The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven novel Chapter 421

Chapter 421: Draven Publicly Acknowledges Meredith

[Third Person]

The great hall of the Oatrun estate shimmered under the pale gold light of suspended crystal lanterns.

Their soft glow reflected across polished marble floors and tall silver columns, casting fleeting glints over the banners of the five royal packs that hung proudly behind the high dais.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of wine, roasted meats, and wolf pheromones, held carefully in check, as restrained power and ambition were woven into the same space.

Every seat had been filled. The alphas of the royal packs had already arrived with their entourages, each bringing the unique essence of their territories into the room.

To Randall’s left sat Alpha Magnus of the Moonstone Pack, serene and composed, the faint herbal scent of his robes hinting at the pack’s mastery of medicine and poison.

Beside him was his Beta, Gabriel Carter, Meredith’s father. His expression fixed, almost studiously indifferent, as his sharp eyes observed the hall.

To Randall’s right sat Alpha Solas of the Bloodfang Pack, broad-shouldered and proud, his presence commanding like a storm waiting for provocation.

Across from him, Alpha Victor of the Silvercrest Pack sat quietly, his sharp gaze noting every detail with the practised scrutiny of a craftsman and engineer.

And at the far end, Alpha Ulric of the Ashfang Pack, draped in black and gold, lounged like a merchant king at ease — a man who dealt in wealth and influence more than blood.

Among them, the Council of Elders filled the inner seats. Older faces marked by time and cunning, each one accustomed to being obeyed.

One of them, Reginald Fellowes, sat with quiet authority, his daughter, Wanda, poised gracefully at his side.

Her long dark gown shimmered with subtle threads of silver, and though her expression was polite, her gaze betrayed her restlessness.

Every time the doors creaked or footsteps echoed from the hall outside, her head turned sharply, expectation tightening her posture.

But it was Randall Oatrun who commanded the hall. Seated at the head, his expression impassive but his bearing unmistakably regal, he was every inch the wolf who once held the Council in check.

When he finally rose, the room quieted instantly.

"Alphas. Elders. Brothers and sisters of Stormveil," Randall began, his voice deep, steady. "I thank you for answering my call. Tonight, we gather not merely in celebration, but in unity—to honour the return of my son, Draven Oatrun, Alpha of Mystic Furs, who led our people through the ashes of Duskmoor and brought them safely home."

The murmur that followed was brief but warm, though not all applause was genuine. Randall lifted his hand once more, silencing them with ease.

"Our King, Alderic, sends his blessings," he continued, his tone measured. "Though duty binds him to the capital, he honours us tonight through his chosen delegate."

Whispers rippled through the crowd as curiosity and speculation blossomed. Only few realised the King would send a representation at all.

A man in the silver uniform of the royal guard stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"In the name of His Majesty, I bring greetings and the seal of the crown," he declared, holding aloft the engraved insignia of the King.

Randall nodded once in acknowledgement, but his eyes flicked briefly toward the great doors at the far end of the hall. It was the only entrance left unopened.

’He’s here.’

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