Page 30 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

“Show me.”

He rises and then moves—slow, deliberate, a dance made of breath and shadow and memory. Not rehearsed; remembered. He extends a hand. I take it.

He guides me through the steps, each shift of weight and turn of wrist like echoing starlight. I fumble. He corrects. His fingers brush my waist to realign my hips; a trail of heat follows the touch. The moment stretches and blurs.

I can’t hear the melody to which he’s moving. It feels like it should be there, but when I listen, there is nothing but silence, except the silence isn’t empty.

“You’re holding back,” he murmurs.

“No, I’m?—”

“You are,” he insists. “You’re trying to control the Dream like it’s something outside you. Let it be you.”

His hands are on my shoulders now. Grounding. Steady. He looks at me—really looks—and I see it again: the pain he hides. The tenderness he’s terrified to offer.

“I can’t be what everyone wants,” I admit.

He shakes his head. “You are already more.”

Emotion swells. I try to bury it, but he sees too much. His breath brushes my skin .

“You act like protecting me means pretending you don’t feel anything,” I whisper. “But that’s not strength, Faelan. That’s fear.” His jaw tightens. He doesn’t deny it. I step closer. “I don’t want a perfect protector. I want you. ”

His eyes darken. He exhales, harsh.

“Skye…”

“Don’t walk away again,” I say, my hand trembling as I reach for him. “Don’t leave me in the dark when I’ve already chosen the light.”

And for a breath, a heartbeat, a sliver of forever—he doesn’t.

We don’t kiss.

But we come so close. His forehead touches mine. My hands rest lightly on his chest. Our breaths sync. The air between us crackles.

The Dream answers.

Magic rises like mist—silver and golden, curling through the glade. Flowers bloom at our feet. The mirror pool reflects a future not yet written: one where we stand together. Stronger.

Still unbroken.

Still us.

We don’t move.

Not right away. Not after the magic settles. Not after our breath evens.

Faelan steps back first. Just slightly. Enough to cool the air between us.

Before I speak—before I can ask what happens now—the world shifts .

It’s subtle at first. A flicker in the mirrored water that warps my reflection, a shudder through the glowing moss.

Then the air thickens with the scent of ozone and iron.

The trees stop reflecting starlight, their silver leaves turning to shadow.

Something is wrong. Faelan straightens, his coat brushing my arm, his hand drifts to the hilt at his side.

“You feel that too?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are already locked on the trees beyond the pool. The air tightens—thick and cold, like moonlight gone sour. The Dream ripples, not like a wave but like skin being peeled back—a wound in the world. And then?—

He tears through.

Not from a door. Not from a path. From between. From a place that isn’t a place: a jagged rip in the veil, silver-edged and bleeding shadow.

Corvin.

He emerges like a memory made flesh. Regal as ever, pale as frost and sharp as broken glass. His coat is tailored midnight. His expression—calm, almost amused.

His long dark hair hangs loose, draping over his shoulders, but there’s something wrong with him. An unnatural light burning behind his eyes, like a star swallowing itself.

“Faelan,” he says with a nod. “Still hiding in the roots of the world, I see.”

“Corvin,” Faelan says evenly, but I feel his energy coiling. “This place is warded.”

“And yet,” Corvin replies, stepping forward, boots silent on the moss, “here I am. ”

The Dream lets him in. That’s the part that chills me most. He didn’t force his way through. He was invited.

I step in front of Faelan without meaning to. Corvin’s gaze lands on me—and softens. Almost fond. Almost.

“You’ve grown, little bird.”

I don’t trust the tone. I don’t trust him.

My pulse stutters. My voice rises, instinctive, enough to charge the air around me with tension.

Faelan shifts. Protective. Ready with one hand on the hilt of his blade.

Corvin doesn’t flinch.

He lifts one hand—not in threat, but in offering. A gesture I know too well: the way he did when he helped me to my feet after Milo collapsed. The way he held out a bloodstained hand when I first saw what he could do.

“You’ll need me soon,” he says. “More than you want to admit.”

“You’re working for her,” Faelan snaps, stepping around me. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I made no vow,” Corvin says smoothly. “I made a deal.”

His eyes meet mine—and for just a breath, the cold mask cracks. There’s something else there. Not regret, not exactly, but a flicker of calculation, a shared understanding of power that chills me to the bone. It’s a warning, yes, but one laced with a deeper, unspoken game.

“The hounds are loose, little bird,” he says quietly. “And they hunt for more than just blood. They hunt for power. Your power. I wonder if the prince can keep you from them. ”

My mind races. Why is he warning me? Is he trying to help, or is this just another manipulation, another move in his own twisted game? Does he want me for himself, away from the Queen?

“Then help us,” I cut in. “If you’re not lost to her, then fight her.”

Corvin just smiles. “You still think this is a war with sides.”

He takes another step forward and Faelan moves too, a blur of movement, steel glinting in the moonlight.

“Don’t,” I whisper, my voice laced with Dream. It halts them both.

Corvin’s smile fades. “I came to warn you. Not to fight.”

And then the air splits. The sky above fractures—cracks lancing across it like lightning frozen in glass. The glade screams in silence. The wind howls, not with air, but with shattered magic. Corvin’s form flickers violently, like a mirage in a collapsing mirror.

“She’s watching,” Corvin says, his voice echoing with a possessive undertone that makes my skin crawl, and the words are swallowed by the sound of the veil snapping shut.

The magic collapses like a sucked breath. My mark burns. Not with warmth, but with cold fire.

“She knows where I am,” I whisper, numb.