Page 7 of Love of the Bladed Dove
Queen Okteria stood tall atop the stone, her presence as formidable as any battle-forged leader. With hair dark as tree bark after rain, cascading over thick, muscular shoulders and golden skin that shimmered in the sunlight. She looked every inch the warrior-queen, one who had seized her crown in the midst of heartbreak, yet never once faltered. Her green eyes, matching Kain’s, narrowed sharply the moment they landed on the foreign woman. The crowd stilled. Twenty paces from the stone, the trespasser stood alone in front of Theron. He observed as his mother’s posture shifted subtly—shoulders straightened, chin tilted. He recognized the stance. Predatory. Regal. Ready.
Her eyes pierced the stranger like blades. “Why are you here?” Queen Okteria demanded. Her voice cut through the Circle like steeldrawn across stone, each syllable laced with restrained fury. Theron inhaled through his nose, already predicting where this was going. His mother had been on edge for weeks—preparing, waiting. The looming threat of Bartorian aggression had agitated her more than she let on. Now, this woman, this near-silent trespasser, had dared to enter their sacred lands.To beg? Or deceive?He looked down at her. But something had changed. Gone was the startled, wide-eyed girl from the forest. In her place stood a woman with her spine straight and chin lifted.
"I… I am…” she began, faltering slightly. Theron tensed.Don’t fall apart now.Then she found it, the composure, the strength. “I am Layla Eradellian, Princess of Graystonia. I am here to seek your alliance with my people… against the Bartorians.”
The Circle fell into stunned silence.Princess…Graystonia... The words struck like twin arrows. Theron’s mind reeled—trying to fit this broken, breathless girl into the image of a sworn enemy’s heir. The forest around them felt suddenly too quiet. Then the rest hit him.The Bartorians attacked them? Not us?Relief surged so swiftly through his chest it nearly stole his breath. His people were safe. His stronghold unburned.For now.But standing before him, draped in dirt and blood, was not just any survivor. She was Graystonian Royalty. A woman born of the very kingdom that had carved Antonin land from their maps during the Southern War. An enemy by blood. A symbol of everything they had lost. And yet here she was—shaken but unbroken, begging for unity where there should have been only fire. That, somehow, shocked him more than anything else.
Her voice rose again. “Last night, the Bartorians launched a surprise attack. They’ve taken the city. My home. My people are dying, and wecannot withstand them alone.” Theron’s face remained unreadable, but inside, his instincts continued to clash. He had trained his whole life to face war—but never wanted one for his people. And now, this woman stood here, a survivor of what he feared most. His relief was tangled with pity he didn’t want to feel for her. He lifted his gaze to his mother.
Queen Okteria's eyes sparkled—not with sympathy, but something far colder.Delight. A slow, cruel smile touched her lips.Damn,Theron thought.She’s enjoying this.
Okteria descended one step on the stone, her voice loud, sharp. “Ah. So, you don’t want alliance. You want my army. You’ve already lost, what could you possibly offer me now?”
The princess didn’t flinch. “My father has always respected your borders. He has never harmed your people. He is a just king. He—”
“Is likely dead,” Okteria cut in, amused. “Or cowardly, sending his daughter in his stead. Either way, irrelevant.”
Theron noticed her instantly go rigid before responding with only a hint of disdain. “This is a war against cruelty. The Bartorians will not stop at us. Once we fall, they’ll come for you.”
“Let them,” the queen snapped before turning away. “And when they arrive, we’ll do what we always do: spill their blood into our soil, let it feed our roots, then burn their bones to ash.” Theron’s fists tightened at his sides absentmindedly. The queen stopped her decent away, glancing over her shoulder with a final, poisonous smile. “Tell me, little princess… have you lived a good life? Because a swift death would be too kind. I intend to bring a century’s worth of Graystonian sins down upon your shoulders. You will die slowly, knowing you failed. Starved, forgotten. Alone.” Then she nodded—just once, to Theron.Dump herin the pit.Was the unspoken request. He inclined his head in silent obedience.
As the crowd murmured and dispersed, Theron took the princess by the wrist and led her through the heart of the village. Warriors returned to their tasks, many smirking as they passed—their hatred for her people deeply embedded in their bones. The scent of smoke, leather, blood, and bark filled the air, rich with the work of hunters and smiths. Theron kept himself between her and the others, blocking their stares from the soaked dress still clinging to her skin. He told himself it was decency. That it meant nothing. But the truth gnawed at him. He was leading her to their prison—to starve, to disappear. So why the hell did it matter who saw her?
Soon they approached the pit—a hollowed-out prison carved straight into the earth, its only barrier a heavy, cross-hatched iron grate. The packed dirt walls were damp and uneven, as if the ground itself had been forced to swallow whoever was thrown inside.
He waved over the nearest guard. “Tynan,” Theron barked. “Stand watch. No one enters unless commanded.” Tynan smirked at the woman, then gave Theron a curt nod before he moved to open the hatch, dragging the heavy slab aside with a grunt of effort. Theron reluctantly released her wrist. Tynan immediately grabbed her and led her toward the pit’s edge. Without hesitation, he shoved her in. She landed hard with a cry, her body crumpling to the dirt floor far below. Theron clenched his jaw until the muscle in it pulsed. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. But the image of her remained—chestnut hair tangled, dress torn, pride bruised yet unbroken. She was meant to die down there.Slowly. Quietly. And yet, a part of him—one he didn’t understand and didn’t ask to feel—hoped she wouldn’t.
Layla.
Hands shoved her back, and she plummeted. Layla hit the packed dirt with a bone-jarring thud, pain erupting in her knee as it took the full force of the landing. A breathless gasp escaped her lips. Above her, the bald-headed guard loomed, his smile cruel, his eyes devoid of sympathy. Without a word, he reached up and dragged a heavy iron grate across the opening, slamming it shut with a finality that echoed through the small space like a sentence passed. The sound of boots walking away somehow struck her harder than the fall. She was in. And she was alone.
Layla scrambled to a sitting position, scanning the small enclosure with wide, burning eyes. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She could see no other shapes, no shadows moving in the corners. No other prisoners. No waiting executioners.Thank the Gods, she thought, releasing a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. But the relief was fleeting. There was nothing in this pit. No straw bedding, no bucket, no food. Not even a stone to sit on. Just four tightly packed earthen walls and the scent of dust, death and iron. The air felt heavy. Dead. As if hope itself didn’t bother coming here.
She sat back and began checking her limbs. Her wrist still throbbed from her earlier fall in the forest, but it wasn’t broken. Her knee was bruised and raw, but she could stand. She’d had worse. Her body would hold. It was her mind she wasn’t so sure about.
Her hands shook as she brushed dirt off her palms, but she forced her breathing to steady. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t cry. If she let that dam break now, she didn’t know when—if—she’d stop. And she’d be damned if she let the Antonin bastards have the satisfaction of seeing her unravel.Think, Layla.
She pressed her hand against the wall nearest her. The surface was bone dry, packed so tightly it might as well have been stone. Her fingers dragged over the grit, nails searching for any imperfection, any seam to dig into.Nothing.Not even a crack to whisper through. She cursed herself again for leaving her shoes behind when she fled. At least they might’ve given her a heel edge to dig with. She needed a plan. Fast.
The thought of her mother and sisters hiding at the Old Oak made her chest ache.Were they still there? Had they waited, had they run? Were they even still alive?She shoved the thought down. Hard. There was no time for grief. No time for fear. If she didn’t escape, there’d be no one left to rally the survivors. No one left to fight for Graystonia. Her people needed her. So she strained her ears, trying to pick up any sound from above. The bald guard-Tynan, he had been called- wasn’t visible from her angle, but occasionally, she could hear his voice rising in conversation with others. She pressed herself to the back of the pit and stared upward at the grate. Ten feet, maybe more. She could reach quite aways with a jump. But the walls gave nothing. Not even a whisper of footing.
Night had fallen. The stars offered the faintest silver glow, filtering through the slats above. She sent a desperate prayer to Tychic, the God of Strength, and Feyric for luck once again.Let him be asleep up there. Please… just give me this.She scuttled to the northwest corner. Earlier, she’d started digging with her nails, carving a tiny foothold into the wall. It was barely an inch or so deep—just enough for the tip of her big toe. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. She pressed her toe into the makeshift crevice and braced herself.One breath. Two. Then she launched. Her hands scraped against the dirt wall, searching for purchase—anything to cling to. Her fingers clawed the air, but there was nothing to catch. Her foot slipped, and she crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” Tynan's voice boomed down. She scrambled backward into the darkness, heart hammering. She didn’t answer. “Just so you know,” he drawled, his face now just barely visible in the moonlight, “if you try any shit, I’m allowed to kill you… However I see fit.” He leaned down slightly, grin wicked. “So please… try something.”
Layla’s stomach turned. The sick satisfaction in his voice was more revolting than the threat itself. She curled into herself, pressing close to the earth as if it could swallow her whole. Her arms wrapped around her knees, and she clenched her jaw. She needed a new plan, because one way or another, she wasn’t dying down here.
Chapter five
Layla.
Three days had passed. Three days since she woke in the branches of that damned tree, her world turned upside down, her home burning behind her—and now this pit. This cursed pit. No food. No water. No sunlight beyond the slivers that pierced the grate overhead like mocking fingers of hope. Time had twisted into something meaningless. Her lips were cracked. Her throat, dry as ash. Even lifting her head from where it rested against the packed wall took effort she could barely muster. And still, her mind wouldn’t quiet. Between bouts of restless sleep and hallucination, memories crept in—soft at first, then sharp as blades.
“A woman’s weapon is herpresence,”her mother’s voice whispered, too close, too clear.“History and strategy are for kings and generals. Not for daughters of the realm.”Layla blinked hard, trying to banish the echo.“Smile, even when you want to scream. That’s how a queen commands a room.”
Other voices followed—tutors, instructors, stewards of etiquette over the years and silence. “You must be pleasant, not powerful… A husband leads, a wife supports… You are to be graceful, obedient, and wise enough to keep your mouth shut.”She curled tighter in the dirt. Those teachings had once been gospel. She’d worn them like velvet—lush to the eye, but heavy and suffocating beneath the surface. Now they felt like chains, rusted and cold.
But one voice had always cut through the rest. Her father’s.“If you had a brother, this wouldn’t fall to you,”he’d said once, jaw tight with something like guilt.“But you don’t. And one day, you’ll bear the heir. If anything happens to you, Layla… the line ends.”So, once a week—beneath the judging eyes of courtiers and the quiet disapproval of her mother—he trained her. In the courtyard, not hidden, but never praised. He trained her how to move. How to block. How to survive. And if he was away, Sir Charles carried on the lessons without question.
