162. Nicholaus

162. Nicholaus
The celebration stretches long into the evening, and through every breath of it I feel Echo beside me — steady, luminous, and growing more exhausted as the hours slip by. The ballroom has softened into something warm and slow-moving. Music winds through the air in gentle arcs, no longer bright enough to fill the entire hall, but enough to keep the atmosphere humming. Humans drift between the tables with wineglasses in hand, their cheeks flushed from dancing; the vampires stand in small clusters, speaking in low voices that blur into the sound of the violins. And Echo sits at my side, her hand resting against her stomach, her posture straight but anchored by effort alone. I watch her more than I watch anything else. Every shift in her breathing. Every tremor of her fingers when another wave of nausea tightens through her. Every moment her eyelids lower with a heaviness she tries to hide from the room. The day has been long. Beautiful, unforgettable, historic, but long. From the moment she woke in my arms with sickness in her throat, to the coronation rites, to the balcony, to the dance… she has carried more weight than any one person should, and she does it all while supporting the flicker of life quickening beneath her ribs. A child that cannot be fed with food. A child whose needs are already pressing against her limits. Every time she lifted a fork tonight, her stomach answered with nothing but rejection. Every time a servant passed with warm breads or spiced pastries, she went pale, swallowing the nausea before it reached her mouth. Even now, she tries to hide the way her body fights the scent of food heavy in the air. But the bond doesn’t let her hide from me. The fatigue curls through her magic like a slow collapse. The strain hums through her bones. Her strength thins at the edges, not dangerously yet, but enough to make my chest tighten with every breath she takes. The baby needs blood soon. Her body cannot supply what it does not have.

Her fingers shift slightly on the table. I look down to see her studying her own hands as though she’s trying to determine if the small tremor she feels is visible. Her brow pulls softly in concentration.
“Echo,” I whisper.
She lifts her eyes to mine, and the exhaustion is right there — no longer subtle, no longer hidden. It softens the muscles around her mouth and drags her shoulders down a fraction of an inch.
“Are you alright?” I ask quietly.
She knows better than to lie to me. She exhales, the sound thin.
“Tired,” she murmurs. “Just… tired.”
The understatement of the century. I feel the truth behind it like a pulse under my ribs. Her magic is beginning to scatter. Her body is working too hard to stay upright. And beneath everything, that small, flickering presence inside her is pressing outward, searching instinctively for what it needs. Blood. Our child needs blood.
I rest my hand over hers. “We’re stopping soon.”
She nods, relief brightening her eyes for a brief moment before fading back into fatigue. She looks out across the room, watching the celebration continue — the couples laughing, the children weaving between legs, the elders smiling toward us as though witnessing the restoration of the world. She wants to stay. I know that. She wants to honour this day, this moment, this hope. But she is fading in front of me.

The musicians begin a final song — soft, slow, something meant to close the night gently. The notes curl upward like quiet smoke, rising toward the chandeliers that cast their warm glow across the polished floor. Attendants begin clearing plates. Guards shift their stance, ready to escort the last guests home. The room is winding down. Echo’s head tilts slightly toward me, her eyelids lowering halfway before she forces them open again. That is enough. I stand slowly and extend my hand to her. “It’s time, my love.”
Her breath catches in a small, relieved sound. She places her hand in mine, and I draw her up carefully. The weight of her body leans into me more than she intends, her legs steady but heavy.
The room quiets when they realise we are leaving. Heads turn. People straighten. Someone bows. Someone else wipes a tear quickly. Echo lifts her chin, trying to offer a smile to those closest, but the effort shows in the faint tightening around her mouth. We step away from the table and toward the main doors. Her hand tightens around mine, not in fear but in sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Just a little longer,” I murmur as we walk. “You’re doing perfectly.”
She nods, swallowing down another wave of nausea as we pass the tables laden with food. The scent alone is enough to pull another tremor through her stomach. I feel it ripple across the bond before her breath even changes. Almost there. The attendants pull the ballroom doors open. The corridor beyond is quiet, the air cooler, the scent of food replaced by clean stone and distant torch-smoke. Echo exhales slowly, the relief immediate. I bring my hand to the small of her back.
“Echo,” I say softly as we begin walking down the corridor, “are you ready?”
“Yes,” she whispers, and the word shivers through the bond like a flame catching. “Nicholaus… I’m ready.”
A slow breath leaves me, steadying the tremor in my own chest. I draw her closer, my arm circling her waist as we continue down the hall toward the lower levels of the castle. We descend another staircase, and her breath hitches from the movement. I slow immediately, one hand rising to support the back of her neck.
“Just a few more steps,” I murmur, “then we stop. No more walking.”
She nods against my shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of my coat. The bond pulses weakly, stretched thin by the effort of keeping her upright. The hallway curves, leading toward the chamber built for transformation. The one that has not been used in two hundred years.
Echo exhales, slow and shaking.
“Nicholaus,” she murmurs, pressing closer, “I’m frightened.”
“I know,” I whisper, lowering my forehead to hers as we walk. “But I’m here. Every breath of it, I’m here. You won’t go through a single heartbeat alone.”
Her eyes close.
“And when my heart stops…?”
“I’ll bring you back,” I say, voice low and certain. “I swear it.”
Then I push open the final door, and the light from the transformation chamber spills across the floor.
“Come,” I whisper, guiding her inside.
“Let me save you. Let us save our child.”