7. Echo

Sleep is a liar. It pretends to be rest, pretends to be quiet, pretends to be safety. But it isn’t. Not for me.

Not with the witches’ runes still burned under my skin.

Not with the memory of iron shackles still biting my wrists.

Not with the vampire king pacing the halls outside my door like a wolf circling its meal.

I wake with my heart pounding, sweat sticking my hair to my forehead, breath coming too fast. For one disorienting second, I expect to see the bars of the cage again. Instead, I see the carved ceiling, the soft sheets and the faint glow of morning leaking beneath the curtains. Nicholas’s castle. His scent lingers in the air, all smoke and steel and cold mountain wind. It makes the back of my neck prickle with something I don't want to acknowledge, especially after last night.

I shove the blankets off and stand. My legs tremble, but it’s better than yesterday. Marginally. I promised myself I’d escape today. I will, even if I have to crawl out the front gates. I wash quickly in the basin, ignoring the pulse of pain beneath each rune carved across my ribs. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognise the girl staring back. Hollow cheeks. Bruises bloomed like purple storms. Eyes too bright, too furious...But alive. Alive because of Nicholaus? No. Alive despite him. By the time I’m dressed in black trousers and a loose shirt I stole from the wardrobe, along with boots I found under the bed, I’ve calmed enough to form a plan.

Step one: find a weapon.

Step two: avoid Nicholaus.

Step three: avoid every vampire who answers to him.

Step four: escape the castle through the lower courtyard gate.

Step five: run until I collapse.

Step six: get up and run again.

Good plan. Terrible odds. But better than staying here.

I open the door quietly and stop dead. He’s leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable—a picture of infuriating calm.

“Morning,” Nicholaus says.

I slam the door shut again, and I hear him huff a laugh. Before I can lock the door, he opens it, without touching it. The wood glides inward like the castle itself bowed to him, and he steps inside.

“You’re up early,” he says.

“I was hoping you’d be dead,” I snap.

He smiles. “Come along.”

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you refusing to walk?”

“Yes.”

He steps closer. “Then I’ll carry you.”

Heat flares along my skin. “Don’t touch me.”

“Then walk.”

I glare daggers at him. He waits. The arrogance radiating off him could power the whole damn kingdom.

“Fine,” I bite out. “Where are we going?”

“Training.”

My stomach drops. “I told you I’m not training with you.”

“Yes,” he says, “and you were wrong.”

I want to scream. Instead, I walk past him with all the dignity I can muster. We descend the stairs. Every guard we pass bows deeply, eyes flicking to me with open shock, as if they can’t believe an injured elemental is walking beside their king. Nicholaus ignores all of them. He only watches me. By the time we reach the training hall again, I’m exhausted. I hide it as best I can, but he notices anyway.

Nicholaus steps to the centre.

“Come here.”

“No.”

He gives me a look. The kind that says: I can drag you, but I’d rather you obey.

I take a slow breath and walk toward him.

“Good,” he says.

“Shut up.”

His lips twitch.

“Show me what you can do,” he says.

I grit my teeth. “I told you, I can’t use my magic.”

“You can,” he answers. “Just not the way you’ve been trying.”

I narrow my eyes. “What does that mean?”

Instead of answering, he closes the distance between us until he’s standing unreasonably close.

“Magic isn’t only fire,” he murmurs. “Or lightning. Or explosions.”

He lifts his hand and touches two fingers to my sternum, and I freeze.

“Magic is breath,” he says. “Balance and intent.”

“Don’t touch me.”

He ignores the warning. “Call the air.”

“No.”

He waits. And waits. And waits. He has infinite patience. I do not.

“Fine,” I hiss. “But it won’t work.”

I close my eyes and reach inward. Past the pain, to the quiet place where my magic used to roar. I expect nothing—instead, a whisper answers, a little breeze brushing my fingertips.

Nicholaus watches me, expression unreadable. “Good,” he says quietly.

The breeze grows into a small gust, swirling around us. It’s weak, but it’s something.

Then comes the pain. The runes flare, and my magic lashes back at me like a whip. I gasp and stagger, vision blurring—Nicholaus grabs my waist before I hit the ground.

“Breathe,” he commands.

His hand moves to my spine, steadying me.

“Echo. Look at me.”

I do, and for a moment, my heartbeat syncs with something calm and ancient. He’s stabilising me...

I rip myself out of his hold, stumbling backwards. “Stop touching me!”

He lets me go instantly, but he watches me like he’s trying to read the shape of my soul.

“That’s enough for today,” he says.

“No.”

He blinks slowly. “No?”

“I’m not weak,” I spit. “Do it again.”

His eyes darken. “You’re exhausted.”

I lift my chin. “What’s wrong, King? Afraid I’ll learn faster than you want me to?”

He laughs under his breath. “You really want to test me,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I say. “I want to beat you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

He circles me slowly, like a predator deciding whether to pounce or admire.

“Fine,” he says softly. “Again.”

I swallow hard and reach. This time the air comes faster, rushing to my palms, swirling around my arms. The magic floods too quickly, too wild, and the runes ignite. Pain sears through my ribs, and my knees give out as Nicholaus catches me again.

“You’re done,” he says, voice sharper now.

I shove weakly at his chest. “No—”

“You’re done.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

He carries me out of the circle before I can protest.

I twist in his arms. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“I hate you!”

His grip tightens—not painfully, but firmly. “Good. Hate gives you focus.”

“I hate you so much I could drown you.”

He smiles. “Not today.”

He sets me down gently on a bench.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper. “Why train me? Why care if I collapse?”

He kneels in front of me and my breath catches.

“Because,” he murmurs, “the world will try to break you. And I refuse to let it succeed before I do.”

My heart stutters. I stare at him—Horrified, furious...Drawn.

He rises, offering his hand.

“Come. You need rest.”

“I’m not going back to your room.”

“Yes,” he says softly, “you are.”

“And if I refuse?”

His smile is pure darkness.

“Then I’ll carry you again.”

Heat floods my cheeks.

“I hate you,” I whisper.

His voice drops, velvet and lethal.

“Not nearly enough.”

He turns, waiting for me to stand, and I do. Not because I’m staying and not because he’s winning. Definitely not because something inside me is beginning to shift. No.