Page 2 of Love of the Bladed Dove
The corset gripped her torso like armor worn inside out. The gown — emerald green and threaded with gold — was breathtaking. Beautiful, yes. Regal, certainly. But it wasn’t freedom. It was a promise, a price really. She felt like a painting. But Layla forced her chin up anyways.Tonight, I am the future of Graystonia.Marilla stepped back to admire her work, pride lighting her face. Layla smiled. Small. Faint. But there.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Marilla before she watched her handmaid slip out into the hall leaving her that moment.
Alone now, Layla slowly approached the door. Her hand gripped the knob. Her face settled into a serene mask of royalty even as her mind screamed and heart thundered. She would face the men who saw her as prize, not person. She would do her duty.
As the ballroom doors opened before her, music swelled and sweet perfumes rushed her senses. All eyes turned to the Princess of Graystonia, flawless, composed, radiant. Layla took a breath. And stepped into war. She would not let them see her nerves, she would wear the mask they all so dearly approved of.
Upon her approach, Queen Raynera watched her like a hawk—every step, every breath, every blink under scrutiny. Layla knew the look on her mother’s face well. It was the silent appraisal of a woman who had spent her life mastering grace under pressure and expected nothing less from her daughters.
As Layla reached the head table, her mother offered a single, subtle nod of approval. That was all. But it was enough.Thank the Gods,Layla thought, allowing herself the briefest exhale. Tonight would be difficult enough without falling short in her mother’s eyes.
Sliding into place next to her two sisters, Layla took in the Queen’s appearance. Raynera wore a deep green gown nearly identical to her own, though her bodice shimmered with heavier gold filigree, and her sleeves billowed like silken wings. The Queen of Graystonia wasn’t just regal, she was radiant. In Layla’s eyes, no woman alive had ever matched her mother’s beauty. Her long blonde curls were arranged in effortless perfection, cascading like liquid light down her back. She didn’t walk, she glided. Everything about her exuded power tempered by poise and strength softened by grace. Layla had often thought her mother lookedlike something out of legend, an angel carved from starlight and steel. And Ciana was her mirror image.
Nineteen and luminous, Layla’s younger sister- Ciana, turned heads with barely a word. The same golden hair, the same honey-hazel eyes flecked with gold, the same glowing presence that made others pause. The suitors were already circling- ambitious, desperate, eager. And Aerilynn, the youngest at seventeen, had inherited the golden hair too, but paired it with their father’s deeper skin tone, sun-kissed and warm like the southern fields. All three sisters bore their parents’ hazel eyes, but Layla alone was different. Her hair was a deeper chestnut, wavy and heavy like her father’s. Her eyes were shadowed hazel, darker around the edges, not glinting like gold, but catching light like bronze. She stood out in ways she didn’t always understand, and had long since stopped trying to.
As she settled into her seat between her mother and Ciana, Layla’s attention drifted to her father sitting on the other side of her mother. King Aiddeon sat straight-backed, but tension coiled through his shoulders like drawn bowstrings. His voice was low but sharp, directed at the man beside him—Sir Charles, his most trusted commander.
“We know an attack is coming,” the King murmured, his tone low and tense. “I should’ve canceled tonight. If I’m wrong… we’re risking lives.”
Sir Charles didn’t flinch. “With respect, Your Majesty, you’re not wrong. And I believe the risk of losing Her favor outweighs the threat beyond our gates.”
King Aiddeon exhaled sharply, eyes scanning the ballroom. “I haven’t forgotten what tonight means. I just question whether our people should be gathered so openly when danger is this close.”
Sir Charles leaned in, voice quiet but firm. “And I would never question your vigilance, My King. But you know as well as I do—we are the last kingdom still in Serelai’s grace. To forget Her, even for one night, is to invite blight upon our fields and famine upon our children. She has blessed these lands for centuries. We give thanks, not just for tradition… but to ensure our future.”
Layla’s gaze dropped to her wine glass, fingers tracing the delicate gold leaf pattern. Her father knew all of that—of course he did. No one revered Serelai more deeply. But he also carried the lives of everyone in this room like armor on his shoulders. That he feared for them, even knowing the cost of silence tonight, only proved what she already believed: he wasn’t just a king. He was a great one.
Sir Charles softened. “Just for a few hours, let me handle whatever needs handling. Let your people see that this night still matters to you—that the Goddess is still honored, and tradition still holds. You’ve borne enough weight for a lifetime. Tonight, enjoy the fire. The laughter. Let them see their king is still with them… unshaken.”
From the corner of her eye, Layla watched her father’s posture ease, if only slightly. Sir Charles always knew how to bring him back from the edge. She was grateful for that. Aiddeon had been under unbearable pressure in recent months. She saw it in his face, in the tired way he moved. He needed this night,deservedit.
Her mother reached over and placed a hand on his forearm, a touch so gentle and familiar it was almost holy. Aiddeon turned to herwith a smile that lit up his entire being. They were a love match and anyone who looked at them could see it. Layla had always known that her father ruled a kingdom, but Queen Raynera was his world. She, Ciana, Aerilynn—they were the rest of it. And that love, that rare and sacred bond, was why her parents had never rushed her into marriage. They had wanted her to choose love. Real love. Like theirs. But love was a luxury now. Alliances needed forging. The kingdom needed protection. The crown demanded sacrifice. And so the dream died—quietly, nobly. Layla felt it leave her like breath from the lungs. A dream briming with love, possibilities, and promises slipped away. And in its place rose the quiet weight of responsibility. She adjusted her shoulders, sat taller, and pulled her mask of serene composure back into place. Then she looked up, scanning the grand ballroom. A battlefield in silk and gold.
Chapter two
Layla.
It wasn’t long before a suitor approached the table and asked for her hand to dance. Layla had known his name, station, and family before he even opened his mouth. That was her responsibility, her burden. It had been drilled into her since she could walk in heels and hold a curtsy:know their name, know their bloodline, know what they want from you.Her mother made sure of it.
“Alexander Morringar,” she recalled silently. Son of a sergeant in her father’s personal guard. She had met him before, briefly, and always in the most formal of settings. Never like this. Never with music, candlelight, and expectations thick in the air. Hewas about six feet tall, with neatly trimmed stubble, sun-kissed skin, short blond hair, and deep blue eyes. Not unpleasant to look at, not at all. But he never made her pulse quicken, never left her with a thought that lingered after he was gone. Still, tonight demanded an open mind, and that had to begin somewhere.Why not with him?
“May I have this dance, Princess Layla?” he asked, offering his hand as he bowed with effortless grace. Layla looked to her mother first. Always to her mother. The Queen’s slight nod was her signal. Only then did Layla return her gaze to Alexander, meeting his with the softest of smiles.
“You may,” she replied with practiced warmth. She rounded the table and took his outstretched hand. His palm was rough- evidence of sparring, of swordplay, of following in his father’s footsteps. That’s how things worked in Graystonia. Sons became their fathers. Daughters became their mothers. Deviations were rare, even frowned upon. But at least his grasp was gentle, appropriate. He didn’t grip too tightly. He understood who she was.
The ballroom was alive with motion, couples dancing in synchronized elegance beneath the flickering chandeliers. Alexander led her through the crowd with careful precision, their path carved with quiet authority. At the center, they bowed and curtsied in time, then joined the waltz in step with the others.
His questions were polite. His answers were thoughtful. He asked about her sisters, her day, her hobbies- topics rehearsed a thousand times in drawing rooms and etiquette lessons. Layla played her part. She smiled. She asked him questions in return. But the conversation lackedthe color of passion, the heat of curiosity. There was no spark. No pull. No danger. And certainly, no magic.
As the music ended, a second suitor appeared- Elric, then another, and another. They came like waves- polite, charming, and forgettable. Layla’s cheeks ached from holding the same smile. Her feet throbbed in her shoes. And yet her heart remained unmoved. Not one glance, not one word had stirred her. Not even a flutter. It was frustrating and yet oddly comforting. Perhaps it was easier to feel nothing. But even that thought frightened her.What if I can’t feel it at all?She wondered, the truth catching in her throat like a thorn. The thought of falling in love terrified her, but so did the possibility that she never would. Then, as another dance concluded, a deep voice cleared its throat behind her, low and vaguely familiar. Layla turned.
Ryker Jameson. Her breath caught. Lord Jameson’s eldest son. The heir to the largest holding at court, and a man whose family wielded real power. She had heard whispers of him, his discipline, his reputation, his influence. But seeing him now... He stood tall, perhaps six-two, with dark, tight curls cropped close to his head and deep brown eyes that held both sharpness and warmth. His jaw was strong, his face clean-shaven. His frame, wrapped in formal attire, still hinted at the raw strength beneath. Broad shoulders. Solid arms. The kind of man who looked like he belonged in both a ballroom and a battlefield.
“May I have this dance, Lady Layla?” he asked. His voice was steady, but something about the way he looked at her- the way his eyes lingered, made her stomach flutter.
She swallowed, schooling her features. “Of course, Lord Jameson.”
He chuckled as he took her hands. “Lord Jameson is my father. You may call me Ryker, if you're comfortable.” A genuine smile escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she had to look away to hide it. “How has your evening been so far?” he asked. His voice brushed her ear, and she felt its warmth bloom on her cheek.
