Page 34 of Love of the Bladed Dove
She looked into his eyes, pleading—not as a princess, but as someone who had trusted him. Someone who still wanted to believe there was something left of the man she thought she saw that night under the stars. “Please, Theron.”
For a moment, the war god cracked. His expression softened, just barely. But she saw it. His sword lowered. Not all the way, but enough. Then he turned slightly and gave a sharp nod to his warriors, jerking his chin toward the exit.
“Xaden,” Theron said, voice like steel. “Inform our men to stand down. We leave the message carved in Bartoria’s dead. That’s enough for now.” His words weren’t loud, but they echoed like a closing gate. Xaden froze for half a second, stunned—but nodded. Then turned, vanishing into the corridor with purpose.
Layla didn’t wait. She ran—heart hammering, breath ragged, her hair whipping behind her like a banner of defiance. Stone blurred beneath her feet, but her mind was sharp.Theron gave the order to retreat—sparing both sides the bloodshed that would have sealed a centuries-old feud in carnage. It was the right choice. A merciful one. Butit also meant he was leaving. And with that command, Layla knew she’d never see him again. Still, she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because ahead—through those towering doors—was everything she’d fought for. Her people. Her kingdom. Her chance to stop blood from spilling where it didn’t have to.
And when the gates finally cracked open, Layla stood at their threshold—Kain at her heels, her mother cradled in his arms. She wasn’t alone, but she had never felt the weight of her role more.Between two armies, between bloodied past and uncertain future, she stepped forward. Not just a daughter. Not just a survivor, but the only one left to lead even if the law said she couldn’t.And she prayed—gods, she prayed—that her people would see her. Hear her. Follow her.And somehow, in that impossible space between war and peace… that they would."
Chapter seventeen
Layla.
As Layla stepped through the front doors of her home, the morning light spilled across the bloodstained stone like a quiet reckoning. Dew still clung to the grass, glinting soft gold in the rising sun—but nothing about the moment felt gentle. Not with the scent of death still thick in the air. Behind her, the last of the Antonins vanished down the blood stained halls, slipping through the hidden tunnels like ghosts retreating into legend. She watched them go—just for a moment. Then she turned. There was no time to mourn what had passed… only to face what waited ahead. And there they were. Her army. Her people.
They charged across the outer court in formation—until they saw her. And stopped. Blades half-raised, shields still braced. All poised to reclaim their home from what they believed were invaders. And in a way… they weren’t wrong.
Layla stood in the threshold. Not in silk, not in the royal green of Graystonia but in Antonin leathers—rugged and worn, smeared with blood. Her face was streaked with black war paint, a foreign mark of survival. Her hair was wild in the breeze, matted and tangled, still damp from sweat and battle. She looked nothing like their princess. And everything like the wrath they deserved.
Kain stepped up behind her, silent but unwavering, the queen still unconscious in his arms. Layla didn’t move aside. She didn’t explain. She didn’t beg. She let them see her—bloodied, branded by war, standing guard at the gates of her own home. Let them doubt. Let them falter. But not for long. Because whether they were ready or not… the crown had no one left but her. And she would wear the weight, if not the title.
“I am Layla Eradellian, Princess of Graystonia,” she announced, her voice loud and unwavering. “This man is not your enemy. Kain of the Antonin Tribe helped me save our queen. He is not to be harmed.”
One soldier stepped forward. A young man, probably 30, with tousled brown hair and a deep scar across his jaw.
“My Lady,” he said, bowing low. “I am Sir Edwin of the Royal Guard. I’m not sure if you remember me. But I must update you at once.” If he was surprised to see the princess before him dressed in Antonin leathers, her face smeared in war paint and blood, he hid it well. No flicker of doubt. No hesitation. Only duty.
“Secure my home, Sir Edwin,” she stated, her voice clipped, regal.
“We will sweep every hallway and hidden chamber before the hour is done,” he replied. “Any remaining Bartorians will be dealt with swiftly.”
“And the city? Our people?”
Sir Edwin straightened. “The city stands. We held the line around Graystonia and her nearby villages. One hamlet was lost early in the siege—many dead, My Lady. But the rest were protected. The worst hit was the castle.”
Layla nodded, grief blooming beneath her ribs but held in check. She couldn’t afford to crumble now. “Very well. Kill any Bartorian still within these walls,” she ordered, voice steady. “And make this clear to the Antonin stragglers: they may leave with their brethren, or they may die here. That is the only mercy I will offer.”
The guard bowed again. “Yes, Princess.”
Layla’s gaze flicked to her mother. “Now someone bring me a physician and take us to my mother’s chambers. Quickly.”
A flurry of men moved at once, one soldier helping Kain carry the unconscious queen while others ran ahead to prepare the rooms. As they disappeared down the corridor, Layla stood still for a moment. Absorbing the silence that had finally returned to her home. Blood soaked the stones beneath her feet. Her father was dead. Her sisters had been sold to Bartoria. But Graystonia was not lost.And neither was she.
Once inside her mother’s chambers, Layla pointed to the large canopy bed. “There,” she said, her voice already tight with emotion. Kain and the soldier moved at once, without pause. They strode across the room, Kain’s movements stiff but purposeful, and gently laid Queen Raynera onto the mattress. The soldier quickly exited without a word as Layla took his place at her mother’s side a moment later, before absentmindedly falling to her knees. Her hands shook as she pushed strands of her mother’s matted hair from her face, revealing bruised skin and fading cuts. Her gut twisting as her concern for her mother began to race.Why hasn’t she woken up yet?
A sharp knock at the door snapped both her and Kain into readiness. He reached for the dagger at his thigh as Layla’s hand went to her belt.
“It’s Sir Edwin, Lady Layla,” came the voice from behind the door.
She let out a slow exhale and nodded to Kain. “It’s okay.” Kain didn’t question her, simply opened the door. Sir Edwin stepped inside and bowed with practiced grace.
“My Lady,” he began, “the castle is secure. All the Bartorians have been eliminated. And…” he hesitated as he glanced at Kain, “no other Antonin warriors remained to meet their deaths.”
“Thank you, Sir Edwin.” Layla rose to her full height, her voice steady despite the anger coiling tight beneath her skin. “Now explainto me what the hell happened.” Kain moved to her side, his presence grounding her.
The guard shifted uncomfortably. “Days ago… Bartoria attacked during Lammas. We didn’t know—”
“I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I watched my father give his life protecting me. What I want to know is how they got in.”
