Page 57 of Love of the Bladed Dove
Just as they broke into the tree line, a voice called out. “Lady Layla?” Sir Edwin emerged from the darkness with Ciana.
“Sir Edwin, Ciana. Kain is badly injured.” Layla breathed, her voice strained. “We have to get to Aerilynn and everyone else and get out now.”
Sir Edwin’s expression faltered as he dove to Kain’s other side. “And Theron?” Layla shook her head, unable to speak. The grief threatened to drown her again.
“I’m so sorry, My Lady…” After a brief pause, he solemnly looked away and pointed. “This way,” he said gently. “They’re waiting just beyond the ridge.”
As they moved through the thick canopy, where moonlight barely touched the forest floor, Layla kept glancing back. Every step away felt wrong. Like her heart was still trapped in that terrible castle. At last, they emerged to the sound of familiar voices. Xaden stood, sword drawn, Sparrow kneeling beside Aerilynn, who still clung tightly to his hand. Their Graystonian guards were scattered in a wide perimeter, keeping alert. Relief washed over the group like a breath held too long—Antonins exhaled in silent thanks, the Graystonians nodded in quiet respect, the success of the mission heavy in their eyes. But the moment cracked as Xaden’s gaze swept past them and his brow furrowed. His voice cut through the fragile stillness like a blade:“Where’s Theron?”
Kain slumped heavily against her now. “We… we killed the King. In the escape, Theron took a sword to the heart holding off the guards….” He paused, “he saved us all.” Her lip quivered at the admission. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t.
“What if he survived?” Layla’s voice cracked, broken with panic. “What if they missed his heart? We should go back. Please, someone help me go back and save him.”
“No,” Kain said firmly, voice like stone as he stepped out of his friends grip. “He didn’t die so you could throw your life away. There isno saving him, Layla. He’s gone. Now we have to go. Now.” His tone left no room for doubt. For argument. But still—she couldn’t believe it.
“But—”
Xaden stepped forward, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder, gentle but unyielding. His eyes met hers with a rare flicker of softness. “He died as he lived. Standing between the innocent and a blade. He was struck protecting the escape… and he bought you the time to get out.” Layla’s breath hitched.
“He’s not gone, not really,” Xaden added. “He’s in Ondurin now—feasting with Varyn, probably already challenging some poor bastard to a spar between rounds of ale.” A faint, respectful smile touched his mouth, more solemn than amused. “That’s not a tragedy, Layla. That’s an honor. That’s the warrior’s reward.”
She wanted to scream, to collapse, to deny every word—but the conviction in Xaden’s voice, the quiet reverence, made something deep in her chest fracture instead.
Then—Kain’s knees buckled and his eyes rolled back.
“Kain!” Layla’s scream ripped through the trees as he collapsed beside her, crashing to the earth like a warrior struck down mid-charge. She dove after him, catching his weight just before it hit the ground fully. But he was heavy—too heavy. Blood poured down his back, soaking through his dress clothes, through her fingers, through her soul.
No. No. No.
She didn’t know there was anything left inside her to break. But there was.Seeing him like that shattered it. The last tether of hope. The final flicker of strength.Layla dropped to her knees, hands frantically pressing to his chest, his face, his throat. “Kain?! No! Look at me—lookat me!” she begged. “Please… stay with me. Please.”Nothing.No groan. No flicker of pain. No infuriating smirk. Just blood. Everywhere.
“HELP ME!” She shrieked, her voice unrecognizable. “Someone—please!”
Sparrow was already moving, Xaden just behind him, but they weren’t fast enough. No one was. She cradled Kain to her chest, her fingers shaking as she ran them through his blood-soaked hair, her sobs ragged and relentless. She kissed his temple. His jaw. Anything to wake him.
“Don’t do this. Don’t you dare leave me too,” she whispered. “Not you. Not now.” he sky above blurred, her tears falling fast and hot as if the heavens wept with her. First Theron. Now Kain. She rocked him in her arms like she could hold his soul in place. But it was slipping. And she could feel it. And all around them, the forest stood still, as if the entire world had stopped to grieve.
Please, not both of them.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
Epilogue
Layla.
It had been a month since Layla was carried out of Bartoria in Sparrow’s arms, half-conscious and soaked in blood. A month since the night that shattered her, that ripped away the last piece of the woman she had just begun to become. She returned to Graystonia alive—but something in her had not survived.
A month since her heart had been shredded by the loss of Theron… and nearly torn again when Kain collapsed before her, blood pouring from his head as she screamed for him to live. The image haunted her. The moments blurred together now—blood, steel, smoke, and the suffocating terror that she might lose both of them in a single night. One she had lost forever. The other she had dragged back from the brink with desperate hands and prayers she never knew she believed in.
Autumn had settled over the kingdom like a shroud. The skies were heavy with ash-colored clouds, and the once-verdant trees now stood cloaked in dying amber and rust. The wind carried the scent of scorched wood and damp earth- an omen of the winter and war to come. And yet inside the palace, nothing seemed to change.
Everything looked the same as it had before. Gilded hallways, polished marble, warm hearths. As if the kingdom had simply paused and waited for them to return. But the stillness was a lie. Because the storm was coming—and they all felt it. They were preparing for war. A bigger war than any of them had dared to imagine.
The rumors spread like fire through dry brush—Bartoria was not weakened. It was enraged. Killing King Ivar had not severed the snake’s head; it had revealed three more. He had been nothing but a puppet, a mask for something far more calculated and sinister. His death hadn’t broken their armies—it had emboldened them. Strengthened their resolve. Now the North stirred with fury, preparing for all-out war. Sir Charles, still unaccounted for, had vanished without a trace, and Layla could feel his betrayal like an old wound that refused to close. The man who helped destroy her father… was still out there. Still breathing. But Layla had no power to hunt him. Her mother made certain of that.
After weeks confined to bed, her wounds stitched and monitored daily, Queen Raynera finally emerged from recovery—steadier than before, and twice as cold. She did not rule, not truly. As Queen Regent, her power was borrowed, temporary—meant only to fill the void until Layla married and a king could be crowned. But what she could do, she didwith ruthless efficiency. Whatever warmth had once softened her edges was gone now, replaced by a chilling resolve.
