Page 13 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

I stumble back from the bench, but something holds me.

A gasp catches in my throat. I see her. Me.

She’s on the stage, but not me. Not the broken girl standing in the wreckage.

Taller. Straighter. Dressed in a flowing gown of woven moonlight and shadow.

Her hair is longer, threaded with frost. And her eyes— they aren’t just beautiful.

They glow silver. Not metaphorically. Literally.

The same cold, impossible silver as Faelan’s.

As she looks at me, a spark ignites in my chest—a flash of recognition that is both terrifying and electric. It’s not a memory, but a feeling of power, a sense of belonging to something vast and ancient.

Then, in an instant, she’s gone.

The room flickers, and I’m back in the ruin amongst the half-burned chairs, broken chandeliers and silence. I turn to Faelan, throat dry.

“What was that?”

He watches with that same maddening calm.

“A Freehold, or what remains of one. This place is a threshold—between waking and Dream.”

Cold chills race over my skin. I swallow, trying to find the right questions.

“And that… vision? That wasn’t me.”

“It was,” he says. “And it wasn’t. It was who you were. Or might be. Or still are. Depending on the path.”

I stare at the piano, hands trembling. I don’t know if I want to cry or scream or laugh.

“You’re insane,” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Most people who live this close to the Dream are. To one degree or another. From an outside perspective.”

A silence blooms between us—thick and uncomfortable.

“Why show me this?” I ask finally. “Why me? ”

His eyes go distant. “Because the Queen may have seen you first, but the Dream saw you better.”

I don’t understand that, but something in me does. Which terrifies me more than anything else.

I stare at the piano, trying to process the strangeness and my feelings, when Faelan walks toward me. The creak of floorboards too soft for how much weight the moment carries. The room has gone still, ash and dust settling like snow in the wake of whatever that—vision, memory, prophecy—was.

“You felt it,” he says.

“I saw it,” I snap, whirling on him. “I saw me . Or… someone wearing my skin. Looking at me like I was the shadow.”

Faelan’s head tilts slightly. “That was the Freehold answering you.”

“That isn’t an answer,” I say. “That’s a threat wrapped in a magic trick.”

He gives me a look—wry yet edged with something I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Then ask better questions.”

I take a step closer, clenching my jaw and fists.

“Fine. What am I?”

That flicker of silver passes behind his eyes again.

“You’re Dreamer-born,” he says quietly. “A rare thing. Rarer than even the Fae would like to admit.”

The phrase hits me like a drop of ink in water—spreading through my chest in dark ripples.

“What does that mean? ”

“It means you were born close to the veil. Closer than any mortal has a right to be.” His eyes flick to the stage, the ruined arches, the lingering shimmer of power that still clings to the space. “You’ve touched the Dream. Or perhaps… the Dream touched you.”

My arms wrap around myself, suddenly cold. “The Dream. That’s not a metaphor, is it?”

“No,” he says. “It’s a place. A realm. Not quite alive, not quite dead. The Fae call it the Source. The Queen would call it a weapon. But for you—it’s a song.”

I flinch. “What?”

“You’re singing it into the world,” he says. “Even when you don’t know you are. Especially when you don’t know. That’s what happened at the club. At the church. That’s why the shadows listened. Why the Freehold showed itself.”

My throat tightens. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Few do,” he murmurs.

The silence stretches. I pace toward the edge of the stage, gripping a broken pillar as if it’ll anchor me.

“Why does she want me?” I ask. “This Queen you keep mentioning. What does she want me for?”

Faelan’s face hardens. “Because she thinks she can turn you. Shape you. Make you hers.”

“Why me?”

“Because Dreamer-born are bridges,” he says. “Between worlds. Between powers. The Queen believes if she binds you to her, she can finally win the ancient war.”

“What war?” I ask .

Faelan looks away. “The one that never really ended.”

He steps forward, past the fractured edge of the old curtains. Ash sticks to the hem of his coat.

“This place—it’s not just a ruin. It’s a memory. It’s… half yours. Or it will be.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“You woke it,” he says. “With a single note. It remembers you. And if you choose to claim it—if you survive—it’ll remember more.”

I stare around at the room, the flickering ghosts of chandeliers and music and velvet that still cling to the air like perfume. Something deep in my chest aches.

“But I didn’t do anything,” I whisper.

“Not yet,” he says. “But you will.”

I take a breath, steadying my voice. “And you? What are you in all of this?”

A pause. The longest yet. Something dark flickers across his face.

“I’m a shadow,” he says. “A man who remembers what the world forgot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ll give you,” he says. “For now.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t push. Some part of me knows he can’t say more. Or won’t.

“So what now?” I ask. “What happens to me? ”

Faelan’s eyes meet mine, and this time there’s no coldness. No deflection. Just truth.

“The Solstice is coming,” he says. “A gateway. A turning of power. When the veil is thinnest, those touched by the Dream become… visible. Vulnerable.”

“To who?”

“To everyone.”

A chill moves through me.

“If you’re unclaimed when it opens,” he continues, “you’ll belong to whoever reaches you first.”

I back up a step. “Belong?”

“The Queen isn’t the only one who remembers the old war,” he says. “But she is the only one who thinks she can end it by owning you.”

A pulse beats loud in my ears.

“She doesn’t,” I say, quietly. “She doesn’t own me.”

“Not yet,” Faelan agrees. “But the Dream can’t wait forever. And neither will she.”

The shadows gather around his shoulders like a cloak, and the old light of the Freehold flickers again—a shimmer, like memory sighing.

“I don’t want this,” I say, voice breaking.

“I know,” he says softly. “But it wants you.”

And suddenly, I don’t know if he’s talking about the Dream… or something else entirely.

“It’s... too much. I have to... Milo. ”

“He is part of this as much as you,” Faelan says, softly.

That jerks me out of introspection and into the moment. I study his face, looking for any hint or clue of what he’s not saying. He meets my stare without resentment. When our eyes meet a chill passes over my skin and it’s all I can do to not shiver.

“How do I save him?” I ask, breaking the silence after a long moment.

“I don’t know…yet,” he says, hesitating over the final word.

I nod, not because I’m okay with his answer, but because I expected nothing less. Butterflies dance in my belly. I close my eyes and memories of my mom are there in the dark, waiting. Breathe. Breathe through the pain. Breathe through the confusion.

When I open my eyes he’s gone. Or maybe he was never here and this is a slide into insanity. Seeing things that cannot be, accepting them as if they’re freaking normal. Vampires. Faelan, whatever the hell he is with his weird powers. None of this is normal. Or right.

Yet…I know. I know I’m not crazy.

The world is dark and for so long it’s felt like there was a tiny candle, guttering against the wind, inside of me. A dying spark of hope. Hope that, somehow, things could be better. That the darkness and madness of the world outside isn’t the way it has to be.

“Fucking great,” I mutter, climbing off the rotting stage and leaving the Folly behind.

When I get home, the apartment is empty, thankfully. The door closes with a dull click, and I wait—for footsteps, for Milo’s voice, for anything . But there’s nothing. Just the tick of the wall clock and the faint hum of the fridge.

Faelan doesn’t reappear. Or Corvin. Or anyone of any note for that matter. I mean, what next? Napoleon? Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter? No, no one, but I feel… different.

It’s like something shifted behind my eyes. The light looks strange now—more golden, but colder. Edges seem sharper. The shadows feel deeper. Not like they’re threatening, but like they’re waiting for me to see them properly.

And I’m awake. Not rested. Definitely not stable. But awake .

I shrug off my jacket, toss it over the kitchen chair, and make my way down the hall to Milo’s room.

It smells faintly of cedar wood cologne and the detergent I told him not to buy because it gives me headaches.

The bed is a mess. Pillows on the floor.

A hoodie half-buried in the corner. The blinds are crooked—he always leaves one slat tilted just so, like a tiny periscope to the world.

I sit on the edge of the bed and let the silence settle around like a too-heavy blanket. Then I reach for the drawer on his nightstand. It sticks.

Of course it sticks. Everything in this apartment sticks. I tug harder and it pops open with a screech.

Inside is a few pens, a lighter, two broken guitar picks… and a sketchbook. Old. Worn at the edges. Spiral binding bent in one spot. Milo hasn’t drawn in months, not since he blew off that art class for a “better gig” that never came through.

I hesitate, then open it.

The first few pages are empty. A single doodle in the margin—one of his dumb cartoons. But then, further in …

My breath catches. There’s a sketch of The Folly.

Not as it looks now. Not burned and broken.

Whole . Alive. The marquee lit. The windows shining with gold and red.

Even the detail in the arch over the front doors—the stone cherubs carved above the entrance—he got it exactly right.

I wouldn’t have noticed it myself if I hadn’t just stood under them.

Flip.

Another drawing. Inside this time. The stage. The balcony. A chandelier that still glows. He sketched it like he was there . But he couldn’t have been. Not like this. I turn the page—and freeze.

It’s me.

Sleeping. Or maybe not sleeping. My body is limp on a bed I don’t recognize. My hair is fanned out across the pillow. My eyes are closed, but there’s something in the posture, the line of my jaw, the tension in my hands—it’s like I’m singing in my sleep. Like the air around me is vibrating.

Flip.

A woman in profile. Sharp cheekbones. A mouth like a knife. Her eyes—if he’d colored them, I know they’d be silver. A thin crown rests on her head, forged of thorns and frost. I don’t need a name. I know who she is.

The Queen.

I snap the sketchbook shut, heart slamming in my chest.

He knew.

The realization hits me like a blow. It’s a bitter, heartbreaking truth.

For months I’d been angry at him for being selfish, for being a fuck-up.

For running away when I needed him. Now I see he wasn’t running at all.

He was searching. He saw what I didn’t. He drew it, trying to make sense of the world unraveling around us.

For me. He went looking for answers, and this is what he found.

The tears I’d been holding finally fall, hot and stinging, but I bite them back. There’s no time for that now. My brother wasn’t just a victim—he was a pioneer. My body aches, my mind screams, but a new resolve hardens inside me. He went looking for the truth.

Now it’s my turn. I clutch the sketchbook to my chest, pressing my cheek against the worn cover. I will find him. No matter what it takes.