Page 15 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

He turns to me. There’s no hesitation in his voice. “You’re Dreamer-born.”

Those words. Again. “You keep saying that, but what does that mean?”

“It means you’re one of the few with your feet in both worlds. Born in the Waking, tethered to the Dream. The Freeholds respond to you because they remember you, even if you don’t remember them.”

“I’ve never been here before,” I whisper.

“Haven’t you?” he says, too softly.

I look at the city, at the silver veins threading through it like light through cracked glass.

It’s heartbreakingly beautiful, yet underneath is rot—silence, emptiness, and most of all, despair.

Faelan’s voice shifts, low and steady. “The Dream isn’t just magic.

It’s memory. It’s myth. It’s belief. And belief is fading.

The world isn’t dying because of the war.

It’s dying because no one remembers how to hope.

No one dares to dream. Not truly. Not anymore. ”

“I do,” I say, too fast. Too desperate. “I do dare. I fight to believe things can get better. I talk about it. I’ve built my life on it.”

“I know,” Faelan says. “That’s why you’re dangerous.”

The wind cuts through me. I turn toward him. “Then why are you helping me?”

His expression doesn’t shift.

“You need answers.”

“That’s not a reason.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “Not all truths are ready to be carried. Some are only revealed when you’re strong enough to bear them.”

“That’s not an answer either,” I snap.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

I glance back at the threads. One pulses slightly brighter than the others. A different color—deep red, almost rust. It heads north, toward the edge of the city.

“Was Milo one of us?” I ask. “Is that why the Queen took him?”

Faelan goes still. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, but too careful.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

He meets my eyes, and something old moves in his expression—grief, maybe regret, or guilt. But he doesn’t deny it. My throat tightens as I feel like I’m standing on glass—thin and cracking.

“This is too much,” I say. “All of it. Vampires, Queens, magic theaters, the world bleeding to death because nobody dreams anymore? I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one ever does,” Faelan says.

“You could’ve told me more. Sooner. You’ve been following me—watching me. Don’t pretend this is mercy.”

His face doesn’t change, but his voice softens.

“Everyone will want to use you, Skye. Including me.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, looking at him. “Blunt, much?”

“At least I’m telling you up front.”

The words hit harder than they should because I feel the truth in them. I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything at all.

The wind carries the shimmer of that Dream-lit city across my skin like silk and static, but it doesn’t comfort me. It makes the world feel thinner. Faelan watches, still and unreadable. I take a step back from the edge of the roof .

“I need space,” I say. My voice sounds hollow even to me.

“You’re not safe alone.”

“I was never safe.” I snap sharper than I intend. I close my eyes and try again. “Let me go, Faelan. Just for now.”

He says nothing for a long beat. Then, finally, he inclines his head.

“I’ll find you when it matters.”

He turns away, but this time he doesn’t vanish or walk off into smoke. He walks to the far edge of the roof and stares out over the city as if he never stopped. I take the narrow stairs back down, the weight of the city pressing in with every level I descend.

By the time I hit the street, the threads are gone. The shimmer, the pulse, the overlay of dream has faded. Only the bones remain. Brick and concrete. The hum of traffic. Horns, footsteps, voices.

Real. Grounded. And yet, I don’t believe it anymore. I walk.

I don’t know where I’m going—just that I need motion, noise, something to drown out the weight of what I just saw. I drift toward the River Market district, where vendor stalls are in orderly lines and the crowd is thick enough to blur the edges.

People jostle past. The smell of roasting meat, spilled beer, sweat and perfume mix into a heady blur. I press through the narrow lanes between booths, letting the chaos numb me.

A woman sings badly to herself at a corner, earbuds in, off-key but full of heart. A child chases bubbles. A man argues with a food vendor over a wrinkled bill. The world tries its best to pretend it’s normal .

Then I feel it.

A cold spot in the warm chaos of the market. A drop in pressure, like the change in air before a storm hits. My skin prickles. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I stop in the middle of the flow, looking around until I see it.

Across the street, in the mouth of a shaded alley, a man is watching me. Plain clothes. A jacket too thin for the weather. Brown hair. Average face. But something’s wrong. He’s too still. Too symmetrical. Like a photograph held too long in the sun. He looks like a copy of a person, not a person.

Our eyes meet. A hum rises in the back of my skull—the same tone I heard when I touched the piano in The Folly, but fainter, thinner.

When I look at him, I feel a dizzying rush of uncertainty, as if the ground beneath me is shifting.

The man smiles. It’s wrong. Too wide. Too slow.

His eyes are a flat, pale blue, like polished stones.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then the crowd pushes between us, breaking my line of sight. For a second, he’s gone.

I shove forward, darting across the street and into the alley, but there’s no sign of him. No footsteps or shifting shadows, only emptiness where he should be. I spin around, scanning the street.

“Did you see that guy?” I ask a man passing by.

He glances at me like I’ve asked if the sky is green. “What guy?”

I step back, pulse rising. This isn’t the Dream. This is the middle of the damn day. A small, urgent hand grabs mine. I look down. A young girl stares at me, eyes wide and too knowing. They’re the unsettling green of moss after a long rain.

“They’re coming,” she whispers. “You have to choose soon. ”

Before I say a word, she bolts—disappearing into the crowd like a dropped thread in a woven rug.

My heart hammers. My vision narrows. No more Freehold.

No more Faelan. Just me in a city that doesn’t remember how to be safe.

The hum lingers in my ears like the echo of a warning.

I turn and run. Home. I need to get home.

Or at least, I need to pretend I still have one.

The door to my building slams behind me hard enough to rattle the frame.

I take the stairs two at a time, adrenaline pulsing hot through my veins. Every footstep echoes louder than it should. The lights in the stairwell flicker once—twice—then hold. I don’t breathe until I reach my door.

Acting on a instinct and dread, I test it. Still locked.

I unlock it, step inside—and stop cold. Everything looks the same. On the surface. But it’s wrong.

There’s a weight of certainty that something is off. The apartment feels… aware. Like it’s seen too much and hasn’t decided whether to keep the secret or confess.

The light bulb in the hall buzzes faintly, casting a jaundiced glow. My boots leave faint impressions in the dust that had settled unnoticed on the floor. The couch cushion is slightly off-center. A cabinet door in the kitchen is cracked open—tiny details, just enough to notice .

I move through the space slowly, checking the windows. All latched. The door was locked. Nothing is broken, or stolen. And yet.

In my ‘bedroom’, the original note from the Queen lies where I left it—half-folded, edges curled. But next to it, smeared across the pillowcase, is something new.

A small smear. Blood.

I crouch next to my pillow, staring and pursing my lips. My hand trembles as I reach for it.

Fresh. No message. No flourish. Yet it’s intent is as clear as the noon day sun.

I back away until I hit the dresser, my knees threatening to buckle. I slide down until I’m on the floor, back pressed to the cool wood, hands fisted in my lap. I break.

No drama. No scream. Just a quiet, crumbling surrender. My throat tightens. My eyes sting. I bury my face in my arms.

This isn’t fear. It’s erosion. I’m eroding, wearing away by inches, one moment, one memory at a time. And when I’m gone, something else will step into the hollow I leave behind.

I sit still for too long. Then, slowly, I pull myself up and move to the living room. Something catches in the corner of my vision—a bit of color, but it’s out of place.

There. On the couch. Milo’s scarf.

It’s carefully tucked between the cushions, but it wasn’t there yesterday. And I am absolutely certain that it wasn’t there before I left. I cross the room like I’m approaching an animal that might spook, kneel down, and pull it free .

Soft. Warm. Worn at the edges from years of him wrapping it around his neck like armor.

I hold it to my chest. He was here. Or someone who has him was. My breath steadies, but my hands don’t. This feeling of fear and overwhelm sharpens. Refining into something more useful.

Resolve.

I move to the kitchen and gently set the scarf down on the table beside my abandoned coffee.

Looking up, I catch my reflection in the window above the sink.

It shocks me. I look tired and drawn, but more than that, there’s a determined, feral edge in my eyes.

The quiet, exhausted girl from this morning is gone, replaced by a sharpened point in the dark.

"I don’t care if the world is unraveling," I say, the words a low, seething promise that barely escapes my lips. "I’m not losing him."

I look toward the bedroom where the blood message remains, then back out the window at the city beyond the glass, a city I am now prepared to fight for.

“You want me?” I whisper. “Fine. But you’ve got more of a fight on your hands than you’ll ever have bargained for. I will get him back.”

Silence is my only answer, but it does nothing to temper my conviction. I’m coming, Milo. All you have to do is survive.