Page 23 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

I blink and it’s gone. The moment doesn’t shatter, it just moves on. Passes away, an opportunity missed? A choice not made? It’s all too much to take in. Faelan was King? He loved some unknown woman and now I remind him of her?

We don’t speak as we leave the Crownstead. The wind presses close, damp and metallic, the taste of rain and old magic thick in the air. Faelan walks beside me, silent, his coat snapping in the breeze. There’s a heaviness between us. The kind that doesn’t go away after one conversation.

I told him I wasn’t here to wear a crown, but something in me won’t let the thought go. Not a crown, but a thread. A tether. And something is pulling.

We’re back on solid streets, not quite near home, but not far either. Milo’s safe. As safe as he can be with whatever Corvin did still lingering under his skin. I feel that, too—the blood magic clinging to him like a net.

But this… this is different.

I pause, placing a hand over the mark beneath my collarbone. It’s warm. Throbbing. A heartbeat that doesn’t match mine.

Faelan notices. “You feel it.”

I nod. “It’s like I’m being watched or… listened to.”

“The Dream is paying attention.”

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s not the Dream. Or not just. This feels more… intimate. Like someone knows me. Or thinks they do.”

His expression darkens. “The Queen.”

I go still.

“She’s reaching for you,” Faelan says, voice grim. “You’ve stirred too much power. Changed too much. You’ve awakened a Freehold. You walked into a Hollowland and survived. You carry a mark not of this world. She won’t ignore that.”

I glance up, the city lights turning golden on the wet street. Everything feels closer. The veil thinner. And inside that closeness— something stirs.

Not a voice exactly, but a presence. Soft. Feminine. Cruel. A whisper curls through my skull, not in words, but intent. It feels like a cold, silky hand stroking my mind, promising ease.

Aren’t you tired of being used, little Dreamer? Of making bargains you don’t understand? I can give you power, true power, to protect what’s yours .

I flinch, a sharp, involuntary jolt that sends a spike of pain through my temples. Faelan steps forward instantly, his eyes narrowing.

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing,” I lie, my voice strained. The lie tastes like ash. He stares at me, jaw tight.

“You don’t have to protect me from this.”

“Don’t I?” I snap, too raw, too exposed. “You’re the one who said knowing more would make me a target. Guess what? It has. Well done, you predicted this very thing.”

He doesn’t answer, but his gaze flicks to the empty air around me, like he sees more than I do. Like something is threading itself between us. The wind picks up, and a feathered tension brushes against my skin, static and velvet.

You could be more, you know. More than a broken girl singing sad songs to empty rooms and ghosts. More than a pawn in a game you don’t understand. I can show you how to truly win.

I inhale sharply, grinding my teeth. My mind screams in protest, a raw, desperate defiance against the insidious comfort of her words.

“Skye?” Faelan says.

“I think she’s trying to talk to me,” I whisper, the words forced past a tightening in my throat. He moves fast—faster than I can track. One moment he’s beside me, the next his fingers are on my temples, cool and grounding.

“No,” he breathes. “Don’t let her in. Not here. Not now. You’re still too open. ”

The contact severs the thread. The presence vanishes like smoke in a storm. My knees nearly buckle. He catches me. Holds me. Not tightly, but steady.

“I’m fine,” I say. Lie number two.

“You’re not,” he says softly. “But you’re still yourself. And that’s something.”

His scent fills my nostrils, heady, like I’m inhaling a drug. I want more, but not now. Not like this. I pull away—not far, just enough to breathe again.

“What does she want?” I ask.

Faelan’s face is unreadable. “You.”

“But why?” He hesitates. I see the mask coming over his face and know what he’s about to say.

“Faelan,” I warn, locking my eyes onto his.

“She wants what every tyrant wants,” he says. “Control. Power. Permanence. And you… you’re none of those things. You’re change. You’re creation. You’re the song that breaks the spell.”

I stare at him, stunned.

“I don’t even know what I am .”

“Not yet,” he agrees. “But she knows. And that terrifies her.”

We don’t speak again until we’re outside my building. The city hums around us—lights buzzing, sirens distant, rain clinging to the edges of everything. But the Dream is, as always, present. Pressed close. Watching. Faelan lingers beside me at the door.

“Are you going to stay?” I ask.

His eyes search mine, unreadable. “I’ll be near. ”

“Of course you will,” I say, but there’s no bite to it.

He starts to turn, but then he pauses.

“You need to be careful. If she’s already trying to speak to you?—”

“I won’t let her in,” I say.

“You already did,” he says quietly. “A little.”

I look down. The mark beneath my collarbone pulses once, a single, quiet beat. It’s not a warning. Not a threat. Just… a presence.

“She’s not the only one reaching for me,” I murmur.

Faelan doesn’t deny it. Then he steps back into the mist, vanishing like breath on glass.

Inside, Milo’s asleep. I watch his chest rise and fall. He looks smaller. Fragile. He’s a tether I can’t afford to lose. I press a kiss to his forehead, and the mark in my skin flutters like it remembers what love feels like.

Then I step back into the darkened kitchen, grab my guitar, and return to the window. Rain hits the glass. Faint. Steady. The city stretches out before me. Dream and waking world layered over each other.

I let my fingers find the strings. No chords at first. Just notes. Bare. Raw. A thread I can follow. And then—words. Quiet and fractured, but mine.

I don’t know the name of the thing I’m becoming.

Don’t know where this path might lead.

But I’ve bled in the dark and I’ve sung in the silence ? —

And I won’t let her write me in grief .

The stars might burn and the gods might break,

But I’ll walk where they fear to tread.

Let the Queen come calling with all of her lies ? —

I’ll meet her with fire instead.

The last note hangs. Then fades.

And I know.

This is where it shifts. Where it stops being about running or surviving or singing just to stay sane. This is where I move .

I pull the scarf tighter around my throat, feeling the weight of Corvin’s warning, the echo of Faelan’s kiss, and the ache of Milo’s near-death.

It all settles into place like armor. I’ve lost so much, but I’ve gained something too: a fierce, unyielding will.

The fear is still there, a cold knot in my gut, but it’s not in control. It’s a fuel.

Let them come. Let her whisper my name like a curse. I am not afraid. I don’t know what I’m becoming. But I know who I am. And I won’t be unmade.