[Third Person]
The great hall of the Oatrun estate shimred 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 ats, and wolf pheromones, held carefully in check, as restrained power and ambition were woven into the sa 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 dicine and poison.
Beside him was his Beta, Gabriel Carter, redith’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 rchant 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 ti and cunning, each one accustod to being obeyed.
One of them, Reginald Fellowes, sat with quiet authority, his daughter, Wanda, poised gracefully at his side.
Her long dark gown shimred with subtle threads of silver, and though her expression was polite, her gaze betrayed her restlessness.
Every ti 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 rely 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 ho."
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 asured. "Though duty binds him to the capital, he honours us tonight through his chosen delegate."
Whispers rippled through the crowd as curiosity and speculation blossod. 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 na 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 acknowledgent, but his eyes flicked briefly toward the great doors at the far end of the hall. It was the only entrance left unopened.
And then, as though summoned by his gaze, the doors began to part. Two guards stepped aside, and silence fell like a heavy tide.
The sound of boots striking marble echoed in a steady, deliberate rhythm.
Draven Oatrun entered first, every inch of him radiating calm command. His dark attire caught the lantern light with a faint sheen, the silver crest of Mystic Furs gleaming faintly against his chest.
At his right, redith walked, poised and graceful in a deep sapphire gown that swayed like flowing water with each step.
Her chin was lifted, her expression serene, but her eyes were alert and asured as she took in every face and every whisper that followed their entrance.
Behind them ca Dennis and Jeffery, their presence solid but deferential, the shadow of loyalty following close.
All eyes were drawn to the pair at the centre—Alpha and Luna, returning from the smoke and ruin of war.
Randall’s face didn’t soften, but pride glimred faintly in his eyes as he raised his voice.
"Welco ho, Draven," he declared.
A low murmur swept the room, respect mixed with curiosity and restrained judgnt.
From her seat among the Elders, Wanda’s breath caught, her pulse hamring against her ribs as her gaze locked on Draven.
’He’s here.’
And he hadn’t even looked at her once.
Draven guided redith toward the place set at his father’s right; Dennis and Jeffery took the seats to his left, and Oscar, who had ticulously followed, slipped into the chair nearest enough to watch Draven’s face.
Gabriel Carter’s face was composed. But when redith’s eyes t his, there was the familiar indentation of distance: not anger so much as an office-holder’s polite indifference.
Instantly, redith felt the familiar prick of disappointnt but managed to keep her expression smooth.
Randall, who had briefly sat down, rose to his feet once again and lifted his glass. "To the return of those who hazard themselves for the good of Stormveil," he said.
"To my son, Draven Oatrun, who served as our ambassador in Duskmoor and brought ho our people." Then, he inclined his head toward Draven.
A murmur of assent moved along the table.
Draven accepted the goblet handed to him without ceremony. When he stood to answer, his presence alone tightened the room’s attention.
"Thank you," he said, voice steady. "I speak for our people who made their ho among humans in Duskmoor. I was sent as an ambassador; when peace failed, I beca a shield. We fought to bring our people ho."
He paused long enough that every elder registered the unvarnished truth in the sentence.
"And to the one who stood at my side through that night and the days that followed," he added, and the tone shifted, softer and deliberate, "my Luna—redith Carter, my wife."
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