Silo Audiobook Novels & Stories

"I watch everyone who enters the territory. It is how I have stayed alive this long." That should have been a flag. It registered somewhere and I filed it under useful rather than suspicious because I needed it to be useful. Because the alternative was admitting I was sitting across from someone I did not actually trust, holding a weapon I could not verify, building a plan out of grief and wounded pride. "I draw him further east," Silas continued. "There is a hollow about half a mile past the ridge. Stone on three sides, natural acoustics. He will not be able to pin sound direction easily. You come in from the north once he is inside."

"Yeah, but the question is, why? What have they done to deserve to be punished?" I mumble, "I don't know." A little bit of turbulence happens making me clench the arms of my seat. I hear Silas chuckle softly before he puts my headset back on and says, "Try to relax, maybe get some sleep. We've still got a while left and we can talk later." I nod in agreement as I try to turn my mind off and just focus on the music playing on the headphones. When I fall asleep it's restless because all I can hear are different voices. Both sound like women, but I can't place who they belong to.

"The High Council spent my entire life trying to make me feel small because of the blood in my veins. But out there on the hills, when the Sun-Shield shattered... I didn't feel broken. I felt whole." Silas’s eyes darkened, a low, rough rumble vibrating deep in his chest—a sound of pure, unadulterated pride that made my pulse hitch. He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of my neck just below the heavy obsidian collar, leaving a phantom burn against my skin before he pulled back. "Then we will make them bow to the monster they created," he whispered. Before I could answer, the heavy double doors at the top of the amphitheater swung open with a loud, echoing bang.

disappearing. No patterns for him to track. No footprints for him to follow. No predictable, angry outbursts for him to plan for. I was going to vanish so completely that even the people on my side would start to wonder if I ever existed at all. Silas was sitting there, waiting for a hurricane to hit him. Instead, he was going to get nothing but silence. And when men like Silas are met with silence for too long, they get nervous. They get itchy. And then, they start making mistakes.

Silas let out an exasperated sigh, "No, I'm not mad. I just want to spend some time with you and get to know you. I still have to fill you in on everyone back home before we reach there." I nodded my head in understanding as Silas started the car. Once we were out of the forest and on the road Silas and I fell easily into conversation. Well, he did most of the talking and I just sat and listened, watching as we zipped by many cars. I wondered if Silas realized how fast he was actually driving but he seemed so at ease with the speed, maneuvering as if we were not going twenty miles over the speed limit.

My broad shoulders trembled under the weight of my absolute, crushing humiliation, but my voice was flat, empty of any remaining pride. "Please," I whispered, the word sounding like it was being torn from my chest with a rusty hook. "Stop Verna. Stop the block. Bring her home." The silence that followed was deafening, save for the crackle of the fireplace. Silas didn't answer immediately. He stared down at me from his leather throne, his aristocratic face slowly twisting from a smug satisfaction into a look of deep, visceral disgust. He didn't look at me like a victorious king looking at a defeated foe; he looked at me like I was a common cockroach crawling across his expensive rug. He slowl

I stare at the blinking console for a long, agonizing moment before picking up the receiver. “Speak.” “Lir.” The voice hits me like a bucket of ice water poured straight down my spine. Silas. He doesn’t sound like the arrogant, self-righteous savior I fought at the gate an hour ago. He sounds completely exhausted, like a man who is actively breathing through a broken rib. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve calling this house, Silas,” I growl, my knuckles turning white as I grip the handset.

The voice is not Trust, not Caleb’s borrowed softness, not the polite residential recording. Silas Blackwood speaks with his own throat now. “Enough.” I have heard him through walls, through screens, through the soft mouth of systems built to make obedience sound like care. Different. No sugar. No counseling grammar. No false family. Just a man tired of letting his tools do the speaking. The voice is older than the room and less theatrical than fear wants it to be. That makes it worse. Monsters should sound monstrous. Silas Blackwood sounds like someone ending a meeting that has run over time.

It was corrosive and dark. "Why are you here alone, Silas?" I asked, trying to sound brave. "Shouldn't you be inside with the others?" "Ah, those boring old folks," Silas waved his hand dismissively. "They are all about honor and tradition. So dull. I prefer... the night. And interesting things." His green eyes locked onto mine again. "And you... you are the most interesting thing that has happened in centuries, Aria Volkov." Suddenly, he snapped his fingers.

Cora’s POV The fogged glass was a taunt. I could hear them through the soundproofing—not the words, but the jagged, ugly edges of a confrontation that had been five years in the making. Silas’s voice was a low-frequency rumble that made the pens on my desk vibrate, while Elara’s sharp, melodic tones cut through the office air like a serrated blade.