Page 19 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

THE TASTE OF STARLIGHT

T he water hits my skin like absolution.

Hot, too hot—scalding down my shoulders and spine—but I don’t turn the knob.

I let it burn. Thankful that for once it is actually hot like it should be.

I let it chase the chill of last night off my skin.

The Hollowland is gone, but I feel it, like smoke in my lungs. Like maybe I didn’t fully leave.

I brace both hands on the shower wall, bowing my head under the spray. My breath fogs against the tile, and the water falls. It shouldn’t be this quiet, but it is.

I’m not shaking anymore. That should count for something, though I’m not steady either. I close my eyes. The rain. The flickering shadows. The moment Faelan touched my hand, and the world snapped back into place.

My stomach tightens.

It wasn’t just that place that changed me. I glance down as I reach for the soap and freeze .

There—just below my collarbone, near where my heart hammers beneath my skin—is something new.

A faint, silvery thread, almost like a scar, but not a raised scar.

More like a shimmer under the skin. It curves gently, etched in an almost organic line, like a crescent turned sideways, with smaller branches curling from its edge.

My mind doesn’t see vines or veins—it sees a melody etched beneath my skin, a stave of impossible notes.

I touch it.

It’s warm. Not hot. Not painful. But it responds—pulses—like it knows I’m paying attention. My throat goes dry. I didn’t get this from the Hollowland. At least, not just the Hollowland. I didn’t scrape against anything. Didn’t bleed. Faelan pulled me out before?—

Faelan.

I shut the water off and lean against the tile, heart racing for a whole new reason.

Is this his doing? No—he wouldn’t have marked me without asking.

Would he? But he touched me. He stepped into that place to reach me.

Could something have passed between us? Or was it the Hollowland itself?

Not a wound, not a brand—more like… a signature. A residue. A claim.

It doesn’t hurt, but it hums. A low, quiet vibration under the skin.

Like a tuning fork struck somewhere deeper than bone.

I wrap a towel around myself and walk to the mirror.

The mark catches the light at certain angles, then vanishes like it was never there.

But I know it is. The longer I stare, the less it feels like something foreign.

More like something that’s always been there, waiting, hidden or maybe sleeping. A lost chord. A forgotten lyric .

I think of Faelan’s voice. The way he said my name.

The way the Dream twisted—responding to him.

The way he looked at me like he knew I was becoming something else.

Maybe he was right to be afraid. Maybe I should be, too, but I’m not, at least not exactly.

Whatever this is—whatever I’m becoming—I’m not going to flinch from it.

I can’t. Something has started to shape me from the inside out.

And beyond that, Milo’s out there and he needs me.

I touch the mark again and feel the faintest echo of a sound in my head—not yet music or voice. It feels like the first note of something I haven’t learned how to sing yet. And whatever it is… it’s mine. A part of me.

Shaking off the confusion I towel myself off then quickly dress. Time is passing faster and faster and I’m no closer to finding Milo than I was when this began. Passing through the tiny space that serves as both living and dining room my gaze stops on my guitar.

I left it leaning against the couch. It calls to me in the same way it always has. An escape from everything that is going wrong in my world. Music doesn’t care. Music transports me away to a better, more pure place. A place where emotions aren’t overwhelming because they have an outlet.

The guitar hums faintly when I brush my fingers along the strings—not a sound, exactly, more a vibration I feel in my bones. That sense that it’s waiting. It knows.

I don’t play, but something coils inside—tangled and restless. I need to move, to breathe air that isn’t steamy, full of mildew, and memory.

I pull on my jacket and wrap Milo’s scarf around my neck despite the warm temperature.

It might be winter, but Missouri has never cared what the calendar says when it comes to temperature or weather.

It does whatever the hell it wants, even if that is eighty degrees on a Monday with a blizzard on Tuesday.

My boots hit the steps a little too hard as I descend. I don’t know where I’m going, just that staying still feels unbearable. When I emerge from my building, I’m not alone.

Faelan is leaning against the brick wall across the alley.

His coat is unfastened, rain-damp pure white hair half-shadowing his eyes and clinging to his face.

He doesn’t say anything. Watching like he’s been waiting—but without a hint of impatience.

His presence feels like a steady rhythm that underlies the chaos in my head. A bass line to the confusion.

His gaze drops, landing on the hollow of my throat, then away again too fast. He felt it or saw it. The mark.

“What aren’t you telling me now?” I ask, my voice not harsh, just tired.

Faelan’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“There’s something I want to show you first.”

“I’m starting to hate that answer,” I mutter, but I follow anyway.

He doesn’t take my hand. Doesn’t lead like he owns the space between us—but I feel him, a quiet tether at my side. He’s adjusting his steps to match mine without needing to think about it as we leave the familiar streets behind and push deeper into a part of the city that isn’t named on any map.

The buildings sag like they’ve forgotten how to hold themselves up. Windows are boarded over, but ivy curls through the cracks like it’s reclaiming the ruins. We round a corner into what should be an abandoned lot—chained off and forgotten.

Only it’s not .

I slow to a stop. Faelan says nothing as I take it in.

The lot is overgrown, but not in the way normal plants grow wild.

This is different. Impossible. Flowers bloom from cracks in the pavement in shades I can’t name.

Vines twist up rusted lampposts and old fences, vibrant with color, pulsing faintly with light.

Leaves shiver as if touched by a wind I can’t feel.

The scent is heady—jasmine and something sweeter, older, like rain-soaked pages and honeysuckle and old stories that never got their endings.

“What is this place?” I whisper.

“A Memory Garden,” he says. “When a Freehold begins to die, the Dream sometimes roots itself. Hope has a kind of… echo. If the people who once lived here felt enough of it, sometimes something remains. Staving off the inevitable decay for a little while longer.”

I take a slow, tentative step forward. The flowers part without resistance. Some shimmer like moonlight caught on water. Others close protectively as I pass, as if recognizing something I can’t see.

I reach out and brush a petal. A flicker of something hits my chest—a feeling, not a thought. Love. Longing. A laugh shared beneath stars. A final hand-hold during the last breath. It’s not mine, but for one heartbeat, I feel it like it could be.

I inhale sharply. “They’re memories.”

Faelan nods. “What’s left of them.”

“They’re beautiful.”

He looks away, jaw tight. “This one’s almost gone. The Queen’s reach is spreading faster. When this place goes, it’ll be like it never existed. ”

A chill trickles down my spine. “And you brought me here because…?”

“Because I need you to see what’s at stake,” he says, quiet. “Because I come here when I need to remember.”

I look over and stare. The tilt of his shoulders, the stillness in his posture.

Not weary like someone who’s been fighting too long, but like someone who remembers what it felt like to be more than this.

There’s grief in him. And reverence. This place matters to him the way music matters to me.

No doubt in my mind that this is one of the last threads he still holds.

I reach out and brush my fingers along one of the violet petals.

It glows faintly under my touch, and for just a moment, a vision shimmers of a mother spinning with her child.

Their laughter rings like birdsong through the garden.

Then it’s gone. Not torn away—just...finished. The end of a song fading away.

Faelan steps closer—not quite touching but I feel his heat. The garden narrows around us, vines curling gently inward, as if the Dream itself is folding its arms around this moment, around us. A canopy of violet forms overhead. Everything feels hushed, suspended. Sacred.

“I don’t know what I’m becoming,” I say quietly. “But it started before the Hollowland, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His gaze stays on the glowing petals. Then, softly, “Yes.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I should have,” he agrees. “But some truths… take root in silence first.”

I turn toward him fully. “And you? What are you, Faelan? You feel like—” I search for the words. “Like a scar the Dream wears.”

His eyes widen a fraction and then he smiles—sharp, yet also sad.

“That’s not a bad guess.”

He lifts a hand, slow. Not hesitant, just careful. Like he knows this moment could shift everything. His fingers brush the edge of Milo’s scarf, then drift lower, hovering over my collarbone—over the mark that hums faintly beneath my skin.

“You feel different,” he murmurs. “Something’s woken up inside you.”

“It did,” I say, voice tight. “But I’m not sure if it’s mine or something the Dream gave me.”

He tilts his head. “Does it matter?”

“It does,” I whisper. “Because I don’t want to lose myself. Not to this. Not to you.”

“You won’t,” he says—and for a moment, I almost believe him.

His hand lingers near my skin. His breath brushes my cheek. The world narrows down to this charged stillness between us. The petals overhead tremble like they’re holding their breath.

Then he leans in.

His lips brush mine—slow, uncertain. Asking a question he already knows the answer to. I should pull away. I don’t. The kiss deepens, and the Dream wraps around us—lush, gold and silver, electric. For one impossible second, it feels like the world is singing.

A sharp, brutal crack cuts through the stillness like a whip. A branch broken underfoot, impossibly loud in the hushed space. Faelan pulls back instantly, his body shifting, the sudden tension a coiled blade. His head whips toward the sound.

“They’re close,” he says. “Vampires. One of the Queen’s.”

I blink, dazed. The garden dims. Petals curl inward. The Dream recoils—not afraid, but alert. Shielding us. The ache of what could’ve been feels like a physical wound beneath my ribs, a sharp, cold jab of reality. I want to pull away, to run, but I force myself to stand still, to breathe.

I nod once, pushing the dazed feeling aside. “Then let’s move.”

He doesn’t take my hand, but he doesn’t step far, either.

We move together, the path shifting beneath our feet, leading us out through the curling edges of the garden.

Each step feels like leaving something sacred behind.

But the warmth of the kiss stays with me.

The world waits ahead. And I’m not the same girl who walked into this place.

We slip through the edges of the garden, the scent of violet and memory clinging to my skin. The city waits beyond—a muted blur of brick and rain-slick pavement, distant sirens and neon lights pulsing like a slower heartbeat. The moment between us still lingers, breathless and unfinished.

Faelan kneels near the crumbling fence where we first stepped through.

He presses one hand to the soil. A thread of light sparks from his palm—green-gold, flickering like dying starlight.

It pulses outward, vanishing into the roots and stones.

The garden responds. The flowers shiver, bowing.

The vines unspool from the fenceposts. One by one, the petals dim.

Within seconds, the space folds into itself, shimmer by shimmer, memory by memory.

A shimmer, a sigh—and then it’s gone. Leaving an overgrown lot behind rusted, broken chain-link and shadows .

Hidden again. Sleeping.

Faelan rises slowly, jaw tight.

“They’re hunting now,” he says. “The Queen’s forces won’t stop. They know what you are.”

“What am I?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Corvin says I’m a Shaper. Whatever that really means.”

His gaze flickers toward me—but he doesn’t answer.

I don’t push. Not now. My heart’s still thudding with everything: the kiss, the warning, the Dream singing under my skin like a second pulse.

I touch my collarbone where the mark is.

It responds, faint but sure—warm beneath my fingers, like a thread tied to something I haven’t found yet.

“They’ll keep coming for me,” I say quietly.

“Yes,” Faelan says. No softening. No lies. I look at him, at the hard lines of his jaw, the shadow of grief in his eyes. He is a part of this now. A part of my struggle. And for the first time, the thought doesn’t terrify me.

I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m done living in the ghost of my parents’ secrets and the lies they told to keep me safe. This is me. This is my song.

I glance up at the skyline—metal and shadow and stars I can barely see. I take a deep breath, and it feels like the first one I’ve ever taken.

“Let them come,” I whisper. My voice is steady, and there is no trace of fear in it. I know who I am now. This is me. This is the new song.”