Page 6 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

Chapter three

Layla.

L ayla reached the library within heartbeats, her chest heaving, lungs scraping for air.

She slammed her shoulder into one of the towering oak doors, forcing it open with a groan that echoed louder than she liked.

The familiar scent hit her instantly- dust, leather, parchment.

A sacred perfume of old stories and forgotten time.

For a split second, the weight of the room struck her like a ghost. She had loved this place.

A fragment of memory surfaced: herself curled into the plush maroon couch, legs tucked beneath her, a stolen book in hand, devouring stories by candlelight long after she was supposed to be asleep.

Her heart ached with the simplicity of that stolen peace.

But the memory was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Not now. Focus, she told herself. Survive.

There were only three escape tunnels hidden within the castle, known solely to the royal family.

She darted toward the western wall, weaving between shelves of ancient tomes and towering scroll cases.

Her eyes snapped to the deep red tapestry, its embroidered depiction of their sacred forest shimmering faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the stained-glass dome above.

It hung like a silent sentinel between two great shelves- elegant, beautiful, and completely deceiving.

With an unsteady hand, Layla reached out and yanked the tapestry aside, revealing the narrow opening hidden behind it: a sliver of shadow, stone steps barely visible in the dark below.

She pressed herself against the cold stone behind the tapestry, her breath held hostage in her throat.

The woven forest scene swayed lightly in front of her, giving her the barest glimpse of the library she had once cherished.

The place where she had spent countless hours, safe and invisible between shelves and pages, now desecrated by the sound of foreign boots on marble.

The doors flew open with such force the echoes cracked like thunder through the vast room. Bartorian soldiers stormed inside, their voices sharp and guttural. Layla’s entire body stiffened.

“Check everything. Don’t leave a corner untouched,” one barked. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Please, Freyric—just this once , she begged silently, sending a quick prayer to the God of Luck.

Through the thin slit in the hanging tapestry, she watched one soldier march perilously close to her position.

He scanned the northern bookshelves, then turned toward her wall.

His eyes flicked briefly across the tapestry but didn’t linger.

She sent another prayer up thanking Freyric as the guard kept moving.

She waited, not wanting to make a sound and draw their attention.

One heartbeat. Two. Ten. Then, muffling her breath with her sleeve, she turned, crouched low, and gripped the sides of the hidden entrance.

The narrow passage gaped beneath the stone, a spiral staircase descending into nothingness.

One last glance. She dared it. Just one.

The library she loved- the maroon couch, the towering shelves, the stained-glass dome above, all stood silent under the weight of invasion.

Her home, her history, her joy. All of it was crumbling.

And her father was not behind her. He’s still fighting.

Her throat tightened as she tried to convince herself the thought was true. Then she slipped into the tunnel.

It was darker than she remembered. The air was damp, thick with the smell of dust and earth.

The stone steps beneath her feet were uneven and narrow, spiraling down into pitch black.

She kept one hand on the wall, the other clutching her dress to avoid tripping as she descended fast—half-running, half-falling.

She’d only been in this tunnel once before, many years ago, when her parents brought her down late one night under the guise of a lesson in royal duty.

"Every heir must know the way out, in case the worst ever comes," her father had said, his voice low but firm. Her mother’s hand had rested on her shoulder the whole way down. She’d barely been twelve. It had felt like a story then. A secret passage meant for queens in fairytales.

Now it was real. Now it was war. Muffled shouts echoed behind her—closer now.

And then: metal scraped against stone. Footsteps.

They had found the passage. No, no, no! Panic spiked in her veins as she pushed harder, faster, barely catching herself as she stumbled on the last turn.

Then moonlight. A faint, silvery glow was bleeding through cracks at the bottom of the stone passage. The exit.

She threw herself at the heavy stone threshold.

It didn’t budge. Move Damn it! She pushed again.

Nothing. Her palms scraped against the rough stone, and a cry of frustration tore from her lips.

The footsteps behind were louder now, rushing down the staircase.

Layla snarled in defiance and shoved her full body against the stone.

It groaned beneath her weight. Her muscles screamed.

Her whole body shook. Her hands ached from the pressure.

MOVE, DAMN YOU! Finally, a sudden shift .

A pocket of air. A breath of wind. The door creaked open just enough, and she threw herself through it, landing hard on her hands and knees.

Fresh air hit her face like ice. The stars above glimmered through the canopy.

The moon was full, high and bright and she was out.

She staggered to her feet, heart pounding, ears ringing.

The tunnel exit was nestled at the base of a sheer cliffside that few would ever guess held such a secret.

She didn’t even pause to look back, not to check how close they were behind her.

She just ran, legs burning, lungs on the verge of collapse.

Her feet slipped on the wet grass, but she didn’t stop.

She kicked off her shoes mid-sprint, the soft slippers useless on uneven ground.

Cold earth met her bare feet, grounding her, propelling her forward.

Thirty yards of open pasture stretched before her, then the tree line.

The woods were close. But so were the Bartorians.

A shout rang out behind her. They were through the tunnel.

She could hear the boots again. The harsh language.

Layla ran harder, faster than she ever had.

Her body had no strength left, but her fear didn’t care. Her will to survive didn’t care .

As she reached the edge of the trees, she dared a glance over her shoulder.

A dark wave of enemy soldiers spilled from the secret tunnel like a plague.

Gods help me, she thought. I reeeally need to stop looking back.

Branches tore at her arms as she dove into the forest. The shadows swallowed her whole.

With a sharp inhale, Layla forced her anxiety down, locking it away just enough to keep her legs moving.

The forest loomed before her like a living wall- dense, dark, and unknowable.

She sprinted toward it, praying to any god that might still be listening.

West. Just keep going west. The great oak stood somewhere in a clearing that way.

Her father had said they would meet there.

Her family would be there. They had to be .

Branches tore at her dress and skin, and roots threatened to pull her down, but she pushed forward.

She didn’t dare look back again. Let the Bartorians get lost in the blackness behind her.

Let them vanish like the nightmare they were.

Still, as she ran, her mind worked frantically to gauge her surroundings, but it was impossible.

Trees twisted above her like the ribs of a beast. The night masked everything, and the speed at which she was moving made any kind of navigation futile.

She had to trust instinct, faith, and memory.

After what felt like an eternity, though it could have been hours or minutes, her legs finally began to falter.

Each step dragged heavier than the last. Breath ragged and chest burning, Layla slowed to a staggering stop.

Her eyes scanned the forest for any semblance of shelter.

Somewhere, anywhere to hide. The forest floor crunched beneath her as she moved, each step painfully loud in the otherwise dead silence.

The heat of the day had faded, replaced by a cool breeze, but her body didn’t register it.

Her gown clung to her with sweat. Her muscles screamed.

Her lungs felt carved from stone as she spotted a chestnut tree—tall, wide, and climbable.

If she could get high enough, maybe she’d see the clearing. Maybe she’d see the oak.

She staggered toward it and leapt for the lowest branch.

Her arms trembled violently from exhaustion, but she forced herself upward.

She wrapped her legs around the branch, hauled herself onto it, and kept climbing.

Again. Again. Every limb felt like fire, but she climbed until the branches grew thin and brittle beneath her weight.

There, safe enough . Hidden in the dense canopy, she slumped against the trunk, chest heaving.

Her entire body shuddered from the exertion.

Time passed. Maybe minutes, maybe longer, until her breathing finally slowed and lungs eased.

Layla swept her gaze across the forest floor, searching the darkness for the slightest shift, the faintest stir of danger.

But no one came. No footsteps. No Bartorian assholes gleaming in the moonlight. She was safe. For now.