166. Echo

166. Echo
The first thing I feel is the air. It's not like feeling the breeze or the coolness of it. It's like I can physically feel the air all over my skin. Like every particle in the chamber has edges that I can suddenly sense. It slides into my lungs in a slow, unfamiliar pull, scraping against a throat that remembers dying more clearly than it remembers speaking. I exhale, and the sound is different. It is lower, rougher...New. The world is too bright, and the runes on the floor flare like molten silver, each line too precise, too alive, each pulse of their glow slamming against my senses like a heartbeat I can’t shut out. The lanterns burn with threads of colour I’ve never seen before, every flame edged in blue, every flicker leaving streaks through the air as though fire itself has slowed down for me to watch it. Nicholaus is holding me upright, his hand braced at the back of my head, his forehead still touching mine. His breath hits my lips in warm, unsteady bursts, and his scent—gods, his scent crashes over me all at once—Winter pine, iron and something darker beneath it that curls low in my stomach. I blink once and the movement feels too fast and too smooth. It's all...too much.
“Echo,” he whispers, voice raw. “Can you hear me?”
I can hear everything. His heartbeat that is steady but strained. The scrape of Verrin’s boot shifting a fraction against stone. Marienne’s inhale tightening as she wrings her hands once. The lantern oil settling, popping softly inside the wick. The snow falling outside the narrow opening in the dome, each crystal landing against the outer ledge with a delicate, crystalline tap. And beneath it all—there's the sound that snaps my spine straight. Blood. Blood moving through veins. Rushing. Steady. Close. I turn my head before I understand I’m moving. My vision sharpens in a single pull, dragging Verrin and Marienne into impossible clarity—every line of their faces, every shift of breath beneath their ribs, the flutter of pulse beating at the hollow of Verrin’s throat. My mouth parts.

The hunger hits me like being dropped into fire. It's hot, violent, instinctive and insatiable. My fangs descend with a sharp ache that is almost pleasure, almost pain. I hear the click inside my jaw, feel the weight of them touching my lower lip, and something deep inside me snarls in recognition. Verrin shifts his stance—barely a movement, barely a breath—My head snaps toward him before thought can catch up. The chamber tilts. My pulse surges. Hunger clamps around my ribs like claws. Marienne’s heartbeat kicks once, and the sound slams into me hard enough to make my own breath break open. I move without meaning to. On my feet in a heartbeat, and I make a single step forward before Nicholaus’s hand closes around my wrist instantly. It's not harsh, not restraining, but steady, anchoring, reminding me where I am.
“Back away,” he warns, low and sharp.
Verrin freezes and Marienne does not breathe.
“Slowly,” Nicholaus continues. “Both of you. Out.”
They obey, steps measured, precise, the rise of their pulse filling my ears like the drum of distant thunder. The hunger spikes again—white-hot, primal, terrifying in its intensity. I swallow hard, but the movement only spreads the burn lower. Nicholaus shifts, drawing my focus back to him, guiding my chin with two fingers until my eyes lock on his.
“Echo,” he murmurs, his voice a tether pulling my mind back from the jagged edge. “Look at me. Just me.”
His warmth cuts through the haze...Barely....But enough. His sleeve is soaked in dried blood from where I fed on him before death, the scent of it thick, metallic, familiar, a thread of recognition that pulls against the scream of hunger tearing through my stomach.
His voice softens further. “Are you hungry, my love?”
The answer is a desperate, broken truth that rises unbidden.
“Yes.” My voice scrapes out in a rasp. “Nicholaus… I’m starving.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his wrist slowly—carefully turning it toward me, palm up—revealing the torn, blood-stained skin, the last remnants of crimson smeared along his arm.
“Then take what you need,” he whispers. “For as long as you need it.”
I don’t even think. My hands rise, gripping his arm with a strength that surprises both of us, and I bring his wrist to my lips in a single, instinctive motion. The moment my tongue brushes the dried blood, something inside me detonates—my senses narrowing to nothing but taste. I let my fangs pierce into his skin, and the first swallow is overwhelming. It's rich. It's dark. It's electric... And it floods my mouth like molten heat, like winter wind, like something ancient that recognises me more intimately than I recognise myself. My fangs sink further into his skin with a clean, effortless glide, and more of his blood hits my tongue in a rush of warmth that sends my entire body humming. I gasp against his wrist... and then I close my eyes and drink.

The flavour unfolds in layers I’ve never imagined—iron and frost, heat and shadow, strength and something uniquely him that threads through my newly sharpened senses like a brand. I hear his pulse feeding the wound. I feel the rhythm of his blood pushing against my lips. I taste the bond we share pouring into me with every swallow. Nicholaus exhales a trembling breath above me.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his free hand sliding into my hair, guiding me gently. “Good girl. Take more.”
His voice hits somewhere deep inside me, and I drink deeper. My magic stirs, stretching beneath my skin, settling into this new shape, this new hunger. The room sharpens around the edges. The burn inside my throat eases into something smoother, richer, expanding through my chest and curling down into the place where our child sleeps. I hear Verrin speak from far away—something about pulse, about stability—but his words wash out beneath the sound of Nicholaus’s heartbeat. I cannot stop drinking. I don’t want to stop. The taste shifts, deepening into something warm and intoxicating, until the world feels balanced again, until the last clawing shred of hunger loosens its grip. Nicholaus strokes the back of my head, his breath catching in rhythm with my swallows.
“You came back to me,” he murmurs, voice breaking over the words. “And you’re here. You’re alive. Gods, Echo… you’re here. Now I get to feed you both.” He says as one hand rests lightly on my stomach.
I slow only when the fire inside me fades to a low, steady ember. My lips soften against his skin. My fangs retract with a faint ache, and my body settles. I lift my gaze to him with his wrist still in my hands. His blood on my lips. His eyes shine with a worshipful glow. I feel alive. Truly, terrifyingly, beautifully alive.