Page 7 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

WHERE IT HURTS MOST

I scrape the last grounds of instant coffee out of the jar and into the mug. Grabbing the pan of boiling water I carefully pour the water over it, inhaling the glorious scent. My hand trembles, spilling water across the dingy counter.

Fuck it. It’s filthy anyway.

Ignoring the mess for a moment I take a seat at the small table, close my eyes, and sip.

Was it real? The vampire, the fight, the cold fury of the man who called himself Faelan? It has to be. But if the world didn’t change, then what does that leave? Me?

Have I changed? How? What does that mean?

My life has been a monument to everything I didn’t become. I used to dance in my bedroom, singing into a hairbrush, lost in a fantasy of stadiums and adoration. The dream died slowly, chipped away by rent, bills, and the need to eat. And then there was Milo .

Mom worked her ass off to provide for Milo and I. Literally. Then…when we lost her…it was all on me. And slowly, one little bit at a time, life chipped away the dream. It was lost to the pressures of rent, utilities, and a burning desire to eat.

And Milo. Never forget Milo.

Poor Milo. With his too-big, too-expressive eyes. His gentle heart wasn’t ready for what the world was throwing at us. I tried to protect him. He was so young when she got sick. When both our worlds came crashing down.

He was alone with her when she died. I was supposed to be there.

But I ran. I got angry over something stupid and left, and that’s when it happened.

I wasn’t there. I should have been. And the worst part—the most shameful, soul-ripping part—is that I chose not to be.

That’s the moment I failed. The first time, but not the last.

I bow my head, hands wrapped around the warm mug. The scent of slightly-burnt coffee rises, bitter—but not as bitter as regret.

Grief coils around in my head, building pressure behind my eyes and making it hard to breathe. I suck in a breath, then another, but nothing eases the aching in my chest. It’s like I’m breathing through a straw, through water, through memory.

If I close my eyes long enough, it’s as if I’m back there. Standing in the hallway. The awful beige carpet. The smell of antiseptic and lemon cleaner. Milo’s voice, high and afraid. The silence that followed, ringing louder than any scream.

I wasn’t there.

I should have been .

And the worst part—the most shameful, soul-ripping part—is that I chose not to be.

What kind of person runs from their dying mother? What kind of sister lets a twelve-year-old boy sit and witness not only death, but the loss of his entire world alone?

I clench the mug in both hands to feel something solid. The ceramic isn’t hot enough. It should hurt. I wish it did.

I stare across the apartment, eyes unfocused, blurring with unshed tears as I look over the cluttered sink, the stack of unopened bills, the peeling wallpaper, once a cheerful yellow, that now just looks sick.

Every corner of this place reminds me of the weight I carry.

Of everything I didn’t become. Everything I let fall apart.

I used to think I was special.

A voice like mine. That’s what everyone said. Teachers, neighbors, even random people on the street when I’d sing in the park.

“Don’t give up,” they’d say. “You’re meant for something big.”

And I believed them. I’d needed to believe them.

Now look at me. I can barely cover rent on this shoebox apartment where the heat goes out if you so much as look at the radiator wrong.

I play for tips and cold fries at 2 a.m., and people don’t even look up from their drinks.

And when they do, they only ever want one thing which has nothing to do with my singing.

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, hard, trying to blot out the tears before they start. But they come anyway—slow, bitter drops that sting like they’re made of acid .

A sound escapes me. Half-laugh, half-sob. Raw. Ugly. I can’t go on this way. I can’t keep doing this.

For a moment, the dark whispers that maybe Milo has it right.

How much easier it would be to let go. Find what escape I can, grab onto anything that pushes it all away if only for a little while.

Fall into some random stranger’s bed, take what comfort they might offer— be it booze, pills, or sex.

Drift along quietly while waiting for the inevitable end.

But then—like a reflex—my gaze flicks to the corner of the room where my guitar case remains.

The case scuffed and worn, handle fraying from too many years of being dragged across broken sidewalks. I haven’t opened it since... since before last night. Since him and now it calls me.

I stand, slow and unsteady. Each step toward it feels like it takes a hundred years. My hands hesitate over the latches. I close my eyes and perform the ritual. Click. Click. Click.

The case opens with a soft creak. My guitar is there—thank God.

The familiar, warm wood, and strings that have always felt like a part of me.

My fingers hover above it for a breath. Then I lift it out, cradling it against my body as if it’s a holy relic.

A shield between me and all that threatens my well-being.

Slipping the strap over my head, I don’t tune. Don’t think. My fingers find the chords before I remember and I play.

A slow progression. Minor chords. A melody that’s lived inside me for years but never found its way out. My voice follows, cracked and quiet, not trying to be beautiful—just true .

The music doesn’t fix anything. But it lets me breathe.

I wasn’t there the night you left,

Storm in my chest, I ran instead .

You closed your eyes, and I was gone,

Now I hum your ghost in every song.

The tears won’t be held back any longer, but they don’t matter. My heart bleeds into the words. This isn’t a song I’ve crafted, it’s being born, birthed in grief and pain.

I tried to be the brave one,

But I broke like cheap glass.

Now I’m stitching hope in silence,

Through strings and shadows of the past.

A voice behind me. Male. Quiet, sure, with an almost musical lilt to it.

“I knew her.”

I jump and twist, heart pounding, and nearly throw the guitar across the room in a reflexive defense.

A man crouches in the open window—half in shadow, one hand braced on the rusted frame, the other resting on the inside ledge like he’s done this a hundred times before. Wind stirs the curtain around him. His white hair moves with it, like wings caught mid-beat.

My blood goes ice cold.

“What the—” I stumble back, bumping into the chair. “You? Get out!”

He steps down lightly, boots barely making a sound on the worn floorboards. He’s tall, all stillness and precision. A sculpture come to life. His pale silver eyes fix on me, and the air around him feels impossibly cold. The chill isn’t just from the open window; it’s a living thing .

He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but my heart doesn’t race with attraction. It thuds with alarm, and for a second, my lungs seize as if the air itself is too thin. As he moves, an impossible breeze moves his hair, carrying a scent of something sharp and ancient, like metal on ice.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is low. Calm. Too calm. “You were crying. I heard you.”

“You heard me?” My hands are shaking. “From the fire escape?”

He doesn’t answer that. Doesn’t have to.

“How long have you been out there?” I demand. “Why—have you been following me?”

He takes a slow breath, and for a second, I see hesitation crack through that cold exterior.

“Not following,” he says. “Watching. Only when it matters.”

That’s not better— definitely not better. I grab the closest thing with weight—my coffee mug—and raise it like a weapon.

“I swear to God?—”

“I knew your mother.”

The words hit harder than a punch. I freeze.

“You’re lying,” I whisper. “You’re making this up.”

“I’m not.”

He steps away from the window, hands loose at his sides—non-threatening, but every inch of him clearly on high alert. There’s something in the way he moves, like he’s used to being hunted or doing the hunting.

“She used to sing in Loose Park. You were still in diapers. You used to babble along with her. Like you were trying to keep up, join in.”

I blink, my heart. “How would you know that?”

“I was there.”

I stare, narrowing my eyes, pursing my lips. He’s the pale one who was there last night. The one arguing they couldn’t protect me. He also looks too young to have been there when my mom was singing. Impossibly young.

“Why?”

He pauses, surprised by the question or deciding how much to say, but I’m not sure which.

“She helped someone important to me. A long time ago.”

A thousand questions pile up, fighting to get out. Who is he? Why now? Why me ?

“What’s your name?” I demand.

He hesitates, closing his eyes and pursing his lips. Even his eyebrows are pure white, almost invisible against his pale skin.

“Faelan,” he says, his voice melodic.

I laugh once, bitterly. Faelan, as if that’s a name anyone in the universe would have

“Of course it is.”

“I shouldn’t have come inside.” His gaze drops to the guitar on the floor, then returns to me. “But you looked like you were drowning.” His voice softens, just enough to make my defenses flicker. “The song—was it for her?”

I nod before I can stop myself .

“She’d be proud,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t sound like a platitude. It sounds like truth .

I sink into the chair, all the adrenaline burning off at once. I feel wrung out, hollow.

“You can’t climb into someone’s apartment and start talking about dead mothers, you know.”

“I know.”

He shrugs—half apology, half deflection. Not exactly ‘my bad’, but something older.

“Then why did you?”

He watches me for a long moment.

“Because you needed someone to remember her with you.”

Silence stretches between us like fog. Not empty, but thick with unspoken things. He crosses to the window, placing one foot on the ledge.

“I’ll leave.”

When I speak it’s as much of a surprise to me as I think it must be to him.