Page 4 of Love of the Bladed Dove
She stopped, took aim and released. The knife struck true, embedding in the shoulder of a Bartorian about to strike her father. The soldier stumbled, and in that half-second, the King turned and cleaved his head clean off. No sooner had the head landed than her father’s eyes whipped around to find the source of the hurled blade. They quickly landed on Layla.
“Layla, no! Run!” King Aiddeon roared across the battlefield that had once been a ballroom. She froze, the force of his voice ricocheting in her chest, but she didn’t obey. She couldn’t. She swore she saw something flash in his expression-was it surprise? Agony? Fear? He turned back to his opponent, his sword already mid-swing. His sweat-soaked chestnut hair clung to his brow in thick strands. Steel clanged and rang through the air like thunder. The chaos was deafening.
Layla scanned the fight, heart pounding against her ribs as she searched for her next shot. Her hands wavered, but she locked her arms tight, steadying herself against the surging tide of fear. Another Bartorian came charging toward her father. She took a breath, cold and clean like mountain air, and released the next blade. It struck the man in the thigh. He screamed and dropped to one knee, just as her father gutted his current opponent with ruthless precision and spun toward the next, finishing the kneeling Bartorian with a brutal swipe of his sword.
Watching him in motion was like watching a storm made flesh. Even drowning in fear, Layla couldn’t help but marvel at him.Thatwas her father. A true warrior. A true King.
She tore her eyes away for a heartbeat, glancing toward the ballroom’s center and her breath caught.Ryker. She watched in horror as his body crumpled forward- his knees giving out, then he collapsed as a Bartorian slowly withdrew a blood-slick sword from Ryker’s gut and shoved him to the floor like he was nothing.
“No!” The word tore from Layla’s throat, raw and helpless. She bolted toward him but her feet left the ground before she made it a foot away. An arm wrapped around her chest, hard, slamming her back into a massive body. Her arms now pinned to her sides. A human vice gripped her, yanking her away from everything. She screamed and thrashed, clawing for any movement she could find. She forced her hand, still clasping a knife, just far enough away, then plunged the blade into the man's thigh. A howl erupted behind her ear, hot and foul—but he didn’t loosen his grip. She struck again with her final blade. The man buckled slightly forward with a grunt, but his arms only cinched tighter. He was a mountain of muscle, and she was drowning in panic.
Her mind raced. Her chest burned.Fuck. This isn’t good. This is bad. This is so—Her eyes collided with her father’s. He turned toward her, mid-swing, and in that moment, everything slowed. His expression cracked. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to see what lay underneath the warrior’s mask. Then rage bloomed across his face. And with that rage, he charged. Sword raised, eyes burning, cutting through Bartorians like they were nothing more than paper before flame.
Layla kicked and bucked, desperate for another inch of movement as her father closed the gap with terrifying speed. Every heartbeat a battle cry as the seconds slowly passed. One man, three enemies down in seconds. Her father moved like a god. Then, without breaking stride, he dropped to one knee, spun, and sliced through the ankle of the man holding her. The Bartorian’s grip around her instantly shattered. Layla fell to the floor with a gasp, finally drawing a full breath. Her father was on her in an instant, dropping beside her.
“Layla! Are you hurt?!” he demanded, frantically scanning her limbs, his hands flying over her arms, her shoulders, searching for wounds.
“No,” she stammered, barely able to speak. She did a quick check herself, mind buzzing. No blood. No pain. Nothing,thank the Gods.
“Thank the Gods,” he echoed, his chest rising and falling like thunderclouds, eyes already scanning their surroundings again. “Listen to me,” he said, voice steely, fast. “Go down this hallway. Head to the castle’s west wing. Find the library. Behind the west bookshelf, there’s a hidden tunnel. It’ll take you directly out of the castle. Get to the old oak tree on the edge of the forest. You know the one. Your mother and sisters will meet you there.” He lifted her to her feet like she weighed nothing, and then spun around, ending the life of the crippled Bartorian loudly writhing in pain with a swift thrust to the chest. The man choked. Blood spilled from his lips. Then silence.
“No! Father, wait, I can help! Let me stay!” Layla’s voice broke as she reached for a weapon, anything, but she was out of knives. Her entire body was shaking, not from fear, but from something deeper-purpose. Her blood roared with it. “Ineedto help. Ihaveto.” Her father turned, seized her shoulders. The fire in his eyes was unwavering.
“No.” His voice was pure command. “That’s an order.” Layla froze. Her heart cracked under the weight of it.
“But—”
“I saidgo!” he growled. “Now, Layla! That is a royal command from your king!” The sheer force of it slammed into her. The fire inside her flickered—then faltered. Terror seeped back into her limbs like ice. Fear for him. Fear for her family. Fear for her kingdom. For the future. She opened her mouth, trying to argue, but her words dissolved. She had never felt so small, and yet so full of something too vast to name.
“Damn it, Layla!” he shouted, shoving her toward the hallway. “GONOW! That’s an order!” She stumbled back, the door swinging open behind her. And in that final moment, she saw it- her father, all alone as Bartorian soldiers encircled him. The last of the Graystonian guards lay dead only feet away.
“GO!!!” he screamed back to her now, not taking his eyes off the enemy as they closed in. Tears blurred her vision, but she turned and ran. She ran like the halls themselves were collapsing behind her. Every step felt like betrayal. Like failure. Like she was leaving her heart behind in that blood-soaked ballroom. But she ran. She ran because he ordered her to. She ran because if she didn’t, his sacrifice would be for nothing. She ran because she had to survive. And because one day… she wouldmake them pay.
Chapter three
Layla.
Layla reached the library within heartbeats, her chest heaving, lungs scraping for air. She slammed her shoulder into one of the towering oak doors, forcing it open with a groan that echoed louder than she liked. The familiar scent hit her instantly- dust, leather, parchment. A sacred perfume of old stories and forgotten time. For a split second, the weight of the room struck her like a ghost. She had loved this place. A fragment of memory surfaced: herself curled into the plush maroon couch, legs tucked beneath her, a stolen book in hand, devouring stories by candlelight long after she was supposed to be asleep. Herheart ached with the simplicity of that stolen peace. But the memory was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not now.Focus,she told herself.Survive.
There were only three escape tunnels hidden within the castle, known solely to the royal family. She darted toward the western wall, weaving between shelves of ancient tomes and towering scroll cases. Her eyes snapped to the deep red tapestry, its embroidered depiction of their sacred forest shimmering faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the stained-glass dome above. It hung like a silent sentinel between two great shelves- elegant, beautiful, and completely deceiving.
With an unsteady hand, Layla reached out and yanked the tapestry aside, revealing the narrow opening hidden behind it: a sliver of shadow, stone steps barely visible in the dark below. She pressed herself against the cold stone behind the tapestry, her breath held hostage in her throat. The woven forest scene swayed lightly in front of her, giving her the barest glimpse of the library she had once cherished. The place where she had spent countless hours, safe and invisible between shelves and pages, now desecrated by the sound of foreign boots on marble.
The doors flew open with such force the echoes cracked like thunder through the vast room. Bartorian soldiers stormed inside, their voices sharp and guttural. Layla’s entire body stiffened.
“Check everything. Don’t leave a corner untouched,” one barked. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.Please, Freyric—just this once, she begged silently, sending a quick prayer to the God of Luck.
Through the thin slit in the hanging tapestry, she watched one soldier march perilously close to her position. He scanned the northern bookshelves, then turned toward her wall. His eyes flicked brieflyacross the tapestry but didn’t linger. She sent another prayer up thanking Freyric as the guard kept moving.
She waited, not wanting to make a sound and draw their attention. One heartbeat. Two. Ten. Then, muffling her breath with her sleeve, she turned, crouched low, and gripped the sides of the hidden entrance. The narrow passage gaped beneath the stone, a spiral staircase descending into nothingness. One last glance. She dared it. Just one. The library she loved- the maroon couch, the towering shelves, the stained-glass dome above, all stood silent under the weight of invasion. Her home, her history, her joy. All of it was crumbling. And her father was not behind her.He’s still fighting.Her throat tightened as she tried to convince herself the thought was true. Then she slipped into the tunnel.
It was darker than she remembered. The air was damp, thick with the smell of dust and earth. The stone steps beneath her feet were uneven and narrow, spiraling down into pitch black. She kept one hand on the wall, the other clutching her dress to avoid tripping as she descended fast—half-running, half-falling. She’d only been in this tunnel once before, many years ago, when her parents brought her down late one night under the guise of a lesson in royal duty.
"Every heir must know the way out, in case the worst ever comes," her father had said, his voice low but firm. Her mother’s hand had rested on her shoulder the whole way down. She’d barely been twelve. It had felt like a story then. A secret passage meant for queens in fairytales.
Now it was real. Now it was war. Muffled shouts echoed behind her—closer now. And then: metal scraped against stone. Footsteps. They had found the passage.No, no, no!Panic spiked in her veins as she pushed harder, faster, barely catching herself as she stumbled on the last turn.Then moonlight. A faint, silvery glow was bleeding through cracks at the bottom of the stone passage. The exit.
She threw herself at the heavy stone threshold. It didn’t budge.Move Damn it!She pushed again. Nothing. Her palms scraped against the rough stone, and a cry of frustration tore from her lips. The footsteps behind were louder now, rushing down the staircase. Layla snarled in defiance and shoved her full body against the stone. It groaned beneath her weight. Her muscles screamed. Her whole body shook. Her hands ached from the pressure.MOVE, DAMN YOU!Finally, a suddenshift. A pocket of air. A breath of wind. The door creaked open just enough, and she threw herself through it, landing hard on her hands and knees. Fresh air hit her face like ice. The stars above glimmered through the canopy. The moon was full, high and bright and she was out.
