5. Echo

The fire fights me. It crackles along my skin, desperate to become something bigger, something violent. But every time I try to push it further, try to force it into the window or the walls or anything that might get me out of here, agony rips through my chest. It's not normal pain, not physical, it's something much deeper. Something wrong. The witches’ runes, they're still there, still feeding on me. I grit my teeth and push anyway. The flames sputter. Then flicker. Then die.

I slam my palm against the window. “Come on!”

The magic surges, then collapses so fast my vision goes white. I stagger backward, the world tilting, nausea clawing up my throat as I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Stop,” Nicholaus says.

The word is soft but also commanding and final.

I spin toward him, fury boiling under my skin. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re going to burn your arm off,” he says calmly.

“Good.”

He sighs like I’m inconveniencing him. He even has the audacity to look bored, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his black shirt stretched tight across his muscles. I want to punch him. Hard. Instead, I glare so fiercely that the air heats, but he doesn’t even flinch. He just watches me like I’m something dangerous and fascinating, and he hasn’t decided whether to tame or worship me.

“I told you,” he says quietly, “you’re not ready to use your magic.”

“I don’t need your permission.”

“You don’t have enough power to light a spark without collapsing.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He steps closer. “I won’t let you.”

My laugh is sharp and humourless. “You can’t stop me.”

“Oh, I can.” His eyes gleam. “And I will.”

I shove past him, heading for the door, not caring that I’m shaking. He grabs my wrist, not hard but not soft either, just enough to stop me.

“Let go.”

“No.”

I try to yank my arm free, but that's a bad mistake. Pain consumes me, searing, ripping, feeling like fire is chewing through my bones. My knees buckle and Nicholaus catches me before I hit the floor. He lowers me gently, too gently, like I might break, which only infuriates me more.

“Stop fighting,” he murmurs.

“I’ll never stop.”

“Good.” His voice is dark, pleased. “I don’t want you docile. I want you alive.”

I jerk weakly in his hold. “You don’t care if I’m alive.”

He laughs in a way that's both soft and cruel. “Echo, I’ve killed for you. I brought you out of that hell because I care very much that you’re alive.”

My stomach twists. “How do you even know my name?”

Something shifts in his expression, it's a slow, knowing smile that curls his lips.

“Echo.”

The sound of it on his tongue sends a jolt through my spine.

I freeze. “How—”

“I went back,” he says simply.

My breath stutters.

“Back where?”

“To the witch den,” he answers. “I had my men sweep every inch of it. Every parchment. Every ritual record. Every scrap of paper with a name or sigil on it.”

Ice fills my veins, but he keeps talking, voice low and dangerous.

“You want to know how many times they wrote your name?” His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. “At least a dozen. Echo of the Four. Echo of the Flameborn. Echo with the split soul. They kept detailed notes on you.”

My stomach lurches. Detailed. Notes.

“They knew what you were capable of,” he continues. “They knew what you could become. They knew how precious you were.”

I shake my head. “Stop.”

“They knew enough to fear you,” he whispers, leaning closer. “And I know enough to never let you out of my sight.”

“I am not yours.”

His voice is barely a breath when he whispers, “You will be.”

I shove him, or try to. My palm hits his chest weakly, fingers trembling, and he doesn’t move an inch.

“You think you know me,” I spit, “because you read what they wrote? You think you understand anything about me?”

“No,” he says calmly, “I know you because I watched you threaten me while half-dead. I know you because you tried to melt a window with your dying breath. I know you because you look at me like you’d rather set yourself on fire than obey.”

His eyes burn, black and bottomless. “And I know your name because I wanted it.”

Heat floods my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from fury.

“I hate you.”

“You should,” he says softly. “It’ll make what comes next easier.”

“What comes next?”

He lifts me easily, carrying me toward the bed again as if I weigh nothing.

“You’re not confining me again!” I hiss, clawing at his shoulders.

“Not confining,” he corrects. “Preventing you from collapsing on the floor again.”

He sets me on the edge of the mattress, but keeps his hands bracketing my hips so I can’t stand.

“Let go,” I warn.

“No.”

“Move.”

“No.”

“Get out of my room.”

“Not until you stop trying to kill yourself.”

“Trying to escape,” I correct.

“Same thing, at the moment.”

He studies me so intently I feel peeled open.

“You’re reckless,” he says. “You push yourself until you break.”

“I won’t break.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb along my jaw, “you will. But not alone. Not under them. Under me.”

A sickening heat pools low in my stomach as a thousand emotions roll through me.

“You don’t get to decide what I do.”

“I do now.”

I slap his hand away. “Why?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Because if you die before the curse is broken, my people die with you.”

My chest caves in.

“Ah,” I breathe. “So that’s it. You don’t care about me. Just the curse.”

Something flashes across his face — anger? Frustration? I can’t tell.

“That is not why I’m here,” he says.

“Then why?”

He leans forward, the heat of him pressing into my space, the air between us sparking with tension so thick it steals my breath.

“You want the truth?” he murmurs.

“No.”

He gives it anyway.

“Because the moment I saw you in that cage,” he says, “I knew I would raze kingdoms to protect you.”

My stomach drops.

“I don’t need your protection,” I whisper.

“You need it more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“And yet, I don’t want it.”

His smile is slow and lethal.

“You don’t have a choice.”

He stands, the shift of his weight pulling heat away from me like a snapped tether.

“You will stay in this room,” he says. “You will rest. And you will not use your magic again until I say so.”

“I won’t obey you.”

“You already have.”

The bastard leaves before I can think of a retort, the door clicking shut behind him. I just stare at the door and whisper through clenched teeth, “I’m getting out. Even if it kills me.”