Page 2 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

I pull it out and tie off the overstuffed trash bag.

Slinging it over my shoulder, I leave the apartment and descend the backstairs, heaving the bag.

The metal door to the alley sticks, then groans open, releasing me into sun-bleached concrete and the sharp stench of rot.

It’s midday, but the alley always feels dim—like the buildings lean close in a conspiracy to steal the light.

The dumpster is halfway down the back alley, next to a cracked brick wall covered in tags that are never painted over. I keep my head down. Keep moving. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Get the job done, move on to the next .

Glancing ahead, I spot him. Leaning beside the dumpster, black coat untouched by dust or heat, arms folded like he’s been waiting forever or arrived just in time. His dark hair slicked back, crimson button-down shirt, mirror-polished shoes. In this heat he should be sweating, but he’s not.

“Skye,” he says, smoothly, like it’s a pleasure, not a veiled threat.

I freeze, just for a second, then recover. My voice clicks on like a lighter.

“Nico. Aren’t you overdressed for a garbage date?”

A smile touches his lips. It doesn’t touch his eyes.

“Business, not pleasure.”

I drop the bag into the dumpster with a thud and brush my hands on my jeans, casual, like this is normal; as if I hadn’t spent all week praying not to see him. He watches, head tilted, the way people watch a street magician—half admiration, half suspicion.

“Rough week?” he asks.

“What gave it away? The death glare or the sleepless eyes?”

“You haven’t played the Red Room in three weeks.” His tone is idle, conversational. “Your livestream numbers are down. You rescheduled Thursday’s open mic at Silos. And you’re now nineteen days behind on the agreed repayment schedule.”

My mouth goes dry and a cold dread washes over, but I do my best to hide my reaction. He clicks his tongue. I shrug, looking around, hoping some escape might magically present itself.

“Interest compounds, Skye. I’m sure Milo told you that part.”

“Actually, he doesn’t tell me much. ”

I shift my weight, staying light on my feet. Don’t let him see my fear.

“I imagine not. Still,” Nico says, stepping forward. He doesn’t close the distance, but then he doesn’t have to. “I’d hate for this little rhythm of yours to be… interrupted.”

I offer a sharp smile.

“You always this poetic, or is that just your way of saying I’m screwed?”

He chuckles. “Not yet.”

I hate that he enjoys this. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this is just how he’s built—cool, detached, like the rules of the world don’t apply to him.

“Look,” I say, pulling my voice lower, softer, desperate. I hate myself for what I’m about to say, but I’m out of ideas. “Maybe we could come to some sort of arrangement. I’m… flexible.”

It’s a low move. I know it. But desperation turns dignity into currency. Nico’s brows lift. For a beat, I think it’s working. Then he sighs.

“Skye.”

The way he says my name is like a reprimand and a lullaby at once.

“I’m not the one he owes. You know that.” His eyes—too light, too calm—slide over me like a ledger. “I just manage the timeline.”

“And what? The timeline says I’m out of tomorrows?”

“Three days,” he says, stepping back. “Then my client gets involved. ”

I swallow. The alley air is thick, but it doesn’t explain the chill crawling up my spine.

“Your client,” I echo. “Who, exactly?—”

He holds up a finger. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

My heartbeat hammers against my ribs. Still, I make myself roll my eyes.

“Great. Cryptic threats. Very on brand.”

Nico chuckles again, but there’s no warmth in it.

“This isn’t a threat. Just… notice.”

“Three days,” I repeat. “What happens then?”

His gaze lingers too long. Not leering. Not cruel. Just…knowing. Like I’m a song he’s heard before, playing the same refrain and too proud to change key.

“You’re not mine to touch,” he says quietly. “You should thank whatever claimed you for that.”

My stomach twists.

“What the hell does that mean?” He’s moving away before I finish the question. Brushing imaginary dust from his lapel, he turns as if this were just a polite conversation over tea. “Nico?—”

He pauses, just before the alley bends him out of sight.

“Take care, Skye,” he looks around, then back to me. “The shadows here aren’t always empty.”

And then he’s gone. I stand there, the sun suddenly sharper, hotter, but the air around me has gone cold, like something breathed in when he left .

Suddenly, the alley feels wrong. I look at every shadow with the weird sense of being watched.

The shadows cast by the dumpster are just a little too still.

I force myself to move, to walk back toward the apartment door with steady steps.

I don’t run, not because I’m not afraid, but because running only makes predators give chase.

In the apartment, I lock the door and slide the chain into place. Not that I think it would even slow Nico down if he decided to come through, but the ritual of it calms my racing pulse a little.

I look at Milo’s door and for a brief moment, I consider throwing it open and yelling at him. Screaming, fighting—like the old days—but that spark of fire is gone as fast as it comes. I don’t have the energy for it. Instead I go to my ‘bedroom’ in the corner.

I cross my arms and rub myself, trying to force in warmth despite the oppressive heat of the room. The smells of coffee and old guitar strings are thick on the air. The fan hums lazily overhead, stirring air that never quite cools.

My corner studio setup waits—mic arm, headphones, battered laptop covered in peeling stickers. I run a hand through my hair and sit.

The light slants gold through the blinds. Dust motes swirl like tiny fireflies. I open the recording software and check my levels. Levels are good. My heartbeat’s not, but that’s not the mic’s fault. The file name blinks:

TiesThatBind_Ep52.wav

I press record.

“Hey,” I begin. My voice is soft, scratchy from the heat and the hour. “It’s Skye. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’re not—thanks for coming back. I see you.”

Pause. Deep breath.

“Today’s not scripted.”

I never script, but I always say it anyway, like a permission slip to be messy.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about debt lately. Not just money—the other kind. The kind you pay with your bones. With silence. With showing up for people who never asked how you got there in the first place.”

My fingers curl in my lap.

“Sometimes the world asks for more than we have. And we give it anyway.”

The words hang in the room, raw and quiet. I keep going.

“My mom—she had this way of breathing through pain. She’d stand in the kitchen, quiet, like the whole house was listening. I used to think she was angry; now I think she was…holding things. Carrying them until the weight turned into something else.”

My throat tightens. I pause, letting it.

“She taught me how to breathe through silence.”

I close my eyes. A flicker—not exactly a memory. More like a feeling of honeysuckle and firelight. A hand smoothing my hair. A lullaby not in English. Something older.

“She taught me to remember who I…” My voice falters.

A sharp pulse behind my eyes. Static hums in my headphones. Brief, faint—like a frequency I shouldn’t be able to hear. I open my eyes and swallow. Not now.

I clear my throat. “Anyway.”

The rest of the episode drifts. Grief and resilience. Survival and rhythm. I speak low and slow, like I’m pouring water over coals. When it’s done, I exhale and hit stop . The silence rushes in. I save the file. Upload it to the queue and set it to publish in the morning.

The hum fades.

I pull off the headphones and stretch. My back pops.

The afternoon light has cooled to amber.

Outside, someone’s shouting at a dog. Life goes on, whether you want it to or not.

I stand, smoothing my shirt. Head still fuzzy.

That weird ache behind my eyes hasn’t left.

As I pass the mirror, I pause for a second.

The reflection looking back at me isn’t mine. Whatever claimed me, he’d said.

She looks like me, but… older. Not in years; in gravity . Her eyes carry storms. Her face is ringed with silver and dusk. She’s wearing something flowing, intricate—threads of green and gold, leaf patterns etched along the collar. There’s a glow to her skin. A memory of both sunlight and moonlight.

My breath catches. I blink—and she’s gone. It’s just me again, tired, ruffled, eyes too dark. I stare a beat longer, hand on the wall.

Had this always been there, waiting?

“Get it together,” I whisper, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to me.