Page 22 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

CROWNS AND COVENANTS

I spend the night and the next day tending to Milo: wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, brushing his damp hair aside, humming like Mom used to, and getting him to sip broth.

It’s the next evening when he stirs and seems to be waking up. His eyelids flutter, then he gasps and sits part way up. His eyes—when they finally meet mine—are wrong. Red flecks dot them, and for a terrifying instant, they hold a blankness, a cold, predatory glint that makes my stomach clench.

“Hey,” I whisper, my voice catching. “You okay?”

He nods, slow. Too slow.

“It tastes… different.”

That’s not what I asked, but I won’t press it.

“You’re safe now,” I say, though it tastes like a lie. “You’re home.”

He blinks at me like he doesn’t recognize the word. My stomach knots .

“Do you remember what happened?”

His expression tightens as he touches his lips, which have a newly crimson hue. Subtle, but I know his face better than my own.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

That’s also not what I asked, but I won’t to press it. Not tonight. I swallow hard.

“You should rest. I’ll be right here.”

He nods then forces himself up. I help him up then he makes his way to his room. I don’t follow. I wait until the door clicks closed, and then I collapse onto the couch like my legs are water.

What have I done?

He’s alive. But he’s far from free. After all he’s been through I doubt he’s who he was, not even considering what Corvin did to him.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I think of the Hollowland. The mark. The memory garden. The kiss. The bargain I made without fully understanding. The way Corvin looked at me, like he’d won a bet I didn’t know was made.

I can’t cry. Not now. Clenching my eyes and jaw I reach for my rock. The one thing that’s kept me going no matter how rough things get. My guitar.

The strings are cold under my fingertips.

I tune by instinct, letting my hands move without thought.

Something low and minor. Open chords echo a truth I don’t have the words for, but the melody pulls them out.

I sing a simple melody, but it feels old, like an ache that’s been waiting for me to find it.

I walked through the fire, but the scars remain,

Carried ghosts in my mouth, learned to speak with their wings.

There’s blood on my shadow, and light in my hands,

And I don’t know who I am now—only that I stand.

The sound fills the apartment, not loud, but real. My voice cracks once, but I keep going.

I buried my fear where the stars used to fall,

Laid dreams down like offerings no one could call.

But the dark doesn’t break me—not anymore,

I am the door. I am war.

The final chord rings and dies. I let it fade, breathing in the silence like it might teach me how to survive this moment. I don’t feel better, but I do feel rooted here. Then I feel him. Not through footsteps or a knock, but a shift in the air—like the Dream sighs, and my mark thrums in answer.

I don’t bother turning around.

“You always sneak in uninvited?” I ask quietly.

Faelan’s voice comes from the shadow near the window.

“Only when you’re singing.”

I turn. He’s leaning against the glass, pale as always, watching like the song peeled back something he hadn’t meant for me to see.

“I told you we need time. You shouldn’t be here,” I say, even though my heart skips like it wants him here. “Not after what happened. ”

“I know.” He steps forward, slow, careful. “But I had to see you.”

I hug my arms around myself and sigh.

“You were right. About the price.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t have to pay it.” His eyes flick to Milo’s closed door. “But you made the choice.”

“Don’t do that,” I snap. “Don’t put it all on me. I didn’t have time to ask questions. Corvin didn’t give me options.”

“You had one,” Faelan says gently. “Just because it was a choice you couldn’t live with doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

The air buzzes with tension. Grief and guilt and something unspoken between us.

“I sang,” I say, quieter now. “Because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And the Dream listened.”

I look at him sharply. “Isn’t it always listening?”

“Always.” He glances at the guitar. “But it doesn’t always answer.”

He steps closer, his eyes reflecting the dim light, his mouth set in a line that says he’s holding something back. I square my shoulders and meet his unnatural gaze.

“Then stop holding back. Tell me the truth.”

Faelan frowns. His eyes flick away, staring over my shoulder or into nothing, I don’t know which. Finally, he nods.

“Come with me. It’s time you knew what I gave up. And why.”

I hesitate, looking at Milo’s door. Faelan hums softly and my mark thrums as if responding. I don’t know the tune and there aren’t any words, but it makes a chill race over my skin.

“He will be safe,” Faelan says at last, holding out his hand to me.

I look from his offered hand to Milo’s door and back again. I’ve gone this far and my choices, such as they are, are limited. I take his hand and he leads us outside.

The streets are hushed again as I follow Faelan into the dark.

Hushed seems to be a thing that goes hand-in-hand with him.

The sky overhead is smeared with clouds, silver-pale and bruised violet.

Neither of us speaks. The only sound is the quiet scrape of our footsteps and the ever-present hum of the Dream just beneath the skin of the world.

I don’t ask where we’re going. The way he moves—measured and grave—tells me this isn’t something casual. Not a whim. Not a trick. This is sacred.

He leads me deep into the forgotten edges of the city. We slip through alleys and across rooftops, climbing higher than I expect, until we reach a crumbling, long-condemned overpass. Below us, the city glows. Above us, the clouds begin to part and reveal a sliver of stars.

He doesn’t stop until we reach a section that’s been swallowed by vines.

Not the lush, strange growth of the Memory Garden.

These are darker. Older. Coiling tight around the stone.

A black iron gate blocks the way, but Faelan lays a hand on it and murmurs something in a language that turns the air sharp with magic.

The vines recoil. The gate groans open. He steps through without hesitation. I hesitate, though only for a heartbeat before I follow him in .

Beyond the gate is a stone circle. Overgrown, half-buried, but I feel its energy.

It has a weight. This isn’t just a ruin—it feels like the ruins of a throne room that time forgot.

Moss creeps across carved stones. Symbols flicker faintly under the moonlight.

And at the center stands a broken archway, tall and jagged.

No door. Just air that hums like a wire pulled tight.

Faelan stops beside the arch and turns to me.

“This was once a Crownstead,” he says. “A place where the Fae kings came to dream with their people. Where the veil was thin, and magic was woven into the world.”

I take a slow step forward. “But it’s gone now.”

“It fell the night I gave up my crown.”

My breath catches. “You…a king?”

“I was King of the Aes’tariel. The last true ruler of the border courts. The one who kept the Dream open—for your kind and mine. Until I broke covenant.”

“Why?” I ask, the word slipping free without consideration or thought. I scoff, a cynical sound. "Love? You gave up a kingdom for love ? That’s a story for children’s books, Faelan."

He doesn’t flinch.

“Because I fell in love with a mortal woman. And I chose her over the throne.”

Silence stretches between us, long and heavy.

“You gave up your crown for love,” I say, the words tasting strange on my tongue.

A part of me, the cynical, broken part, wants to dismiss it as a lie, a romanticized excuse; but another part, the one that still aches for beauty, feels a desperate, dangerous pull toward the truth of it.

He smiles, but there’s no joy in it.

“No. I gave up my crown for hope. I thought if I could save her, I could save something greater, but I was wrong.”

The Dream hums louder, like it remembers with him.

“And now?” I ask.

I can’t define the look on his face, hurt? Longing? Aching?

“Now, the Fae call her name again.”

I go still. “What do you mean?”

Faelan reaches toward me—not touching, but close.

“They call her name because they sense you.”

My stomach twists. “What, you think I’m her? Seriously Faelan, I don’t buy into reincarnation.”

“No,” he says softly. “But you carry something of her spirit. Her spark. Her defiance. And the Dream…remembers.”

A wind stirs. The vines rustle. The broken archway glows faintly, silver threads dancing like whispers on air.

“Why bring me here?” I ask.

“Because this is where I lost everything,” he says. “And if you walk this path, you deserve to know what it costs.”

I step closer to the center of the stones, my fingers brushing the air beneath the arch. It hums against my palm. Not painful—but more…familiar. It knows me. The Dream knows. The mark beneath my collarbone pulses in time with the rhythm of this place .

Something is changing, and Faelan is at the center of it. A fallen king. A shattered covenant. And now... me. I lower my hand and meet his gaze. My stomach flips then flops. A subtle shiver races up my spine.

“I’m not here to wear a crown,” I say. “All I want is to save my brother.”

“I know.” His voice is barely audible. “The Dream doesn’t choose people for what they want, though. Only for what they are. ”

Nothing moves. I’m not sure I even breathe.

The weight of his words presses in, pushing away all other thoughts.

The fleeting thoughts of how handsome he looks, and how my skin warms at his touch.

The ghostly flickers around us as the Dream flashes, overlaying what was with what is in a disconcerting array of confusion.