Page 7 of Love of the Bladed Dove (Drakaren #1)

So, with careful effort, she rose to stand on the narrow branch, one hand gripping the trunk to steady herself.

Her legs wobbled beneath her, fingers still twitching from the sprint, but she forced herself to focus—eyes scanning the treetops, searching.

The clearing had to be close. Somewhere beyond the tangled canopy waited the Great Oak, their meeting place.

Their refuge. That thought steadied her more than the bark beneath her palm.

The Great Oak… larger and older than any tree in the forest. Its limbs stretched wide and protective, its roots buried deep in the bones of the land—and deeper still in the memory of her childhood.

Nothing grew near it. No vines dared climb its bark.

Even nature, it seemed, remembered what it was. And so did she.

As her gaze strained to catch a break in the canopy, a half-forgotten tale rose from the corners of her memory. Something her handmaid once whispered when she and her sisters lay curled on a blanket beneath those sacred branches.

"It was not planted by hand, but by heart,” Marilla had said once, her voice as soft as the breeze that stirred the summer grass.

Layla had been a young girl then, soon after Marilla had first started tending her.

The memory continued as Layla recalled being curled between her sisters on a quilt beneath the Great Oak.

Sunlight spilled through the canopy above them, dappled like gold coins across their faces.

Marilla had sat cross-legged beside them, her brown hair twisted into its usual bun, though a few strands had escaped in the heat.

Her eyes—kind, thoughtful, not yet lined from years of watching too much and saying too little—had held something deeper that day. Something like memory .

"The God Eliryn," she began, "was not a god of war or sky, nor of stone or sea.

He was the God of Endings. Of dusk and harvest. Of farewells.

And he knew all too well what it meant to lose what one loves most." The girls had gone still, even the ever-squirming Ciana.

Layla remembered holding her breath. "He fell in love with a mortal," Marilla continued, her voice laced with sorrow and awe.

"A woman who laughed with her whole soul and defied even the heavens to follow her heart.

But mortals are fragile things, and gods…

gods are bound by time in ways we cannot understand.

When she died—by sword or sickness, no one remembers—Eliryn did not rage.

He wept….And where his tears fell, the oak grew.

Tall, proud, and alone. No other tree dared grow beside it.

Not out of fear—but reverence." She had paused then, brushing a leaf from Aerilynn’s hair.

"The Great Oak stands where the god knelt.

Some say if you listen closely in the hush between heartbeats, you can still hear her name on the wind.

Sealed into its roots forever. But what matters most," Marilla had added gently, tucking a curl behind Ciana’s ear, "is what came after.

" Layla had blinked up at her, wide-eyed.

"The world was different before that love, before that grief. Eliryn’s sorrow ended an age.

But his love... his love began a new one.

That tree marks the place where the old world died—and something new was allowed to bloom.

They say it is blessed. That those who seek its shelter with true hearts may find not just peace…

but purpose." Marilla had smiled then, warm and wise, looking at each of them in turn. "So, when the world feels like it’s ending, little ones, you come here. Because this tree doesn’t just remember loss. It remembers beginning again."

Layla had never known whether it was truth or fable. But standing there now, with blood on her hands and terror in her throat, she wanted to believe it. She needed to. Because if the tree was born of grief and love and gods, then maybe, just maybe, it would protect her again.

As the memory of Marilla’s voice faded, so too did the comfort it brought.

The past slipped from her fingers like mist, and new fears crept in to take its place.

Her breath caught as her mind began to spin.

What if I ran too far? Her pulse thundered.

What if I crossed the border into Antonin territory?

Her stomach turned at the thought. The Antonins.

Her people’s enemies long before she was born.

After the Southern War, Graystonia had claimed part of their land, and the hatred between them had only grown.

Her father had always told her the war had started like all wars do, land and power, but the wounds never closed.

The Antonins had never forgiven. And if one of them found her out here, alone…

unarmed…Layla’s hand clenched around a rough strip of bark.

The only options were madness. Go back? Risk capture by the Bartorians.

Keep going? Risk death by Antonin hands.

"Shit," she whispered, barely audible as her shoulders slumped against the trunk. Her thoughts wouldn’t slow.

She tilted her head back to look at the moon, its light cutting through the tree branches like a judgment.

I must be deeper into the forest than I thought, she reluctantly began to acknowledge.

She was lost, and navigating in the dark would be suicide.

She had to wait. Regain her strength. Figure out a plan.

Her limbs were already going slack, her body begging for rest. As much as her mind screamed to stay alert, to stay ready, her body was done arguing.

With a deep sigh, she let her eyes close for just a moment, just long enough to quiet the storm inside her.

But before sleep could claim her, Layla whispered into the night—quiet, raw, meant only for the Gods.

“Goddess Serelai… thank you…for all you’ve given.

For the fields. For the harvest. For the beauty of our land.

” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry tonight wasn’t what it should’ve been.

That blood stained your celebration. But I hope…

I pray… it’s enough. That you’ll still hear us.

.. That you’ll still bless us.” A soft breeze stirred the canopy above her, brushing her cheeks like a mother’s caress.

The scent of wildflowers threaded faintly through the leaves—out of place in the thick woods, and gone just as quickly as it came.

Layla drew in a sharp breath. Her chest rose and fell, too fast, too sharp. She heard me … The thought echoed, disbelieving. The goddess heard me. It was impossible. The gods didn’t answer—not like this. Not to mortals. And yet… they had. She had.

Warmth flooded her chest, so sudden it made her sway where she sat.

For one brief, flickering moment, she let herself believe it.

Hold it. That the goddess had listened. That the old stories weren’t just stories.

That maybe—just maybe—Graystonia still had her blessing.

And that meant something. Even if the kingdom was still in danger.

Even if Layla didn’t know how to save it, only that she had to try. That she had to live.

She breathed in again, steadier this time.

The moment was sacred—but it couldn’t last. She was still alone in the woods.

Still hunted. Still needed. She let the awe settle deep in her bones and locked it there, a quiet promise she wasn’t entirely alone.

But belief wouldn’t carry her home. She had to move.

She had to survive. She had to reach her family.

She had to protect what was left. Because without that, none of it—no prayer, no sign, no blessing—would matter.

This night was meant to honor the goddess and shape her future.

Instead, it had been swallowed by blood.

And as the night air cooled her sweat-soaked skin, and her muscles gave out beneath her. Layla—Princess of Graystonia, survivor of bloodshed and steel—surrendered to exhaustion and fell into an uneasy sleep, hidden among the branches of a silent tree.