172. Echo

172. Echo
By the time the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, the familiar ache beneath my ribs has settled into something slow and heavy; it's the kind of weight that only comes in the final stretch of carrying a life. My steps have changed. My breathing has changed. Even my magic has changed, curling protectively around the small, steady pulse inside me with a rhythm it never had before.
Every part of me feels full, beautifully, impossibly full, as though my body has spent these last months reshaping itself around the single most important fact: Our child is almost here. The corridor outside the nursery is quiet except for the soft murmur of servants somewhere down the hall and the distant hum of the kingdom preparing for the celebration that will follow the birth. I rest a hand beneath my stomach as I step inside, easing through the doorway with the careful grace of someone who has grown used to carrying her centre of gravity in her hands. The nursery glows in warm afternoon light, every window open to let in the soft winter breeze that doesn’t bother my vampiric skin anymore. The room smells of fresh laundry, polished wood, and a faint sweetness I can’t place — maybe lavender, maybe something new that the staff has washed into the fabrics to make the space more comfortable. I move toward the cradle. It’s strange, the way my heart lifts now when I see it. Months ago, it was just restored wood and folded blankets. Now it feels like a promise. A future. A small anchor in a world that has changed faster than I ever expected it to. I brush my fingers along the smooth, carved moons at its edge, feeling them warm beneath my touch as if they’ve been waiting for me to return.

On the rocking chair sits a folded pile of impossibly tiny clothing — soft knits in muted colours, embroidered onesies from the villagers, little blankets woven by Marienne’s niece. I pick up the smallest one and hold it against my belly. It’s almost absurd how small they are. How small this child will be when they finally arrive.
“Trying to imagine them in that?”
The voice warms the air behind me immediately.
Nicholaus leans against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, an expression on his face that is equal parts awe, tenderness, and disbelief that any of this is real. He moves toward me slowly, as though afraid his presence might break whatever peaceful spell hangs in the room.
“I don’t have to imagine,” I say softly. “We’re almost there.”
His eyes drop to my stomach, and the bond warms in a slow, steady sweep. He reaches out one hand gently, always gently, and rests it over the curve of my belly. His palm spreads wide, thumb brushing a small arc just beneath where the baby sometimes presses their foot.
“They’re strong today,” he murmurs.
“They have been all morning.” I swallow a small sound, half amusement, half discomfort. “They’re running out of room.”
His breath softens into a quiet laugh. “They’ll have all the room they want soon.”
He steps behind me, sliding both arms around my waist, careful of the weight and my balance, and pulls me back against his chest. I melt into him easily, the way I always do now, letting his warmth settle along my spine, letting the bond tether the last of my nerves into something calm and centred.
“You’ve changed,” he whispers into my hair. “Not just with the turning or the pregnancy... You’ve grown into something so steady it humbles me.”
I close my eyes briefly, absorbing the words.
“I didn’t do it alone.”
“You did more than you know,” he murmurs. “But yes… we did this together.”
I rest one hand over his, guiding his palm in a slow circle across my belly. The baby shifts beneath the touch, a gentle press against my skin that steals my breath for a moment.
“They’re listening to you,” I whisper.
“They always do,” he answers softly. “They know my voice.”
I tilt my head back until it rests against his shoulder.
“Are you nervous?” he asks quietly.
I consider the question with the honesty he deserves.
“Yes,” I admit. “The magic. The birth. The responsibility of… all of this.”
His arms tighten around me, just slightly.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he murmurs. “Not for me. Not for anyone. You’re allowed to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of the birth itself,” I say after a moment. “I’m afraid of wanting everything too much. Of losing it.”
He turns me gently in his arms until I’m facing him. His hands frame my face with slow precision.
“Echo,” he whispers, “you are not losing anything. You have already survived the impossible. You’ve outrun prophecy, broken curses, rebuilt this kingdom, and returned from death itself. Nothing is taking you from us.”
The words settle like warm stone in my chest. I draw a slow breath, letting my forehead brush his.
“How much longer do you think we have?” I ask.
His eyes drop to my stomach again. “Hours. Maybe a day. Your magic shifted the moment you walked into the nursery.”
I blink. “Shifted how?”
“It anchored,” he answers softly. “Like it’s preparing. Like it knows.”
I swallow, my heart tightening in a mixture of fear and anticipation.
“Then we should be ready,” I whisper.
Nicholaus kisses my forehead, slow and deliberate.
“We are,” he says. “Everything is ready.”
I look for signs of uncertainty in him but find none. Just warmth and strength. Complete, unwavering belief. Another small movement inside me interrupts the moment, stronger this time, pushing against my ribs. Nicholaus drops to one knee, pressing his ear gently to my stomach.
“Hello, little one,” he murmurs. “Your mother and I are ready whenever you are.”
His hand spreads across my belly again.
“And when you finally arrive,” he adds softly, “you’ll know what it feels like to be loved before you even take your first breath.”
The words unravel something deep inside me.
I place both hands over his and whisper, “We’re ready for you.”
And for the first time since this journey began, I truly believe it. We are ready.