Page 1 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

TIES THAT BIND

H unger and stress wake me long before the alarm can scream.

I lie still, blinking at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the cracked plaster like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Sleep and I haven’t been on speaking terms for months, maybe longer. No matter what, there’s never enough silence in my head to let it in.

My mattress is thin and hard, one of those things I used to tell myself was temporary until it wasn’t.

The walls of my room are a patchwork of salvaged foam panels, scavenged from recording studios that folded faster than the dreams that started them.

My mic stand looms in the corner like a sentry.

The red light on the audio board still blinks—proof of last night’s recording, or maybe just a heartbeat from some other version of me who doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in debts and responsibility.

I sit up, my spine protesting, then push the blankets off and cross the cold floor. I check the door. The deadbolt is locked. Good .

Next, I check Milo’s door. It’s shut. Even better. I hover, pressing one ear to it, listening. Not for danger—just...confirming. That he’s still breathing. Still here. Still mine to protect. A ghost of the little boy who used to cling to my hand.

The kitchen greets me with a bulb that flickers on a whim and the sour smell of a handful of unwashed, chipped dishes.

I scoop half the recommended amount of instant coffee into a chipped mug and pour boiling water over it, then add a splash of evaporated milk because it’s all we’ve got.

The first sip burns, but it drags me into the day like barbed wire through skin.

We live in a concrete cube four floors up, one broken elevator away from the hell those who don’t live here call West Bottoms. The window rattles as a bus passes.

Outside, the city hums. Not in that cozy “city that never sleeps” way—more like something beneath it grinding its teeth.

Sometimes I wonder if there used to be more color that we all just forgot how to see, like the way the sunset used to bleed across our kitchen window, painting everything in hues of red and gold.

I ease onto the kitchen chair, careful not to shift too fast and get dumped by the loose leg. Then I check my phone. Seven messages.

One from the electric company—final warning. Two from club managers: sorry, bookings are down, maybe next month. One from the grocery delivery service saying the order payment failed. Three from numbers I don’t recognize. Huh. I open the last one.

A single line with no context.

“You still dream, don’t you? ”

My stomach tightens as I read it. What is that supposed to mean? I delete it. I don’t have time for riddles or cryptic crap. Not today, or ever, really.

I open the fridge. Half a bag of carrots, one egg, and a dented can of something unlabeled. We’re out of bread. Again. Milo must have finished it off and conveniently forgot to mention it.

Milo should be out looking for work. Or trying.

Or pretending to try, since most days, he comes home with excuses and empty pockets.

He may be my little brother, but he’s taller than I am now.

He’s lean and scrappy, with eyes too much like Mom’s, and the kind of silence that reminds me of the dad we stopped mentioning even before we lost Mom.

He’s twenty, going on nowhere fast. And I can’t fix him.

I know it, but I’ll break myself trying, because that’s what I have to do.

I promised her I’d take care of him. Of course, I don’t think she knew how hard that would get, but in the end, I’m all he has.

I take my coffee back to my mattress and sit cross-legged, balancing my phone on my knee as I scroll through the calendar.

Rent’s due next week. That’s a problem, but I have no idea what to do about it, so I do what I usually do: put it aside and hope it works out, somehow.

Probably not the best approach, but it’s worked so far.

Mostly. I’m only a couple of months behind and the landlord isn’t evicting us yet.

The podcast’s next episode drops tonight. I need to prep the Q I woke long before he ever stumbled home, but it feels like my body’s running on fumes and caffeine. There’s silence between us for a while. Not the comfortable kind. This silence has sharp edges.

“Place looks the same,” he says after a beat, like maybe that’s a neutral observation instead of a reminder that he hasn’t paid rent or lifted a finger in weeks.

“Dishes are still waiting for you, it’s your turn.” I remind him, trying to keep my voice light, but it doesn’t land like a joke, and he doesn’t laugh.

He scratches the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at me.

“I’m working on something. Got a lead.”

“On what?”

He grins. It’s lopsided and reckless, the kind of grin he used to flash when we were kids and he’d just broken a rule but thought his natural charm would save him.

“Don’t worry, Skye. I’ve got a plan.”

There it is. The phrase that grinds every gear in my brain. I turn away and dump the coffee grit into the trash with a little more force than necessary.

“That’s what you said last time. Right before Nico came knocking. ”

The temperature in the room drops. I feel it, even with my back turned. Milo shifts his weight and exhales sharply through his nose.

“Don’t bring him up. That wasn’t my fault.”

“And whose fault was it, Milo? You brought him into our lives. Into this apartment.” I turn to face him, keeping my tone level. Tired, but honest, “He didn’t just appear.”

“I said I’ve got it handled.”

He doesn’t. We both know it.

I study him a second longer. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lying. The way his shoulders tensed when I said Nico’s name. He despises him on a level that goes deeper than debt collectors and threats, but he’s never told me why.

And I’m too tired to ask. Or maybe I’m too scared of the answer. Instead, I take the half-empty aspirin bottle and slide it back into the cabinet.

“Rent’s due next week.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Milo. We can’t keep doing this.”

“I said I know,” he says, his voice suddenly louder as he straightens. Not yelling, but cornered.

I flinch. He sees it. His face folds like paper. All the bravado evaporates.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” I say, echoing his words. It’s easier than saying anything else .

He stands there a second longer before turning and disappearing down the hall, retreating to his room like he usually does. The door clicks shut, muffled and final. I stare after him, hand on the counter to steady myself.

We’re both falling. Just at different speeds. He drinks to forget, but I don’t have that luxury. I used to think if I held tight enough, I could keep us both from shattering. But lately I’m acutely aware of the cracks in my grip.

Outside, a bus rumbles past, rattling the windows like old bones. I glance at my phone again. No new messages. No good news. Just the lingering echo of the one I deleted.

You still dream, don’t you?

I used to, yeah. But dreams are for people with futures. Not girls trying to keep their brothers from bleeding out on the edge of nowhere.

Shaking my head, I look at the pile of dirty dishes. I could do them. Again. But no, damn it, he has to do his share. It can’t all be on me. Then the overfull trash can draws my attention and I can’t let both go undone.