174. Echo

174. Echo
I wake to pain. Not a little cramp or discomfort. Not the dull tightening I felt earlier in the week. No, this is a blunt, brutal fist closing around the deepest part of my stomach and twisting until my breath folds in on itself. The sound that leaves me is a small, broken whimper I don’t even recognise as my own. Nicholaus reacts instantly. His arms, which were loose around me in sleep, tighten in a single sharp motion. He jerks upright, breath catching, instincts snapping to full attention.
“Echo?” His voice is rough, sleep-thickened, but the fear is immediate. “What is it? What’s hurting?”
Another wave hits before I can answer. It's harder, lower and pulling at everything inside me until my spine arches without permission. I grab at his arm, fingers digging into his skin.
“It’s time,” I force out through clenched teeth. “Nicholaus — it’s starting.”
The room is dark, lit only by the dying embers of the fire. The shadows are long, bending across the walls as if even they are bracing. Nicholaus is already moving one hand behind my back, the other covering my stomach, trying to understand what’s happening through touch alone.
“How long?” he asks.
“I just woke — gods —” Another contraction tears through me, cutting the sentence in half.
Nicholaus’s breath leaves him in a hard exhale, controlled but trembling at the edges. He swings his legs off the bed and gathers me with him, one arm around my back, another steadying my thigh as he helps me sit upright.
“Slowly,” he murmurs, voice low, grounding. “Don’t try to stand yet.”
I breathe through the wave, eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into the blankets as the pressure peaks… holds… then releases in a slow, sickening retreat. My lungs finally unlock, and he brushes hair from my face, studying every flicker across my expression.
“How far apart?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I wasn’t awake long enough.”
He nods once. Then he moves. Nicholaus crosses the room with a speed no human could follow, lighting candles, stoking the fire back to life, throwing blankets toward the foot of the bed, creating warmth and visibility in seconds. The glow cuts through the room, revealing the tension in his shoulders and the sharpness in his jaw. He returns to my side and slides his hand beneath mine.
“We need the healers,” he says quietly. “Can you breathe for a minute while I call them?”
Another contraction builds slower this time, but heavier, swelling like a tide.
“Go,” I breathe.
He squeezes my hand once and moves to the door. I can hear every step he takes, every shift of air, every vibration through the stone as he calls sharply down the corridor for the healers.

The surrounding air thickens. My body leans forward, instinct pulling me into a crouched position on the edge of the bed. My hands grip the mattress as the next contraction crests, harder than the others, pulling a ragged sound from my chest. Nicholaus is there again before it fully ebbs — kneeling in front of me, hands on my knees, eyes locked on mine.
“Breathe into it,” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. Let it move through you.”
I do... Or try to but the pressure radiates outward, up my spine, down my thighs. My magic stirs instinctively, wrapping around my stomach like invisible hands trying to brace me from within. I hear footsteps approach before the door opens, and two healers enter first. They're both women, both calm in a way that makes it clear they’ve done this before... even if it was a very long time ago. Verrin follows, silent but alert, assessing everything in one sweep of his gaze.
“How long have the contractions been this strong?” one healer asks.
“Minutes,” Nicholaus answers. “She woke with them.”
The healer moves to my side. “Echo, breathe with me. May I touch your stomach?”
I nod, jaw tight and she places her hands on either side of my belly, palms warm, fingers steady. For a moment, nothing happens, and then another contraction builds. Her eyes sharpen.
“They’re close together,” she says quietly. “Strong. Her body has already begun the descent.”
Nicholaus straightens. “Too fast?”
“Not too fast,” she answers. “Just decisive. The child knows where they’re meant to go.”
I cling to the sound of her voice as another wave slams through me. My breath breaks. My fingers claw at the blankets. My vision blurs at the edges. Nicholaus moves behind me, sitting on the bed and pulling me back against his chest. His arms anchor around me, one across my ribs, the other supporting my stomach.
“Lean into me,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I do instinctively, just as another contraction peaks, holds, then slowly releases its grip, leaving my body trembling.
The healer nods once. “She needs space to move. Walking will help labour progress faster and with less pain.”
Nicholaus glances at me immediately. “Can you stand?”
I swallow and nod, though my legs feel nothing like my own.

He rises with me, lifting most of my weight as my feet touch the floor. The stones are cold but the air is warmer near the fire. Everything feels too sharp, too real, as though my senses have doubled again.
The healer steps just behind us. “When the next wave comes, let your body fold forward. Don’t brace your stomach — let gravity help.”
Nicholaus holds my hand as we take the first steps around the room. My bare feet slide across the rug, then the cold stone. My body sways with each movement. The weight inside me shifts lower, heavier, fuller, pressing down with an urgency that steals my breath. Another contraction slams into me, and my knees buckle. Nicholaus catches me instantly, lowering me into a supported crouch, his arm strong around my chest as his other hand steadies my hip.
“That’s it,” the healer says. “Let the weight move downward.”
I breathe — once, twice, three times — through clenched teeth as the pressure claws through my stomach. Nicholaus’s breath is warm against my ear. He murmurs nothing loud enough for anyone else to hear — soft assurances, quiet grounding words, the kind of solid, unwavering sound that anchors me more than the floor beneath my feet. When the contraction ends, he helps me stand again, keeping an arm wrapped firmly around my waist.
“How long will she labour?” he asks.
Hours, I expect her to say, but the healer pauses, listening to something I can’t hear.
“Her body is strong,” she says. “Her magic supports the process. It may not be long, my king.”
Nicholaus’s grip tightens around me, and I can feel his wave of emotions through the bond as a contraction rises with a deep, dragging pull that forces a cry from my chest. He holds me through it.
And I know the next chapter will be the one where everything in our world changes.