A Royal Remarriage

Chapter 30 ~ The Wake

Morning broke, but the sea still wore its mourning colors—dull gray, like iron. The rain had returned, but soft now, almost reverent, as though the sky itself feared waking something that slept below.

Victoria stood at the window of the master chamber, one hand resting on her stomach, the other curled around a teacup she hadn't touched. The child stirred beneath her ribs—light, fluttering, like wings beating against glass. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm more firmly there.

"I know," she whispered. "I feel it too."

They had come here to escape the noise of the court—the endless whispers of dissent, the looming threat of collapse, and the quiet terror that someone would discover just how thin their power had grown. Even as Crown Prince and Princess, safety had become a luxury they could no longer afford.

And now, even here, the past was stirring.

She turned at the sound of boots in the hallway. Henry entered the room, soaked and pale. He carried the box.

"You opened the wall," she said, not a question.

"I had to." He placed the box on the writing desk, unwrapped the black twine with care. "There's something beneath this house, Victoria. Something connected to the Wake."

Her stomach tightened, not from the child, but from dread.

"And the door?"

"Not yet. But I know now it wasn't meant to be opened by outsiders. Or alone."

He held up the letter—the one postmarked after the man's death.

She scanned the words. Her lips moved as she read, but made no sound. When she reached the sketch—the cracked door, the eye watching—she flinched. Her fingers found her belly again. Protective. Reflexive.

"You said this house belonged to a friend," she said slowly. "But you left something out."

Henry turned away, jaw tense.

"He was royal. Exiled, quietly. His bloodline was tied to the old rituals... the pre-Coronation rites the Wake preserved. When he left court, he took something with him. A binding."

Victoria's mouth went dry. "You mean to say—this isn't just some haunted house. It's a prison."

Henry nodded. "And we may be the last ones with the key."

They stood in silence as thunder rolled over the sea.

Then she looked up, calm but cold. "We will open it. But I will not walk into that darkness carrying our child."

Henry stepped forward, instinctively reaching for her. "I would never let it touch you."

"I believe you," she said, holding his gaze. "But belief won't be enough. Not this time."

He exhaled and picked up the old journal again, flipping to a fresh page. "Then we prepare. Just like before. Salt lines. Mirror wards. Iron at every threshold."

Victoria nodded. "And the chapel?"

"In ruins," he admitted. "But I found something in the crawlspace. A relic. Still humming with old light."

He unwrapped it: a fragment of stained glass, half-buried in soot. The symbol of the Wake was faintly etched in its heart—broken, but still warm.

That night, they began the rites.

Candles in every room.

Old names whispered in Latin.

The child did not stir.

And in the east wing, behind the sealed door, something listened—and waited.

When sleep finally came, Victoria dreamed of water. Endless, rising water. And at its center, a cradle floated gently in the flood.

Rocking. Waiting.

And the thing that watched from beneath it—

Had her eyes.