Page 56 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Layla.

I t had been a month since Layla was carried out of Bartoria in Sparrow’s arms, half-conscious and soaked in blood.

A month since the night that shattered her, that ripped away the last piece of the woman she had just begun to become.

She returned to Graystonia alive—but something in her had not survived.

A month since her heart had been shredded by the loss of Theron…

and nearly torn again when Kain collapsed before her, blood pouring from his head as she screamed for him to live.

The image haunted her. The moments blurred together now—blood, steel, smoke, and the suffocating terror that she might lose both of them in a single ni ght.

One she had lost forever. The other she had dragged back from the brink with desperate hands and prayers she never knew she believed in.

Autumn had settled over the kingdom like a shroud.

The skies were heavy with ash-colored clouds, and the once-verdant trees now stood cloaked in dying amber and rust. The wind carried the scent of scorched wood and damp earth- an omen of the winter and war to come.

And yet inside the palace, nothing seemed to change.

Everything looked the same as it had before.

Gilded hallways, polished marble, warm hearths.

As if the kingdom had simply paused and waited for them to return.

But the stillness was a lie. Because the storm was coming—and they all felt it.

They were preparing for war. A bigger war than any of them had dared to imagine.

The rumors spread like fire through dry brush—Bartoria was not weakened.

It was enraged. Killing King Ivar had not severed the snake’s head; it had revealed three more.

He had been nothing but a puppet, a mask for something far more calculated and sinister.

His death hadn’t broken their armies—it had emboldened them.

Strengthened their resolve. Now the North stirred with fury, preparing for all-out war.

Sir Charles, still unaccounted for, had vanished without a trace, and Layla could feel his betrayal like an old wound that refused to close.

The man who helped destroy her father… was still out there.

Still breathing. But Layla had no power to hunt him. Her mother made certain of that.

After weeks confined to bed, her wounds stitched and monitored daily, Queen Raynera finally emerged from recovery—steadier than before, and twice as cold.

She did not rule, not truly. As Queen Regent, her power was borrowed, temporary—meant only to fill the void until Layla married and a king could be crowned.

But what she could do, she did with ruthless efficiency.

Whatever warmth had once softened her edges was gone now, replaced by a chilling resolve.

Peace was an illusion, and Raynera knew it.

So she poured herself into diplomacy, securing fragile alliances with the southern kingdoms of Myriamis, Elarith, and the newly splintered remnants of the Antonin people.

She navigated court like mist behind the throne, holding a crown she could never wear, desperate to place it on a man strong enough to hold their crumbling realm together.

So each time Layla tried to step into the war councils, she was turned away.

Each time she requested to brief the generals—eager to share everything she’d learned in the forests and manor halls of Antonin and Bartoria—she was told to rest. To recover.

To stay out of matters too grave for a woman.

Avenging her father, hunting Sir Charles, even speaking Theron’s name aloud was met with clipped warnings and disapproving glances.

Her role, she was told, was not on the battlefield.

It was in the drawing room. At fittings. In courtship.

Her duty, her mother reminded her, was singular and absolute:

Finalize a marriage.

Secure a strong king.

Remain silent.

She had endured two enemy kingdoms. Fought through fire, steel, and ruin.

Survived a slave collar and the hands of a king who tried to break her.

She had crossed burning forests, spilled blood in the dark, and saved the royal women of her realm when no one else could.

But none of that mattered here. Here, she was not a warrior or a survivor.

She was a daughter. A symbol. A womb. Her voice was a whisper.

Her wrists, too delicate. Her future—already written by men who hadn’t bled for it .

And so, as the adrenaline of survival faded and the palace doors closed to her, Layla broke.

Not all at once—but piece by piece, with every door shut in her face, with every dismissive glance from the men who’d never seen what she had.

She let the weight of it all crush her. Her father, gone.

Theron, lost. Kain, barely alive. The kingdom bleeding.

And she—shooed from every room that mattered, her voice drowned beneath silk and tradition.

Her mother’s words echoed again like a death sentence:

Finalize a marriage.

Secure a strong king.

Remain silent.

If this was her true purpose—if this was all she was allowed to be— then what was left to fight for?

And so she let herself become the thing they demanded: quiet, obedient, ornamental.

A shell of the woman she had once been. Because if she could not choose her future, could not seek revenge, could not even speak the names of those she had loved and lost— Then none of it mattered.

No longer was she the girl sneaking daggers into the courtyard, secretly dreaming of being something more.

And so, when Queen Raynera summoned her weeks later to announce that the kingdom could wait no longer for a king—that Layla would fulfill her duty through marriage—Layla didn’t protest. She didn’t cry or beg, she simply nodded.

Because that’s what daughters did. That’s what princesses were trained for.

To accept that their lives did not belong to them.

That their worth was measured in alliances and heirs.

That they were vessels of power, not power itself .

Even though Theron’s face haunted her when she closed her eyes.

His voice echoed in the hollow spaces where her heart used to be.

He had given everything to save her—his sword, his kingdom, his life…

.She would now wed a stranger for peace.

She told herself she was lucky. That most women never got even a taste of the life she had lived, the passion, the drive.

Even if only for a few bloody, burning days.

So she buried the memories with the woman she had been for a fleeting moment—free, wild, strong.

Then easily, too easily, she became the shell the kingdom needed.

She put on the gowns. The crown. The smile.

She walked the halls like a ghost of herself.

Head high, back straight, her grief folded neatly behind her eyes where no one could see it. Where no one cared to look.

Because the leaves were falling. The wind was sharpening. And the realm was holding its breath for the war to come.

And Layla? She had no choice but to endure. That was what queens did. Even if it meant burying the only pieces of herself she had ever truly been proud of.

Kain .

The sharp bite of autumn wind sliced through Kain’s coat, tousling his blond hair and stinging the scar that now curved across his right temple.

His breath rose in faint, white clouds before him, curling like smoke between the trees.

Normally, he loved this season—the fire-hued leaves, the crisp tang of the air, the quiet hush before winter’s descent.

But not this time, he didn’t fucking care about anything else, especially not a damned leaf.

Not when every step brought him closer to her .

A fucking month. An entire gods-damned month since he’d seen her face, heard her voice, felt her breath stir against his skin.

And it had been torture. Agonizing, silent torture.

He’d survived a cracked skull, near blood loss, and a warlord’s wrath, but it was the distance from her that had nearly broken him.

Technically, he was here under orders, as the newly named liaison between the Antonin Tribe and Graystonia Kingdom.

Queen Okteria hadn’t argued when Kain had offered himself up for the negotiations.

She definitely didn’t want to be the one to deal with all of the political bullshit, but she also knew it was important, vital even.

A continent wide war was coming and for the first time in centuries and whether they liked it or not, they needed alliances to have a chance at winning it.

But Kain didn’t give a damn about whatever the hell the title was.

He took the job for one reason: So he could see her again.

Not that she ever had to know that. Let her believe it was duty.

Let her believe it was strategy. But the truth, buried somewhere beneath the armor and the posturing, was far more raw.

He just needed to know she was alive. Whole. Real.

Beside him, Sparrow emerged from the woods, his own breath fogging the air as they crested the rise.

The capital came into view at last, its familiar gray stone walls rising against the slate-colored sky, flags snapping in the wind.

A month ago, this city had felt like an enemy. Now… it felt like a second heartbeat.

“Still standing,” Sparrow muttered, a low whistle escaping him.

“Guess that counts for something.” Kain didn’t answer.

He was too focused. Too tightly wound. They passed through the outer perimeter easily, Graystonian guards greeting them not with suspicion, but with nods.

Respect. Camaraderie. It was strange. And yet… earned.

The castle gates yawned wide before them, flanked by torchlight and the faint crunch of leaves underfoot.

The seasons were changing faster than anyone had planned.

Winter was closing in. And with it, the war they’d all feared had grown far bigger than any of them could have imagined.

Allies were no longer a luxury. They were a necessity.

As they approached the steps, servants rushed out to meet them, collecting their packs, ushering them toward the open archway of the great hall. Warmth spilled out—firelight dancing across high stone walls, banners rustling gently from the vaulted ceiling. And then he saw her.

Layla stood at the far end of the corridor, a pale blue gown clinging to her frame, her chestnut curls falling in soft waves down her back, kissed golden by the hearth light.

She was facing away at first, speaking quietly to someone near the hearth.

But then, as if she sensed something shift, she turned.

Her eyes found his instantly. And Kain forgot how to breathe.

She looked… different. Still achingly beautiful, still burning like a flame behind her eyes but quieter somehow.

More distant. A version of Layla wrapped in silk and silence, the wildness he remembered buried beneath a veneer of composure.

But when her gaze locked with his, something inside her cracked, just enough.

Her mouth curled into the softest, saddest smile he had ever seen.

Not the sharp smirk she used to wield like a blade.

Not the amused grin that danced during their verbal duels.

This smile… was weary. Grateful. Real. And it undid him completely.

He didn’t care that the castle was watching.

He didn’t care that they were expected to discuss battle lines and treaty clauses.

Not when she was standing right there, breathing, whole.

Not after everything they had lost. She was here.

He was here. And Kain swore by every god that had ever existed—nothing would keep him from her again.