Page 39 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

DARKNESS UNDONE

T he Court has fallen into stunned silence. Around us, Fae nobles lower their heads, their glowing eyes fixed on Faelan—no, on us —with something between awe and fear. The scent of magic clings to the air, sweet and sharp as ozone after lightning.

Faelan’s fingers tighten around mine. I’m standing on the platform beside him, heart pounding, blood singing from what we just did—what I just did.

I sang a Freehold awake. I made the Court kneel .

For a moment—just one moment—it feels like we’ve turned the tide. Like we’ve struck a blow the Queen can’t ignore. That maybe, just maybe, we’ve taken the first real step toward winning this war.

“You did it,” Faelan murmurs, leaning in. His voice is reverent. “Skye…they see you now.”

“They see us, ” I whisper back.

He kisses my knuckles, soft and unguarded .

“We should rest. Regroup. The Council will call a summit. They’ll want to know what comes next.”

I nod. My limbs ache. My soul aches. But despite all that, there’s light inside, steady and real. The Dream has changed, and I feel it. The court is no longer holding its breath. The Freehold itself hums with quiet approval.

For the first time since this all began, I believe we might survive. Then the wind shifts.

A ripple passes through the veil. Not the gentle pull of Dream light—but a tear. A rend. Faelan’s head snaps toward it, eyes narrowing.

Something’s wrong.

I barely register the scream that splits the stillness. The Dream opens— violently.

Corvin staggers through the rent like he’s been thrown.

Blood spatters the white stones as he collapses to one knee. His coat is shredded. One arm hangs uselessly at his side. Deep claw marks rake down his chest. I run towards him.

“Corvin!” My voice breaks.

Faelan curses, stepping with me. I drop to my knees beside Corvin, reaching for him, but he bats my hand away.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t waste time.”

His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, are glassy with pain. He grips my sleeve. Tight.

“She has him.”

My whole body goes still.

“Milo?” I whisper, not breathing .

Corvin nods, once.

“Taken. Tonight. She waited for this—waited until your power flared. Then she moved.”

Faelan kneels beside me. “Where?”

Corvin licks blood from his split lip. “Your apartment. She left a message. Burned into the wall.”

“What does it say?” I ask, already knowing it’s a threat.

Corvin meets my eyes, and for once, there’s no mask.

“‘Come see what you’ve made.’”

I stagger to my feet, heart hammering in my chest. The Freehold around us dims. The wind turns sharp. The Dream is shifting, again.

Faelan’s sword is already in his hand. “We go. Now.”

I nod. Fury sharpens every movement. There’s no room for fear—only fire. Corvin pushes himself upright. Blood runs down his fingers.

“You’re not going alone,” he says with a growl.

“Not you,” Faelan says, his voice low and dangerous.

I look between them, the two men who’ve risked everything for me.

“No,” I say, stepping through the arch. “This time, we do it together.”

The veil shudders open ahead. Now we are the hunters. I will save my brother, no matter the price.

We step through the Veil into a world that feels wrong .

The moment my boots hit the cracked pavement outside my apartment, I know we’re too late. The air is burned, warped—like the echo of a scream still hanging in the Dream. The street is empty. Too empty. Not quiet, but held . Like the world is watching and holding its breath for what comes next.

Faelan draws his sword without a word. Corvin stays close beside me, his posture low and alert despite the blood seeping from his shoulder.

My apartment building rises ahead. Nothing’s broken on the outside, but the violation echoes in my bones.

I climb the stairs two at a time. I know it’s bad, I know he’s gone, but I have to see. At the door, I pause, looking between Faelan and Corvin. Faelan nods sharply, sword held ready. Corvin grunts, and blood drips onto the floor. I close my eyes and move through the door in a single, fast motion.

Inside all is silent.

“Milo?” My voice shatters the stillness.

No answer.

I move fast, ignoring the way my mark pulses in warning. The lights flicker. I move to Milo’s room and slam the door open. The scent of scorched ozone hits me first.

Then I see it.

A message is scorched across the wall over the mattress that serves as his bed in blackened, curving script—cut straight into the drywall with such precision the letters faintly glow.

You Made Him Thi s

Beneath the words is something worse. A circle of dried blood. Milo’s hoodie lies in the center of it, folded like an offering.

I stagger back, a scream tearing through me that makes no sound.

It’s not just anger; it’s a cold, sickening betrayal, a direct assault on my soul.

The words on the wall aren’t just letters; they’re a brand, searing themselves into my mind, twisting every sacrifice I’ve made into a weapon against me.

My mark burns, not with power, but with a sharp, agonizing pain, as if the Dream itself is twisting inside me, reflecting the Queen’s cruel accusation. Milo’s hoodie, so small and innocent, a folded offering in a circle of his own blood—it's a punch to the gut, stealing my breath.

“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no?—”

Faelan catches me before I fall. His grip is iron. His eyes burn silver in the flickering light. He looks at the wall, at the blood, at the dark veil rippling just outside the edges of my vision.

“This is her message,” he says grimly. “She’s not hiding anymore.”

Corvin steps toward the circle, jaw tight.

“This isn’t just a taunt. It’s a claim. She’s marking him.”

I spin toward him. “What does that mean? What did she do to him?”

Corvin meets my eyes, haunted.

“He’s fading, Skye. She’s unmaking his memory. The bond she forged with him—it’s unraveling. She’ll twist him into whatever she wants. He’ll forget you. Forget himself. ”

“No.” My voice breaks, a raw, desperate sound.

A chilling emptiness blooms in my mind, a phantom loss of memories, as if a part of my own history with Milo is being erased.

The thought of him forgetting me, forgetting himself , is a terror far worse than any physical pain. “I won’t let that happen.”

Faelan rests a hand on my shoulder. “Then we get him back. We go to her Court.”

“It’s suicide,” Corvin says. “You know that.”

“Then we die trying,” I say.

Corvin’s lips twitch—pain and pride all tangled up. “You sound like me.”

I turn back toward the wall, eyes fixed on those hateful words. I reach out and touch the first letter. Magic flares, and it burns my fingertips, but I don’t pull back. I won’t look away.

“She took Milo because she knows he’s my tether. My weakness.”

“No,” Faelan says, stepping close. “He’s your reason.”

I look at them—Corvin with his blood-soaked coat and hollow eyes, Faelan with his blade and storm heart—and I feel it again. The choice sharp and ready to cut, left or right. Right or wrong.

“She wants to break me,” I whisper.

“Then don’t let her,” Corvin says.

Faelan nods once. “Let’s break her instead.”

I clench my fists. The Dream trembles around us, answering my rage.

“She thinks this is over,” I say. “She thinks I’ll come begging.”

“What do you want to do?” Corvin asks .

I bow my head, the weight settles on my shoulders. This is the moment. I decide, here and now, which person I’m going to become. A song comes to my lips, unbidden, unthought of, but there, ready to answer my need.

I sing Nothing Left to Lose by Deepfield, looking up and meeting each of their eyes in turn as I do.

The pain in Corvin’s is clear, the aching loss of the past in Faelan’s, but this is not the past. This is now. And I’m making my choice.

“I want to burn her Court to ash.”

The shadows curl tighter around the apartment. The war has truly begun. As one, they nod agreement, silently swearing themselves to me.

I lead the way out of my apartment because there’s nothing left for me here.

They follow as I open the veil, and we step through to Faelan’s sanctuary.

Faelan silently leads us to the ruined music room of the sanctuary.

The broken piano, half-swallowed by moss, casts long shadows in the Dream light.

The silence between us is heavier—an agreement made, even if the path ahead is madness.

Faelan paces like a caged wolf. Corvin leans against the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.

I sit on the floor, cross-legged, Milo’s folded hoodie cradled in my lap. My fingers move over the fabric without thinking. It still smells like him—laundry soap, candy, dust.

It makes this real.

“We’ll never breach the Queen’s Court by force,” Faelan says. “Even with the Veil answering to you. Her stronghold is built inside an old wound of the Dream. It feeds on despair. Corruption. There’s no logic there. No light.”

“Then we bring our own,” I say, keeping my eyes on the fabric. “We don’t walk into her Court like warriors. We enter like a song.”

Corvin raises an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of shaping a path with Dream song?”

I nod.

“Not just any song. A counter-song. A melody that speaks to the Dream’s true nature, not its corruption.

She thinks I’ll come for Milo alone, raging and broken.

She doesn’t know what I’ve become. If I can tune the Dream as we move, we’ll cut a path through her illusions, through the very despair that feeds her. ”

“That’s… risky,” Corvin says slowly. “You could burn out before we reach her. The Dream will fight you every step of the way. You’ll feel every wound, every flicker of corruption as you try to mend it. It will try to consume you.”

I feel a subtle drain, a phantom ache behind my mark, even as he speaks—a chilling preview of the cost.

“I already burned once,” I say. “And I’m still here.”

Faelan meets my eyes across the room. “She’ll sense you the moment we get close.”

“Good,” I say. “Let her.”

Corvin pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “We’ll need to anchor ourselves. Shape markers. Something to hold the Dream together around us. If it slips too far into nightmare, we’re dead.”

“I can do that,” I say. “But we’ll need to go fast. ”

“I can shield the path,” Faelan adds. His voice is tight, and I see a flicker of pain, a shadow of exhaustion in his eyes.

The recent sacrifice of his soul-piece has left him vulnerable, and I know this offer costs him dearly, pushing him to his absolute limits.

Corvin and I both look at him doubtfully, and he shrugs. “Long enough.”

The plan starts to form—impossible and fragile—but it’s ours . Then the Dream shifts. My mark flares. A pulse of wrongness slices through my spine like a violin string snapping.

“Milo,” I whisper.

The Dream splits—not physically, but through sound. A memory bleeds through the Veil.

We turn as one.

And see him.

A flickering echo. Milo’s figure stands at the far end of the music room, just behind the old piano.

But he’s not really here. His edges don't just blur; they shift, subtly too smooth, then unnaturally jerky, like a marionette on unseen strings.

His eyes are vacant, yes, but more than that—they hold a disturbing, distant emptiness, like windows to a mind that isn't his own.

“Milo?” I take a step forward.

He doesn’t move.

Then his head jerks to the side— not like a person. More like a puppet being yanked by invisible strings.

His mouth opens. No sound at first then?—

“I’m fine, Skye,” he says. But it’s not his voice. Not quite. It’s a filtered version, a recording played through broken speakers, but beneath it, a subtle, underlying current of the Queen’s power hums, like a dark chord thrumming beneath a false melody.

He smiles. And his smile is wrong—too wide, too fixed, a grotesque parody of Milo’s easy grin.

“I love it here,” he continues. “It’s quiet. She understands me.”

My blood runs cold.

“Milo, fight her,” I whisper. “You’re stronger than this.”

His hand lifts. Shows me something. A red rose.

Thorns like teeth. The Queen’s mark. As he holds it out, I feel a phantom prick of pain in my own mark, a sudden, suffocating dread that clutches at my chest. It’s a direct taunt, a psychological weapon aimed straight at the bond I share with him, a chilling reminder of her claim.

Corvin curses under his breath. Faelan steps between me and the projection.

“It’s not him. She’s using him like a marionette.”

“I know,” I say, my voice cracking. “But it’s a piece of him.”

The vision wavers. Milo’s figure flickers like a dying candle.

“I wish you hadn’t come,” the puppet says, voice warping. “Now you’ll see what she’s made me.”

Then he’s gone.

The music room feels ten degrees colder. I stand slowly.

“She’s baiting me.”

“She’s scared,” Corvin corrects, voice low. “This is fear wrapped in cruelty.”

Faelan sheathes his blade with a sharp motion. “Then she made her last mistake. ”

We face each other—Corvin, Faelan, me—one mortal, two monsters, and a broken bond between us all.

“She took my brother,” I say. “She’s trying to use him to break me.”

I lift my chin.

“Now we break her .”