Page 12 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

THE KING IN EXILE

T he sun is up, but it barely penetrates the haze. Light seeps through the gaps in the curtains like something too tired to fight. I haven’t slept—maybe dozed for twenty minutes. But the pounding in my skull and the grit behind my eyes is testament to how restful that was.

I stretch across the bed, still in my jeans.

The note lies on the floor, face down, like that somehow makes it less real.

I try not to look at it, but no distraction in the world could keep me from it.

I should call someone. The police? To tell them what?

That my brother is missing and I’m being stalked by shadow vampires who leave notes from their ‘Queen’ on my pillow?

The thought is laughable and sickening. I’m alone. More alone than I’ve ever been.

I sit in silence and try to breathe. I close my eyes and focus on the flow of my breath in and out, trying to force calm into my thoughts. I finish three breaths when I hear it.

A soft scrape—barely more than the sound of wind catching something loose. But it’s too regular .

Too close. It’s not inside the apartment. Outside.

My heart lurches as I snap my eyes open and see a shadow outlined on the ragged curtain covering the window. I cross the room, step by careful step, and nudge the curtain aside.

He’s there. Crouched on the fire escape. Again. Faelan sits as if he belongs there and this is the new normal of my life.

He’s not looking inside. He’s watching the sky like it’s telling secrets only he can hear. One knee up, arms resting over it, a silhouette of lean grace and eerie stillness. The sharp line of his jaw and almost hollow cheeks tilted up, eyes half-lidded, deep in thought. I don’t open the window.

“You’re making a habit of this,” I mutter through the glass.

His head turns, slow and precise, like he already knew I was here and what I was going to say. His eyes find mine, and I swear they flash—for a second—with silver. Not light reflecting. Not a trick. Something else.

“You’re not safe here.”

It’s not a warning. It’s a statement.

“I figured that out when blood-stained notes started appearing on my pillow,” I say. “Not to mention when the vampire tried to kill me. Or maybe it was when I saw you incinerate two of them with what I can only describe as shadow magic. So yeah. I got the memo.”

His lips twitch. Not a smile. Something colder. Sharper.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

I open the window, but only halfway.

“Do I? ”

He doesn’t step inside. Doesn’t even ask. He watches me like he’s cataloguing something invisible.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You sure have a creepy way of showing it.”

He tilts his head. “You think this is creepy, wait until you meet the ones who don’t care if you live or die.”

“Already met them, not a fan, thanks.”

A beat of silence. His sharp nose flares. His nose has been broken at some point, a tell-tale bump close to the bridge.

“You’re not angry,” he says.

I snort as I shake my head.

“I’m furious. But I’m also exhausted. And overwhelmed. And still processing the fact that apparently, I sing in my sleep and that’s now a death sentence.”

Something flickers behind his eyes at that. Almost… pity. Almost.

“I can help you,” he says. “If you want to understand what’s happening. If you want to survive it.”

Folding my arms over my chest, my jaw tightens involuntarily.

“Why?”

A long pause. He doesn’t speak. My eyes burn trying to match the intensity of his unblinking stare.

Blink, damn you.

“You’re not what you think you are,” he says finally. “And neither is this world.”

“Cryptic much? ”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’ve seen it. The way things shift. How the streets don’t always lead where they should. The sounds that don’t match the world.”

My skin prickles.

“You’re bleeding over.”

I remember the alley. The way the stars moved. The church that felt like a dream echo. My throat goes dry.

“I don’t need riddles,” I say. “I need answers and more importantly than that, I need to find my brother.”

He nods once. A sharp motion that has an air of finality as if I’ve made a decision or agreement without knowing it.

“To do that, you need to see . Come with me.”

My stomach twists. Every instinct screams not to trust him.

Slam the window shut and leave him out there in the chill night air.

As if the thin glass and even thinner curtain would stop him if he wanted in.

But somewhere beneath the fear is that thread—that same pull I felt the first time he appeared. Like gravity. Like recognition.

“Where?”

He rises to his feet in a single fluid motion. A shadow in daylight.

“Somewhere that remembers.”

I hesitate, chewing the inside of my cheek. I look at my options, but what choice do I have? He at least knows something about where Milo is, which is two steps ahead of where I am without him. I grab my jacket and pull it on, ignoring the tear and bloodstains .

“You’ve got one shot, mysterious shadow man,” I say. “If this turns into some serial killer bullshit, I’m biting back.”

Another flicker of that not-quite-smile. “Noted.”

I climb out the window, heart pounding. Whatever’s happening, I’m in it now and there’s no turning back.

The walk isn’t long, but it feels like it takes forever. The city is hushed in that strange, early-morning way—like it’s pretending to sleep. The Bottoms don’t come to life after dark anyway.

Faelan doesn’t speak. He moves like a rumor through the backstreets, through alleys I’ve never noticed, past rusted signs and shuttered windows. A freight train groans somewhere in the distance. I haven’t slipped entirely out of the world I know anymore.

We stop in front of a building that looks half-drowned in soot. The facade is scorched black, its once ornate trim charred and crumbling. The marquee above the entrance is missing letters, just enough to be haunting: O_L – HEAT _ .

I know this place. I’ve walked past it a hundred times.

It’s a landmark and another testament to the loss and decay of the city.

Built early in the last century it had a long and colorful history before it fell into decay.

Attempts were made to save it years ago, but they failed, leaving it an empty shell full of the ghosts of a once glorious past.

“The Folly?” I say, frowning. “Why here?”

Faelan’s eyes flick up to the ruined sign like it’s an old friend. “Some places remember what they were. If you listen, they will show you.”

I snort. “Great. You brought me to a haunted theater.”

“Not haunted,” he murmurs. “Not exactly. ”

He steps forward, placing one hand lightly on the scorched brass handle of the door. It creaks open, slow and groaning like an exhale, and a gust of stale air rolls out—burnt wood and forgotten mildewed velvet. He doesn’t look back to see if I follow.

I hesitate on the threshold, staring into the dark.

The place is a wreck, covered in graffiti and boarded up.

The marble tiling of the floor is dull and dingy, covered with debris.

Once the Folly was the height of luxury.

A place of laughter and joy but now it stands as a testament to the world in which I live. Empty, dark, and rotting.

“This is your big secret?” I mutter. “Rot and rubble?”

“Step inside, Skye,” he says, over his shoulder.

I do, reluctantly. My boots crunch on old plaster and glass. I follow him down the hall and step through the door into the theatre proper, stepping through the ragged remnants of velvet curtains. What used to be ornate seats are now broken spines of splintered wood. Ash clings to everything.

In the center of the ruined stage sits a grand piano, blackened by smoke but still somehow whole. It’s a strange kind of centerpiece, defiantly upright in the wreckage. I’m drawn to it despite myself.

“You want me to play something?” I ask. “Because just so you know, I’m not really in a concert mood.”

Faelan leaps onto the stage with an easy grace. He stands beside the piano, one hand resting on the curved lid. A smile plays over his lips like a celestial being is playing with his face, light and fast.

“You don’t have to play. Listen. ”

I step closer to the stage, stopping next to the soot stained edge.

Something’s wrong with the air. It’s heavier.

Charged. That feeling of a thunderstorm about to break.

The light filtering in through the missing sections of the roof seems…

off. It warps around dust motes, bending in strange ways.

Reluctant for some reason I can’t identify, I climb onto the stage and approach the piano.

I pause and look at the instrument. Dim memories of my mom at a much less grand, worn piano tug at my mind. I brush ash from the top then pull out the bench, which is also, miraculously, not burnt or rotted, and sit. It’s more out of habit than decision. I rest my fingers on the keys.

The moment my skin touches ivory, everything stops.

There’s no sound—just absence. Silence, but an anticipatory one. Then, one note.

Not mine. The piano presses itself down, just one key. A middle C. The sound is clear and impossibly bright. The room changes.

The ruined ceiling above shimmers and reforms, not solid and real, but memory taking shape—like smoke recalling shape.

The air blooms with warmth, filling with the scent of roses and candle wax.

The dust lifts from the floor like time is reversing.

Half-burned walls stretch upward, unfurling into gilded panels and red velvet.

Chandelier shapes twist and slowly form overhead—glimmering faintly, as though lit by starlight instead of bulbs.