Page 29 of Love of the Bladed Dove
Theron lifted the bowl of mud in his other hand, almost anxious for the next step. Dipping three fingers in and dragging them across his own eyes in broad strokes, then down the length of his unmarked arm. The motion was practiced, grounding. The cool grit of earth steadied his pulse and narrowed his thoughts. The old ways were never for show. They were meant to ready a man—mind, body, blood. But today, the markings carried more than tradition. Today, they would grant him stealth in the shadows... and strike fear into any who met his gaze.
He set the bowl of mud on the altar, fingers still streaked with grit and ash. Then he reached for the ancient blade resting beside it. Theron took it in his palm and with steady purpose, he drew the blade. The slice was clean, diagonal across the flesh of his hand. He turned his palm over the brazier and let the blood fall freely into the flames. The fire hissed, cracked— then flared with a sudden burst of deep blue before settling once more into gold. It was a sign.Varyn saw them.
He pressed his bloodied palm to his chest, whispering the words passed down from his father: “For blood. For tribe. For valor.” The flame hissed in response, licking higher into the morning air. As he stepped back, he could feel it begin—the slow, searing stitch of skin pulling itselfclosed. Not by medicine. Not by time. By will.ByVaryn.The blood stopped flowing. The wound sealed, thread by unseen thread, as if the God’s invisible hand dragged a burning needle through the torn flesh, binding it back together in sacred silence. One by one, the others stepped forward. Each warrior bled for the God of Blood and Valor, and each time, the flame flared in acknowledgment—as if Varyn himself watched from beyond the veil, collecting their offerings. A chant began to rise among them, low and guttural. It was not sung, but felt—a rhythm like a second heartbeat, ancient and unrelenting, echoing through the stone and soil beneath their feet.
Theron stood still, the bowl of mud cooling in his palm, the ritual near complete. And then he saw her. Layla had stepped forward. Unbidden. Uninvited. And his breath caught.He hadn’t motioned to her. Hadn’t expected her to participate in this sacred rite. His chest tightened as she reached for the ceremonial blade.What is she doing?A flash of panic surged through him. She didn’t understand. This wasn’t a simple wound—it wouldn’t close unless Varyn allowed it. Unless she was blessed. And if she wasn’t… She’d bleed. Maybe worse.He didn’t want her hurt—not like that, not at all. His mouth parted, ready to stop her. But the words didn’t come. Because Varyn’s flame didn’t flicker in warning at her presence. It flared—high and wild—before she even touched the blade, stopping him cold.
He watched as she drew the blade across her palm and the moment shifted. The forest stilled, as if the trees themselves had paused to witness what she had done. Her blood hit the fire and the flames surged. Not just blue—but violet, edged with white, a flash so bright it stole the breath from his lungs. It roared like a scream of approval, then fell quiet again,embers pulsing like the beat of war drums. And her wound… it vanished just like all of theirs had, causing all of the warriors beside him stir in shock.
He watched as Layla blinked down at her hand, clearly stunned. Theron’s gaze lingered on the rapid rise and fall of her chest that was too quick to be calm. But it didn’t seem to be pain that gripped her, but awe or fear. Maybe both.Varyn had accepted her.The God of Blood and Valor had marked a foreign princess as one of their own. Theron’s throat tightened. He stared as she pressed her hand to her chest in a shaky mimic of the vow, and Theron realized she wasn’t actually mimicking, she meant it.
Sparrow reappeared a moment later, painted and composed as always. He stepped forward to complete the ritual as Layla moved to stand beside Theron once more. With steady hands and effortless precision, Sparrow moved through the sacred motions. When he finished, he set the ceremonial blade back in its place. The flame gave a brief, sharp burst of acknowledgment—then extinguished itself in a whisper.
Sparrow stepped up beside Layla, grunting to imply they were good to go. Theron barely registered him through the haze still clouding his mind.What in the Gods had just happened?But he just forced himself to nod. “Stick by Sparrow,” he said to Layla, voice rough and uneven. “You’ll be safe.”
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake the chaos loose from his mind. There was no time for questions. No time for attempting to make sense of what he’d seen. Whatever Varyn had done—whatever it meant—the god had claimed her. Marked her like he had all of the others. And that alone should have been enough. Theron couldn’t affordto dwell on why. He should be grateful. She was protected now. Not invincible—none of them were—but watched. Chosen. And that would have to be enough. Because he had warriors to lead. A battle to win. And his mind needed to be clear, his blade steady.
As Theron approached the front of the assembled cohort, he could feel the weight of his mother’s stare like a dagger between his shoulder blades. But he didn’t look at her. Not now. His focus needed to be sharp, honed like the blades hidden along his frame. He scanned the tribe. Each warrior now smeared in mud, armed and alert. They were ready. With a single nod, he set them into motion. They fanned out into the dense trees, heading in a southeastern path toward Graystonia. All proceeding to thread through the forest like a snake’s tongue.
Theron’s boots pressed into soft earth as branches bowed around him. The sunlight slipped in slivers through the thick canopy, illuminating dust and sweat in the air. It was late August. The heat was already rising, and the air clung heavy to his warriors skin. But his people would not slow. They were Antonin. They would reach Graystonia by nightfall. Then they would wait. Observe. And at sunrise—strike.
As he confidently navigated through the dense brush, he couldn’t help but think that he still didn’t want Layla anywhere near the fight. Varyn’s blessing didn’t change that. Just because the God had marked her didn’t mean she belonged in the blood and chaos of war. She would point out the tunnel entrances once they were there and that would be all. He’d made that decision long ago. She didn’t need to see more violence. Not again. Not if he could help it.
But even as he told himself that, the truth pressed in. He had seen a woman in need of protection. A fragile princess ripped from her palace,grieving, afraid. That was the Layla who had stirred something deep in him—something instinctive, fierce, unshakable. But now... he was starting to see what he’d missed. She wasn’t just trying to survive. She was preparing to fight. There was strength in her, buried beneath the softness—steel, waiting in silence. A fire that no longer flickered, but burned with direction. Purpose. Resolve. She wasn’t just a princess in exile. She was a wildfire. A warrior. And she was ready to go to war for her kingdom. And gods, he still wanted to shield her from it all. Even now. Especially now. He didn’t know if she needed his protection anymore. But he would offer it all the same. Even if she never asked for it. Even if it meant standing between her and the fire she had become.
Chapter fifteen
Layla.
Layla stuck close to Sparrow as they moved through the dense forest, the damp scent of moss and bark rising from the ground beneath them. The air was heavy with tension, every twig snap or rustling leaf a potential sign of danger. No one spoke. Not even Kain. It felt as though the entire Antonin tribe was holding its breath as they carved their silent path toward Graystonia.
Her thoughts remained anchored to one thing: her family. Her mother’s voice. Her sisters’ laughter. The brave way her father used to stand when trouble came. She swallowed hardand forced herself not to imagine the worst.I’m on my way to save them. I’m on my way.She repeated it like a prayer, a mantra to ward off panic.
As the hours dragged on, her legs began to ache, but she refused to slow. She could feel they were getting close, she recognized the trees here, the shapes of their trunks, the particular tilt of the undergrowth. They must be getting close to the Graystonian border, if not already crossed. Just ahead, she spotted a familiar clearing, sunlight slipping through the canopy and striking the grass with a golden glow and her heart leapt.
Layla absentmindedly jogged toward the clearing, toward the ancient oak she had climbed a hundred times as a child. She ran a hand across its gnarled bark, its familiarity grounding her. Sparrow remained a step behind, the ever silent and watchful sentinel. She spun slowly beneath the canopy, scanning the tree line for any sign—any whisper—of her family. She knew it was foolish. They wouldn’t just be hiding in the woods, waiting for her. But a small, desperate part of her still hoped.
Then—whip!
Something sliced through the air near her ear, tossing her hair aside with the breeze of its passing. A solidthunkfollowed. She turned toward the sound and saw a hatchet buried deep in the tree beside her. Her blood instantly ran cold as she turned back towards the direction it had come. Another hatchet flew from the thicket. This time, she ducked, her instincts roaring to life as she tried to locate the source. A second later, a Bartorian soldier burst from the brush, arm cocked back, another weapon ready to fly. But before he could throw it, an arrow sang through the air and pierced his skull. He dropped like a stone.
Layla whipped her head around. Instantly spotting Kain off aways to the right, lowering his bow with effortless ease. His mouth curled into a wicked grin as he winked at her, already reaching for another arrow.
Ten more Bartorian soldiers emerged, but the Antonins were ready. Kain loosed two more arrows with deadly speed. Xaden was a whirlwind of steel, carving through enemies with fluid brutality. The rest of the tribe moved like phantoms, dispatching the Bartorians before they could rally. Then Sparrow was suddenly in front of her, pressing her back against the oak tree with his body. His broad frame became a wall, his blade ready. Layla had drawn her own knives instinctively, but the fight ended before she could act. Eleven Bartorians fell in minutes.
The forest returned to silence, save for the distant chirp of crickets and the heavy breath of warriors. Layla’s heart thudded in her chest, but adrenaline made her limbs steady. As they moved forward, she noticed Kain ahead, scanning the path. She strode up beside him, her voice laced with challenge.
“Strange,” she said, tilting her head. “I thought you didn’t care whether I died or not.”Her voice dripped with mock curiosity, every word a deliberate prod.
He turned, slow and sharp, eyes gleaming beneath the diagonal streaks of war paint. His blond hair was tied back in a tight bun, sweat slicking the line of his neck. That gaze—steady, unreadable— and wholly locked onto hers now.
“Things change, Little Dove.” His smile was faint but real this time. Not mocking. Not sharp. Just... honest.
She blinked, completely caught off guard by the lack of sarcasm. “Well... either way, thank you,” she said softly, genuinely, before driftingback to Sparrow’s side. But the words stayed with her.Things change…. What had changed?But more importantly,why did it matter?She glanced over her shoulder once. Kain was scanning the trees again, jaw set, but there was a new weight behind his posture, like he was watching her as much as the enemy. Layla bit her lip in frustration and turned away, unsettled.
By dusk, the trees began to thin. The sky deepened to a velvety purple. They were close. Layla’s breath caught as she saw the towering trees that lined the west side of the castle—her home. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She was almost there, and this time she wasn’t alone.
Sparrow stopped, and the tribe did the same. They dropped their packs, sitting in clusters to eat. Layla settled beneath a tree, chewing an apple slowly, her eyes scanning every leaf, every stone, every sliver of moonlight peeking through the canopy. Then her eyes fell on Theron. Striding through the warriors like a force of nature, his muscles flexing with purpose. Her pulse immediately quickened.
