170. Nicholaus

170. Nicholaus
After Echo has dressed and been fed again, I ask her to come with me. The castle is unusually quiet when I lead Echo through the upper corridor, her hand small and warm in mine, her steps still cautious as she adjusts to the strength humming through her new body. The torches burn lower here, softened to a warm gold that gathers along the carved stone and spills in gentle, broken lines across the floor. Above us, the moonlight filters through high windows, pale and cold, but inside these walls, everything feels warmer than it has in centuries. This wing has been silent for so long — a shrine to futures that never came. But tonight, the air feels different now. Hope has a scent, I realise. It smells like fresh linens and polished wood, and the faint trace of lavender oil, which the staff must have used to clean the rooms. And beneath all of it, the quiet, steady hum of Echo’s magic vibrates through the walls like the heartbeat of a kingdom finally waking.
“We’re almost there,” I murmur, glancing at her.
She nods, eyes bright, senses still sharpening. I can feel the subtle tension under her skin, something like anticipation held just beneath the surface. The bond pulses softly, warm, a muted echo of the child curled beneath her ribs. I stop before the double doors. When we last stood here, the rooms were dusty relics, grey, faded and hollow. Now—

I push the doors open, and Echo inhales sharply. The nursery is transformed. Light spills across the polished floorboards. The walls, once dulled by time, now glow in soft, warm tones, something between gold and cream, chosen perfectly to invite light without overwhelming it. The shelves have been repaired and scrubbed clean, every carved toy polished back to its original grain. The faded blue cushions at the bay window have been replaced with soft, plush fabrics stitched with quiet constellations. The cradle — the one carved with crescent moons — stands near the centre of the room, restored to a smooth sheen, its blankets fresh and neatly folded inside. A soft mobile hangs above it, the glass stars no longer tangled, catching the light with every small shift of air. Echo steps forward slowly, her fingers brushing the freshly polished edge of the cradle.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
Her voice carries an awe that tightens my chest. I swallow down the lump in my throat.
“It’s yours,” I say softly. “Theirs. Yours together. Everything in this room is ready and waiting.”
She drifts toward the window, fingertips grazing the shelves as she walks. Her eyes linger on the toys, the pale curtains swaying with the faintest touch of air, the little carved fox now shining softly under lanternlight.
“When did they finish?” she asks.
“Just before sunset,” I say. “They worked all day. They were… excited, I think. Hope does strange things to people.”
Her smile grows, faint but real. I let her explore, watching the way her eyes trace each detail. The room looks softer with her in it. More complete. As though it had been waiting not only for a child, but also for a mother. After a moment, I step toward her and gently touch her elbow.
“There’s more,” I murmur. “Come.”
Her brows lift, but she nods and follows me to the side door, the one that leads into what was once an empty, forgotten chamber, unused and cold. I open it, and Echo’s breath catches again.

Our new room is warm, inviting and alive with possibility. The old stone walls have been softened with tapestries in deep winter tones — blues and silvers and threads of warm gold. The bed is new, carved from dark wood with clean lines, large enough for the family we will become. Plush furs line the foot of it, and fresh linens cover the mattress in gentle layers. A small sitting area near the window is furnished with two armchairs and a low table. A place for quiet mornings. Tired nights. Soft conversations between the three of us. The fireplace is lit, crackling softly, spreading warmth into every corner. Echo steps inside as though she’s afraid the room will vanish if she moves too quickly.
“Nicholaus…” Her voice breaks faintly. “You didn’t have to do all of this so quickly.”
“Yes,” I murmur, stepping behind her, sliding my arms gently around her waist, “I did.”
She rests her hands over mine, leaning back into me.
“This room,” I continue softly, “was meant for us to begin new. For you to rest without fear of the old wing. For our child to feel us nearby. For this family—our family—to grow with space that is untouched by centuries of pain.”
The firelight catches the edges of her hair, turning them into soft gold. She looks around again, slower this time, taking in the details — the freshly laid rugs, the soft lighting, the clean scent of the air.
“It feels…” She exhales shakily. “Like the start of something.”
I press a kiss against her temple. “It is.”
She turns in my arms, her hands rising to settle at my chest. Her eyes lift to mine, bright and new and achingly alive in a way I have never seen before.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I shake my head softly. “You gave this kingdom life again. I’m only making sure you have space to breathe in it.”
Her lips part, but before she can speak, her gaze drifts back toward the nursery door.

“Can we go look again?” she asks softly. “I'm in love with it.”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Of course,” I murmur, taking her hand. “As many times as you want.”
We step back into the nursery, and the moment she crosses the threshold, something shifts inside her. I can feel it in the bond. She walks to the cradle, her hand brushing the smooth wood, her other palm instinctively settling over her stomach. The bond warms, and the room feels fuller.
“I can imagine them here,” she breathes. “I can finally picture it.”
I stand beside her, close enough that our shoulders touch.
“So can I,” I say quietly. “I can picture everything. Their first night here. Their first steps. Their first laugh echoing off these walls.”
Her breath trembles as she leans into me.
“And they will grow here,” I add softly. “Safe. Loved. With a mother strong enough to reshape the world.”
She tilts her head, looking up at me.
“And with a father,” she whispers, “who would burn the world to protect them.”
I feel my chest tighten so sharply it nearly stops my breath.
I take her face gently in my hands. “I would,” I murmur. “I will.”
We stand together in the soft lantern glow, surrounded by the spaces we will fill with laughter and fear and hope and life. For the first time in two hundred years, this wing is no longer empty.
It is waiting and we are ready.