[Third Person].
redith’s na landed like a stone.
The next mont, chairs shifted, glasses paused halfway to lips. So faces betrayed surprise; others slid into thin smiles.
For redith, the sound of her full na spoken by Draven in public, with no hesitation or evasions, felt like armour.
Just then, Draven seated himself and, under the table, let his fingers find hers. The gesture was subtle but unmistakable: his hand closed lightly over hers, an everyday claim that turned the air around them taut.
It was protection, yes, but also a quiet declaration to anyone who might test them.
On the other hand, Wanda sat with the practised mask of civility in place. Her lips curved in the correct way for applause, her glass rose with everyone else’s—but her eyes did not leave Draven.
She watched the hand between them, felt a burn of sothing close to panic under the smile. She swallowed it down and turned her head politely toward the person beside her, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She would keep her composure; she always had. But the sight of redith sitting accepted, nad, beside Draven was a coal in her chest.
Oscar, who had been quiet up to that mont, allowed the ghost of a small smile—then set his goblet down and observed the room.
He moved his gaze from Draven to redith and back again, reading the table with the ease of soone who had seen councils and courts and knew which conversations would turn to knives.
Dinner began in practised rhythm: platters passed, wine poured, talk kept polite. Yet underneath the surface, the room had shifted; the Elders were cataloguing and testing.
Voices quiet as they were, questions and calculations started to circulate like an undertow.
redith caught her father’s eye once more as the first plates were served. But he glanced away quickly, as if even the barest recognition was too much courtesy to give.
She did not reach for him or demand it. The old ache sat in her ribs for a breath, then eased eventually.
Across the table, Draven exchanged quick, economical words with Dennis and Jeffery—updates in a language that needed no long sentences. Oscar leaned in, and quietly, the three n began to thread over a conversation.
redith listened but did not join them. Instead, her fingers occasionally rested against Draven’s, and each ti, his squeeze conveyed: I am here with you. I will protect you and handle them.
Wanda, for all her effort at calm, watched each small sign—how Draven brushed redith’s hand away from a spilt drop of wine and laughed at sothing Dennis said, how Oscar’s look softened into sothing unreadable.
She had grown up with them, so it was difficult to watch the scene without any emotion. She swallowed a jealous, bitter little sound behind her throat and swallowed it again.
She could not let her emotions be seen tonight, not with her father occasionally glancing her way, as if to keep her in check.
The al had barely progressed into the next course when Elder Rowan cleared his throat, the signal that pleasantries had ended.
"Alpha Draven," he began, the formal title rolling across the table, "Though we already know so bits, but we, the Council and the other Alphas would like to hear properly from your own mouth, how everything, our war with the humans all began, and how you ended it."
The conversation around the table stilled. Draven lifted his glass but didn’t drink from it. His posture didn’t stiffen, but the air near him grew quieter, like the pause before a storm.
"I will speak plainly," he said. "Most of you already know the broad outline. But I will tell you how the war started and why it ended the way it did."
He rested his forearms on the table. "It began when we started losing people in Duskmoor—wolves who vanished without a trace. A few were found later, their bodies mutilated, major organs removed. It was a desecration I had never seen in a century of diplomacy with humans. We investigated, quietly at first, because I wanted evidence before we drew swords. It led back to their upper circles—specifically, Mayor Brackham."
The murmurs began imdiately—muted growls, exchanged glances. The na was familiar to many, as it was often ntioned in Stormveil’s reports.
In fact, they knew the leader of the Humans too well.
Draven waited until the noise fell back to silence before continuing.
"Brackham," he said evenly, "wasn’t acting alone. He was running experints—attempts to fuse werewolf and human traits. I learned he had built a secret laboratory beneath the Duskmoor governnt house, which took months to locate."
That line drew about the secret lab being operated from the Duskmoor governnt house drew attention.
"I had no intention of storming their governnt seat without proof," Draven continued. "If we broke into their halls without evidence, history would record us as the aggressors, and every wolf who lived among humans would pay the price. So I took a different approach."
A glint flickered in his eyes then—quiet pride mixed with the sharp gleam of strategy.
"I captured a vampire leader and delivered him to Brackham as a ’gift.’ I knew Brackham was desperate to test cross-species endurance. What he didn’t know was that I made sure the vampire’s kin could trace the scent I left behind."
A few Elders exchanged startled looks; even Randall’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
"In two days," Draven said, "the vampires tracked their leader’s scent right to the Duskmoor governnt house. They broke in through their solid gates, and chaos followed. While the humans scrambled to contain the vampires, I took a team through it all."
The hall filled with a low wave of murmured approval, the sort that wasn’t loud but spoke of respect.
Draven’s tone remained calm and composed, never arrogant.
"The vampires led us to the hidden entrance that connected the governnt house and the underground lab. That was where I saw what Brackham had done."
His voice darkened. "He was cloning us. Or trying to. Our fallen wolves—stripped of essence, fused with human DNA, their bodies turned into failures stacked like refuse."
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