171. Nicholaus

171. Nicholaus
If someone had told me a year ago that the kingdom would feel alive again, I would have dismissed it as wishful thinking — the kind of hope people cling to when they cannot bear their own shadows anymore. But months have passed since the turning, and everything I once thought impossible has become the shape of our days. The change happened slowly at first, like dawn creeping over the mountains, but now I can see it everywhere. In the castle walls, which no longer echo with emptiness. In the courtyards, where villagers gather even in the cold just to speak of the future. In the markets, where stalls have opened again, selling blankets and toys and carved cradles, each one made with hands trembling from excitement rather than fear. And most of all — in Echo. Watching her transform over these months has been the most breathtaking, humbling experience of my life. I have seen her wield lightning. I have seen her walk through storms. I have seen her spirit bend but never break. But nothing compares to seeing her carry our child. She glows now — truly glows — not with magic, but with something far gentler. Her presence shifts rooms. Her laughter warms corridors. And when she leans back against me at night, round and soft with the weight of our growing child, the world feels aligned in a way my centuries never prepared me for. We settled quickly into our new chambers beside the nursery. The staff restored every corner of this wing until it felt like a haven rather than a relic, and the kingdom followed our lead. Tailors reopened shops that had been shuttered for two centuries. Toymakers carved again. Midwives re-learned old methods. Hope returned so quickly it startled even me — all sparked by the life growing inside Echo. Even though she is the only one who needs the nursery shops right now, the village women flood them daily, buying tiny clothes and blankets in preparation for their own children. They say that once our child arrives, the curse will be fully broken, and they want to be ready. They want joy ready on their shelves. They want life waiting at their doorways. My kingdom feels like it is waking from a long, cold dream.

And tonight, as I step through the quiet hall toward the nursery, the warmth of it settles in my chest like a second heartbeat. The door is ajar. Light spills through the crack in a soft, golden arc. I pause for a moment at the threshold, leaning my shoulder against the frame, because the sight inside strikes me with a tenderness so fierce it steals the air from my lungs. Echo stands near the cradle — the one I restored for her with my own hands — humming quietly under her breath. Her hips sway in a slow, unconscious rhythm, the way mothers have rocked children since the beginning of time. Her hair falls down her back in loose waves, catching the lanternlight like spun gold. She is round now. Full. Beautiful in a way I don’t have language for. She folds a tiny shirt with careful fingers, smoothing the edges before placing it into the drawer built beneath the cradle. Little stacks of clothing line the shelves — soft cottons, knitted sweaters, blankets embroidered with constellations. She has arranged everything by size, by colour, by how much she liked each piece. She is nesting, becoming a mother in all the small, quiet ways and gods, I love her. I move toward her slowly, letting the moment breathe. The boards creak lightly beneath my feet, and she turns her head with a soft smile, one hand instinctively rising to her stomach as though to steady the child inside.
“You’re home early,” she murmurs, her voice warm and melodic in a way it didn’t use to be. Pregnancy has softened her tone — or maybe it’s happiness.
“Couldn’t stay away,” I answer, stepping behind her, slipping my arms around her waist.
She melts back into me with a soft exhale, her body fitting perfectly against mine despite the curve of her stomach. My hands settle beneath her belly, lifting gently, supporting the weight she’s carried for months without complaint.
“You’ve been on your feet too long,” I murmur into her hair. “You promised me you’d rest tonight.”
“I am resting,” she hums, leaning her head against my shoulder. “Just… vertically.”
I laugh quietly at that. “Not the kind of rest I meant.”
She shifts slightly so my palms can feel the full shape of her stomach. The child presses outward, a soft, rolling motion beneath my hands. I freeze. Every time this happens, I feel the same overwhelming rush, like the ground falls away beneath me and reveals a whole new world.
“There,” Echo whispers. “They know you’re here.”
I lower my mouth to her temple. “Of course they do. I’m always here.”
She turns in my arms, hands lifting to the back of my neck. Her eyes — warm, bright, softened by months of love and anticipation — meet mine with a quiet certainty.
“Nicholaus,” she murmurs, “you’re going to be such a good father.”
Something in my chest folds sharply at that. I press my forehead to hers.
“I already love them,” I whisper. “Both of you more than this kingdom has ever had the right to ask of me.”
She smiles, soft and luminous, and leans up to kiss me. It’s slow, lingering, filled with a sweetness that wasn’t there in our early days. A softness learned with time. With healing and with hope. When she pulls back, her fingers slide down my jaw. “Will you help me finish sorting these? I want everything ready before…”

Before the birth. Before the curse shatters completely. Before our world changes again.
“Of course,” I say, brushing a kiss against her knuckles. “Show me where everything goes.”
She turns back to the drawer, humming again, and I move with her, helping place the tiny clothes, smoothing each piece beneath my fingers with reverence I’ve never known before. For the first time in centuries, this kingdom has a future. For the first time in my life… I do too. And it stands right here in my arms. Two heartbeats. One family. All of it waiting for the final moment when the world truly becomes ours.