Father, wait, I can help! Let me stay!” Layla’s voice broke as she reached for a weapon, anything, but she was out of knives.

Her entire body was shaking, not from fear, but from something deeper- purpose .

Her blood roared with it. “I need to help. I have to.” Her father turned, seized her shoulders. The fire in his eyes was unwavering.

“No.” His voice was pure command. “That’s an order.” Layla froze. Her heart cracked under the weight of it.

“But—”

“I said go !” he growled. “Now, Layla! That is a royal command from your king!” The sheer force of it slammed into her.

The fire inside her flickered—then faltered.

Terror seeped back into her limbs like ice.

Fear for him. Fear for her family. Fear for her kingdom.

For the future. She opened her mouth, trying to argue, but her words dissolved.

She had never felt so small, and yet so full of something too vast to name.

“Damn it, Layla!” he shouted, shoving her toward the hallway.

“GO NOW ! That’s an order!” She stumbled back, the door swinging open behind her.

And in that final moment, she saw it- her father, all alone as Bartorian soldiers encircled him.

The last of the Graystonian guards lay dead only feet away.

“GO!!!” he screamed back to her now, not taking his eyes off the enemy as they closed in.

Tears blurred her vision, but she turned and ran.

She ran like the halls themselves were collapsing behind her.

Every step felt like betrayal. Like failure.

Like she was leaving her heart behind in that blood-soaked ballroom.

But she ran. She ran because he ordered her to.

She ran because if she didn’t, his sacrifice would be for nothing.

She ran because she had to survive. And because one day… she would make them pay .