Page 23 of Love of the Bladed Dove
“Well,” Kain began. “Good news and bad news. The Bartorians still only hold the castle. The Graystonian army is rallying around the capitol. From what we gathered, most of their guards were outside the gates when the Bartorians launched a surprise attack during some royal event.The entire thing reeks of betrayal—someone on the inside let them in.” Kain shook his head in clear disproval before continuing. “They want the soldiers and the people to surrender. With the Graystonian king dead, and no male heirs, they’re trying to claim the throne.”
Queen Okteria scoffed and flicked her hand. “Foolish men, thinking a woman can’t rule a kingdom.” Theron glanced at her but said nothing. His thoughts had already turned to Layla but then he realized....
“How did you get all this information?” he asked Kain, already dreading the answer.
Kain smirked as a damned mischievous twinkle appeared in his eyes. “One of the Bartorian guards was… very forthcoming.”
Theron’s jaw clenched. “For fucks sake, Kain.”
“What?” Kain shrugged. “He talked, didn’t he?”
Theron stepped toward him, voice like thunder. “You tortured him?”
“Enough,” Queen Okteria cut in. “We need to know why they attacked us. If their only goal is to seize Graystonia, why come here?”
Kain opened his mouth, confusion written all over his face, but Xaden spoke first. Stepping from the shadows near the fire to answer Kain’s unspoken question. “They attacked yesterday. Seven of them, near Illyada’s hut. They’re all dead now—mostly thanks to Illyada… and Layla.”
Theron’s head snapped toward him. “Layla?”
Xaden blinked then chuckled. “You really weren’t listening at dinner, were you?” Theron’s fingers curled into a tight fist as he impatiently ignored the gentle taunt.
“I already told everyone,” Xaden continued, talking directly to Theron more so than Kain at this point. “Layla nailed one of them from forty yards with a kitchen knife.In the eye.Dropped him like a stone. She got two more before I got there. Poor bastards came hunting a princess—got a dagger-slinging badass instead.”
Theron stared down at the ground, trying to make sense of it.Layla—fighting like that? Killing like that?It didn’t match the image he carried in his mind. The girl he protected. The one who tensed when he raised his voice and clutched his shirt when fear overtook her. The one he’d watched sleep, chest rising in fragile rhythm, as if a breath too loud might shatter her.
And yet…
She had killed Tynan. He couldn’t deny that. But if he was honest, he’d chalked it up to panic and luck—a desperate swing in the dark, not skill. She wasn’t trained. She wasn’t hardened. She was… Layla. A girl who needed protection. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. But now, that story was starting to crack. And he wasn’t sure whether the shift unsettled him—or intrigued him.
“She might’ve been their target,” Kain added. “If they were trying to wipe out the entire royal line, they would’ve come for her next.”
Theron’s thoughts came back to the present as he noticed Queen Okteria’s eyes flare at Kain’s thoughts. “Perhaps that’s true,” she said coolly. “But their reasoning no longer matters. By stepping onto my lands and attacking my people, they made us look weak. Unprepared. That is unacceptable.” Her voice sharpened. “I assume a substantial force remains stationed in the Graystonian castle to hold it?” She turned to Kain. He gave a single nod, confirming her thoughts.
“Then we strike there. Not to save Graystonia—but to gut Bartoria’s plans from the inside. We’ll cut their force down where it’s entrenched and send a message to the entire realm: I don’t care what crown they serve—trespassers will bleed for it. Let them cower behind their northern walls where they belong.”
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle like a blade pressed to a throat. “We leave in two days.” She promptly turned and disappeared into her hut without another word.
Theron stayed where he was, arms loose at his sides, thoughts churning. It was happening. Real war. Not a raid. Not a border skirmish. A full siege—the kind that could become the catalyst for the very conflict they’d long feared would engulf the continent.
And the last time an enemy had dared cross into their territory, it hadn’t been met with mounds of corpses or scorched earth. His mother had chosen restraint—vengeance, yes, but tempered by politics over war. He knew she’d regretted it ever since. Bartorian blood had been owed for a long, long time.
His feet carried him down the familiar path toward his hut, but his mind—his heart—was somewhere else entirely. Five years hadn’t dulled the memory of that blood-soaked day by the river. It still lived beneath his skin, sharp and raw. Time hadn’t softened the grief—it had only taught him how to bury it deeper.
He had been walking beside his father—King Aric of the Antonin. A warrior. A legend. A man carved from stone and shadow. Aric had ruled their people for as long as Theron could remember, with fire in his chest and justice in his blood. His sword had never left his side, as if even the gods feared what he might do with it.
Theron had idolized him, trained under him, bled beside him. He had spent his entire life studying the man’s every move—learning, emulating, striving to become the warrior and leader Aric was. He never imagined that day would be the last.
They were returning from a northern scouting mission, just the two of them and a small escort, crossing the Thornveil Run River. The trees had thinned into jagged rock, the land falling away into a sheer cliff. The river below had been high—thundering, wild, hungry. It masked the danger that was unknowingly all around them. The snap of a branch. The whisper of boots in the brush. Then the first arrow struck the warrior closest to Theron, burying itself in his throat as chaos erupted.
Lumiren soldiers, cowards, swarmed like vermin from the undergrowth. Interlopers crossing Antonin land under Bartorian sanction—or so they would later claim. What followed was a storm.
Theron’s blade found flesh again and again. His instincts took over, honed and lethal. Blood sprayed his face. His sword arm moved faster than thought, every strike a blur of muscle and steel. A Lumiren lunged, screaming. Theron sidestepped, drove his blade into the man’s ribs, and shoved him off the cliff’s edge—alreadyturning, already hunting for the next threat.
Then he saw him.
Aric stood just twenty feet away, felling enemies like a god of war—until a flash of steel cut into his leg, dropping him to one knee. It happened too fast. Another soldier surged forward and drove a blade into Aric’s chest. Deep. So deep. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his body convulsed.
Theron had roared, sprinting forward as if sheer will could stop time. But the sword twisted, and Aric crumpled, the strength leaving him all at once. The Lumiren turned, smirking—Theron’s blade took his head clean off. The body fell beside the king it had slain, but vengeance tasted like ash. Theron collapsed beside his father, hands pressing into cooling flesh, pleading—begging—for life to return. It never did.
