Page 16 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

OLD BLOOD, NEW SONG

T he storm hasn’t hit yet, but the air is thick and charged with a low, nervous energy.

A soft rain patters against the glass, a precursor to what’s coming.

I sit at the kitchen table, fingers knotted around a mug of peach tea gone cold.

Milo’s scarf lies on the table coiled like a relic.

The silence is heavy, unnatural—so quiet I can hear the electricity hum in the old fridge and the soft creak of wood settling.

Something is wrong. I feel it before I hear it—a shift behind me.

Not movement, but a cold presence. My whole body tenses, a familiar terror rising in my throat.

“You’re right to be wary.”

A voice, low and smooth as polished stone, comes from the shadows near the window.

I rise slowly, my whole body tensing, my heartbeat a thunderous drum against my ribs.

Corvin is on the fire escape, looking through the window.

His coat is damp and his dark hair clings to his forehead.

He doesn’t look like a monster. He never does.

That’s the trick of it. But tonight... there’s something cracked in him.

His posture is tighter. Energy comes off him in slow, quiet pulses, like heat shimmering off blacktop.

His eyes—when they meet mine—are unreadable.

“Have any of you ever heard of a door?” I snap, a hollow sound. “What is it with you people and the damn window?”

A hint of a smile plays over his lips but fails to fully take shape. His lips return to their normal hard line while he arches one eyebrow. Lightning flashes, illuminating him in reverse.

“I needed to see you before Faelan’s claws get any deeper into you.”

I blink then walk over and open the window for him.

“He doesn’t have claws and even if he did, they’re not in me.”

Corvin steps inside, boots silent on the floor, a small puddle of rainwater dripping from him.

“He doesn’t need claws. Just words. And your trust.”

My spine stiffens. I stare at him for a long moment, considering not only his words, but the tone of them. The twitching of his hands, the tension in his jaw, the way he narrows his eyes.

“You’re jealous.”

“No,” he says, too quickly. “I’m concerned. Faelan’s kind… they play a long game. Everything they do serves the Dream. And the Dream doesn’t care about people like you anymore than the Queen does.”

I cross my arms, tilting my head to one side.

“And what about you? Because last I checked, vampires aren’t known for their charity work.”

That flicker again—something old in his eyes. Regret mixing with weariness .

“I’m not here to convince you I’m the hero, because I’m not. I’m here to warn you—Faelan isn’t who you think he is. The Fae Court doesn’t intervene in human affairs unless they want something. They’re desperate and he wants something from you.”

I narrow my gaze. I file that bit of information away for later, but now is not the time to pursue it. He’s saying more than he ever has, and if I stop to question details he’ll clam up.

“So do you.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he lowers his voice.

“I’m telling you that upfront. That’s the difference.”

The words echo Faelan’s from earlier, and the symmetry hits like a slap.

I shake my head. “You two really love your cryptic warnings.”

“I’m serious, Skye.” He steps closer. The tension between us sharpens. “You’re not caught in a power struggle. You are the struggle. And he’s not the only one who’s watching.”

I swallow. “Why now? Why tell me this now ?”

His jaw flexes, like the answer costs him something.

“Because the Dream’s waking. And once it does… you won’t be able to pretend anymore. You’ll have to choose who you trust. And who you’ll become.”

The wind rattles the windows with the low rumble of thunder. The storm breaks. Rain patters, streaking the glass in frantic lines. I look at him—really look—and something inside me aches. He’s tall, pale, dark-haired with a strong jaw, but it’s his eyes that hold me.

“Why do you care?” I ask softly .

He hesitates. He blinks, slowly. The apartment is illuminated by a long flash of lightning then the power flickers. When he speaks it’s without a trace of irony.

“Because I remember you. From before.”

The words resonate somewhere I can’t name.

Before what? Before this life? Before Milo? Before I became whatever it is I’m becoming?

I open my mouth to ask, but the question doesn’t come out. The storm strengthens. Rain lashes the windows harder, drops slamming into and scratching against the glass as if they’re trying to break through. A gust of wind rattles the building, and the lights flicker again.

Corvin is preternaturally still. No human could ever be that motionless.

“You should sit,” I say finally. “If you’re going to drop cryptic truth bombs, you don’t get to vanish right after.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. He hesitates a moment longer then moves to the chair opposite my mug and Milo’s scarf—the one Milo would slouch in. Corvin sits like the storm’s weight presses on him too.

“I’m listening,” I say.

The silence between us stretches, filled only by the storm. The rain against the window, the hum of the fridge, and somewhere deep in the building, a pipe groans. Neither of us moves.

Corvin sits across from me, soaked and silent. His coat drips onto the floor, dark spots spreading like ink stains.

“I want the truth,” I say. “No riddles. No metaphors. Just say it.”

His gaze flicks to the scarf, then back to me .

“Your mother wasn’t entirely human,” he says. Quiet. Measured.

It’s not surprise, not exactly, but it’s…

something akin to it. My throat tightens.

On some level, I knew this, but hearing it from him, from someone not human himself, gives it a weight it never had alone in my head.

A fundamental tonal shift to everything in my life.

I shake my head, the world tilting. I see her humming over laundry, the smell of burnt pancakes. It can’t be.

“What?” I say, the word a broken sound.

“She was Fae-born. Not full-blooded, but close. One generation removed. That was enough.”

Enough for what? I try to push away from the table, but my hands are clenched on the mug. He leans forward, resting his elbows on my chipped and worn dining table that I salvaged from a closing diner.

“She was what the old stories called light-touched. A Dreamer. Someone the Dream recognized and feared.”

“No. She was… she was just my mom. She worked nights at the hospital. She made terrible pancakes. She hummed to herself while folding laundry.”

“She also bound herself to your father despite what it cost her,” Corvin says. “And carried two children who were never supposed to exist. You and Milo… were risks. Beautiful ones, but dangerous.”

Denial hardens in my chest. Too many questions. Too much that reshapes everything. It makes it all… wrong.

“You’re lying,” I hiss, pushing back hard enough to scrape the chair against the floor .

“I’m not.” His voice softens. “She tried to tell you. Before she got sick. But by then it was too late. The memories were already unraveling and not by accident.”

My eyes sting. “She forgot.”

“She was made to forget,” he says. “Sealed. Suppressed. So you could grow without interference. Your father agreed to it—he thought it was the only way to protect you both.”

I try to breathe. The apartment feels too small, the air too thick. “So what? My whole life was fake? Just a patchwork of edits?”

“No,” Corvin says, shaking his head. “Your life was real. But it was trimmed. Cropped at the edges. Like an old photo where half the faces have been torn away.”

I close my eyes. Flashes of childhood rise—dreams I’d forgotten, things that never made sense. My mother singing in a language I didn’t recognize. My father flinching when I drew the sun with silver rays. The way Milo used to stare at shadows like they whispered to him.

I thought those were just… oddities. Family quirks. Grief, maybe, but…no. It’s something more? No, it can’t be. It’s not a legacy. Is it?

“How long have you known?” I ask, voice raw.

“Since before you were born.”

That makes me look up. “You knew her?”

“I was agreed to watch her,” he admits. “Not by the Queen. Not by the Court. A promise once made.”

I want to be angry. I want to scream. But what comes out is softer. Grieving.

“You let her die? ”

Corvin’s jaw tightens and his hands clench into fists.

“If I could’ve stopped it, I would have. I wasn’t the only one watching, Skye. I never was.”

His words settle like dust drifting from the dirty ceiling.

“Dreamer blood runs through you like a current,” he says. “But it only matters if it’s remembered. That’s what she was trying to do, but they stopped her before she could.”

My hands clench around the cooling mug. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, “they’re looking for you.”

“Because of what I am?”

“No,” he says. “Because of what you could be. You’re the first one in a generation with the power to awaken and shape a Freehold. You’re a living tether between the Waking and the Dream. You don’t just walk between—you change the path.”

I think of the city—of the shimmer, the threads of light, the way the world pulsed beneath my feet. I think of the Queen’s message. Of Faelan’s warning. Of Milo’s sketchbook.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper.

“I know,” Corvin says.

Silence falls, but it’s different this time because it’s shared.

Then he adds, softer still, “There are those who wanted you untouched. Hidden. But the time for hiding is over.”

Outside, the storm rages louder. The world is reshaping itself around the noise. I sit, shaking—half-orphan, half-myth, trying to remember who I was before any of this started.

Corvin rises. He shrugs, the motion too smooth, like he’s moving through slowed time. His eyes flick toward the window, where the rain streaks harder still, driven sideways by the wind.

“There’s something I need to show you.”

I glance at the window then back to him.

“Now?”