159. Nicholaus

159. Nicholaus
The attendants are still adjusting the final braid in Echo’s hair when I force myself to step from the room, closing the carved door behind me with a slow, measured breath. My hand stays on the handle longer than necessary, as though by touch alone I can still feel her there — upright, glowing faintly beneath the Diadem, her chosen symbol resting above her heart like it has always belonged there. My queen. My mate. The mother of our child. The thought settles through me in a long, careful breath that I don't fully release until my feet begin to move of their own accord, carrying me down the corridor that curves toward the great hall. The castle is awake now, properly awake and alive in a way it hasn't been in over two centuries. Staff move with brisk purpose, their arms full of linens, trays, silver lanterns newly polished to reflect whatever light can be coaxed through the winter sky. Guards stand straighter, their shoulders squared with a quiet excitement that ripples through the halls. I nod to each of them as I pass, but my attention remains half tethered to the bond humming softly at the edges of my consciousness — Echo’s presence, steady, warm, threaded with the faint pulse of nerves she is trying very hard not to let spill over.
I’m here, I send without speaking, and the bond warms in response.

When I reach the great hall, the double doors are already open, and Marienne stands inside with her sleeves rolled, directing the last of the preparations. Rows of torches are lit along the walls, their flames steady and golden in the high air. The great banners have been lowered with the royal crest restored to its full colours after decades of dust, and now the new mantle is waiting beside it, folded in deep silver-blue cloth that will rest across Echo’s shoulders by midday.
“Your Majesty,” Marienne says with a small bow, though she does not pause her work. “Everything proceeds on schedule.”
I move beside her, scanning the hall — the raised platform at the far end where the oath will be spoken, the carved podium where the crown will be acknowledged, the aisle freshly lined with evergreens, their scent lifting gently through the air like the memory of an early spring.
“Security?” I ask quietly.
“Tripled,” she replies. “Guards at every entry. No one steps closer than the designated line unless summoned.”
I nod. “And the Turning Chamber?”
“Prepared,” she says softly. “Reinforced. Cleaned. The runes have been re-etched. Verrin inspected them himself.”
Good. One less thing I have to break someone for.

My attention drifts upward to the towering windows where the winter light pours through in muted sheets, casting pale gold across the stone floor. Today is not merely a ceremony — it is the beginning of the shift every prophecy has been whispering toward. This is not just a crown, this a future. And beneath her heart is the slightest spark of life that could reshape every truth we thought fixed in place. I leave the hall once everything has been confirmed for the third time, making my way down the eastern corridor to my own chambers. Attendants stand ready with the garments laid out — deep charcoal black with silver edging, a mantle stitched in the same threadwork as Echo’s, meant to mirror, not overshadow. I dismiss half the attendants with a wave; I do not need twelve pairs of hands fastening buckles and smoothing fabric. One remains, a young man who keeps his eyes respectfully lowered as he secures the clasps along my sleeves and straightens the mantle over my shoulders. The mirror reflects someone I recognise and do not recognise — a king shaped by centuries, and a man softened only by the woman waiting in the room I just left. When I turn from the mirror, my thoughts reach for her again, brushing through the bond as gently as my hand brushed her cheek earlier.
Are you ready?
A faint warmth answers — nervous, excited, steady enough to make my chest tighten.

I leave the room before I can go back to her prematurely. She deserves the final moment of stillness before the world moves around her. Outside her door, two guards straighten sharply. I dismiss them with a nod; I will escort her myself. When I knock once and step inside, the breath leaves me in a way I am still not accustomed to. She is standing near the tall windows, back half-turned, the pale morning light catching every thread of silver woven through her hair. The gown curves around her like it was crafted to fit only her body, her presence, her quiet strength. The Diadem glows faintly at her brow, catching the sunlight. She turns when I step closer, her eyes lifting to mine with a steadiness that pulls the world back into place.
“Everything is ready,” I say quietly. “The hall, the guards, the courtyard… all of it.”
She nods once, her fingers curling briefly at her sides before she smooths the skirts of her gown. “And you?”
I exhale a breath that feels like it has been waiting all morning to be released. “I am… trying not to stare too long.”
A small smile curves at the corner of her mouth, it's soft and sure, enough to warm the air between us. I offer my arm, and she slides her hand into the crook of it with that same quiet confidence she carried the night the kingdom first saw her.
“Shall we?” I ask.
She breathes in deeply, the rise and fall of it shifting the silk over her stomach where our child grows in impossibly small, impossibly fierce beats of life.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Let’s begin.”

The castle doors open slowly as we walk, their carved arches parting like the first chapter of a story finally allowed to move. Staff gather in the corridors, bowing as we pass. Some smile. Some blink back emotion they didn’t expect to feel. The torches flicker in unison, casting long, golden lines along the stone floors as though lighting our path. As we near the great hall, the sound of a gathered crowd begins to swell, a hum of anticipation that threads through the air like a heartbeat rising. Echo’s fingers tighten around my arm. I look down at her, letting the bond steady between us, anchoring her, anchoring myself.
“Echo,” I murmur, low enough that it belongs only to her, “whatever happens next, you are not walking toward it alone.”
She smiles softly, nodding once, and when we cross the threshold into the brilliance of the coronation hall, the world opens itself to her, and every face turns toward my queen.