Page 8 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

“No.” My voice is hoarse. “Wait.”

He stops, looking over his shoulder. His long hair covers half his face, leaving his sharp nose, and the angle of his jaw exposed.

“I…don’t want to be alone right now.”

He doesn’t smile, but something about him softens. Faelan steps down and turns back. He moves slow and careful, as if I might change my mind .

He comes closer but doesn’t touch me or speak. He sinks to sit cross-legged on the floor across from me, the guitar lying silent between us like a secret song I don’t remember. The air hums like the silence remembers this song too.

“I can’t stay long,” he says, eyes flicking toward the window. “They’ll have noticed, by now.”

Cold chills race and I feel an icy hand close around my heart. I stare, waiting for him to follow up. No one, ever, should pronounce something like that then leave you hanging. Who does that?

Apparently Faelan, since he sits there on my floor with a dreamy smile and eyes that swirl with a promise of the impossible. And no matter how much I try to notice, are enchanting.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask, but it’s barely a whisper easing past my lips.

His smile falters for the first time and there is no mistaking the turmoil in his eyes.

“You can call me Faelan?—”

“No, not your name,” I say, shaking my head and leaning in. “Who? You were in my bedroom last night with that other guy. The one you called Corvin. Who the hell are you? Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

He stares with his otherworldly, silvery, unblinking eyes. Sitting on my thin, ragged carpet as if he belongs here. As if my space is more his than mine. Anger bubbles beneath my thoughts. How dare he? Don’t I have enough shit to deal with?

A faint, knowing smile plays over his lips. I meet that hint of humor with a glare that I hope is enough to burn up whatever he’s finding so amusing. My anger goes from bubbling to pulsing. A living thing in my chest.

Faelan’s smile fades under the weight of my glare. For a moment, he’s utterly still—so still he doesn’t seem real.

“You don’t remember the night she died, do you?” he asks gently.

I flinch like he slapped me. The words are a jagged shard of glass, digging into the one place I keep sealed. That night is a wound that has never closed. I can feel the memory trying to surface, a cold, dark shape at the edge of my mind.

“That’s not—no. Don’t twist this.” I push the chair back, and the screech of wood on linoleum is a warning shot. “You don’t get to—God. What is this? Some sick game? Some...vampire cosplay cult bullshit? I’m not doing this.”

He watches my anger, his pale eyes unblinking, as if I’m a specimen under a microscope. He is so unbothered by my rage, my fear. It only makes me angrier.

“I’m not playing,” he says softly. “And believe me, I’m not here for games. I am here for you.” The last part is barely a whisper, but it cuts through my fury.

“Then what are you here for? Why now? Why me?” I demand.

Faelan looks up at me, and his expression isn’t pity—it’s closer to reverence, or maybe grief.

“Because you’re waking up, Skye. And the world is listening.”

My skin prickles.

“You keep saying things like that. Like they mean something. Say what you mean. ”

He nods slowly, a flicker of something in his eyes that could be respect. “Fine. Your mother wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t sick. She knew things—felt things—about the world most people are taught to ignore. You, Skye, inherited more than her voice. You inherited her sight.”

I stare, then arch an eyebrow as I bark a laugh.

“What? You think I’m—what, psychic? You come to tell me I’m ‘special’ and the fate of the world is on me? What, you think I was born yesterday? Do I look like a fool? Get out of here.”

Faelan rises quiet as a breath. He bows his head and his shoulders slump, but he doesn’t move to leave. He sighs, heavily, then looks up, locking his eyes onto mine.

“I think,” Faelan says, “you’re not ready to hear the whole truth. Maybe you will be soon.”

I ball my hands into tighter fists as anger flashes into rage. I take a step toward him, shaking my head and raising one clenched fist.

“No,” I growl. “No. You don’t get to do that. You show up with your cryptic nonsense and expect me to what? Follow you into the woods like some magical Disney heroine?”

He doesn’t back up, holding his position. His silver eyes glint, lips curl into an almost sneer like he’s some kind of Billy Idol wannabe. All of which only fuels my rage.

“You already feel it, don’t you? The edges peeling back. The dreams that aren’t just dreams. The memories that don’t belong to now.”

A lump forms in my throat. I think of the music that poured out of me earlier like a wound. The way the air seemed to shimmer when he stepped into the room. I hate that he’s right. I hate that part of me wants him to be.

“I watched your mother try to hold back the dark,” he says. “And I watched her lose.”

I narrow my eyes and tighten my jaw.

“And what? You did…nothing? Gee. Thanks. How can I ever repay you?”

“I couldn’t do anything. I was forbidden.” His voice is sharp, not angry—wounded. “But I watched. And I remember. And now—” He breaks off, studying me again. “Now, you have a choice.”

A beat of silence. I try to process his words but the rage makes it hard.

“What choice?” I ask, voice tight, pressure building behind my eyes.

“To look,” he says simply. “To remember.”

Faelan steps to the window. The wind gusts through, stirring the curtains and my hair, heavy with the smell of decay and something else. Despair maybe.

“Wait,” I say, chest tight. “What am I supposed to do now? You drop all this shit on me and what, disappear?”

He pauses, silhouetted by moonlight.

“Go where it hurts most. The past keeps its own echoes.”

Then he’s gone.

I rush to the window, heart hammering as I lean out, looking. Nothing. Not a shadow, not a sound. The street below is empty as always .

I slide the window shut with shaking fingers, close the curtains, then press my back to the wall. I stare across the apartment, toward the hall closet where the old box lives. The one I haven’t opened since?—

I swallow hard. I’m not ready. But I also know that’s a lie.

I stumble to the hall closet before I can talk myself out of it.

It’s a box of forgotten things I buried with her memory, the last remnants of a life that was supposed to be.

I drop to my knees, my fingers brushing against the old cardboard.

It’s cold to the touch, and a chill passes up my arms. The fraying duct tape feels like the raw edges of my own regret.

I take a deep breath and pull the box out. When I open it, the scent of lavender and smoke rises, thick with the ghosts of the past. There’s a cracked cassette tape, a worn scarf, and her small, battered journal. Then, I see the folded paper on top, yellowed with age. My name is on the outside.

Accusations stream from it, silent and unyielding. I saw this letter after she passed, but I couldn’t open it. I put it in this box with the rest of her things and buried it. I chose to ignore it. Now, the weight of that choice crushes me.

My hands shake as I unfold the note.

“Skye, if you’re reading this, it means it’s starting.”

My breath hitches. I can’t breathe.

“They’ll tell you you’re special. They’ll try to use you, or kill you, depending on which side finds you first. Don’t trust anyone until you know who you are. Even then—be careful.”

The paper slips from my fingers.

"What the hell is happening to me?" I whisper.

My phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it, my hand trembling so badly I almost drop it.

MILO: I need you. Please.

The text isn’t a question, it’s a command. And it pulls me back to reality with a brutal force. Faelan’s words echo in my head: “Go where it hurts most.” I think I’m already there. And now, my brother is there with me.