[Third Person].
redith ate her mango sorbet slowly, the cold sweetness barely registering on her tongue as she waited. Her gaze drifted toward the bathroom door more than once.
Thankfully, it opened within five minutes.
Draven stepped out, already dressed in casual clothes, his long hair still slightly damp. When his eyes t hers, a small, instinctive smile curved his lips. redith returned it faintly.
He crossed the room and sat beside her on the couch, reaching for his own glass of mango sorbet.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy, charged and unfinished.
redith knew intimacy was off the table tonight. Too much had happened today. And if she didn’t speak now, she was certain the truth would rot inside her.
So, she inhaled softly. "I visited your mother after breakfast today."
Draven paused mid-scoop. His eyes flicked to her face, sharp and alert. "How is she?" he asked.
"She’s... fine," redith replied carefully.
He nodded once and resud eating, but his posture had stiffened. A few seconds passed.
"There are things I uncovered today," redith continued. "Shady things. Unconventional truths." She hesitated, choosing her words. "So parts are still unverified. I will need ti to confirm them."
Draven set his spoon down slowly and turned fully toward her. His gaze locked onto hers, steady and unflinching.
"Do you want to hear what I learned now," redith asked quietly, "or would you rather wait until everything is confird?"
There was no hesitation from Draven. "Tell everything," he said.
redith exhaled sharply. Her fingers tightened briefly around the glass before she straightened her back.
She had truly worried that with the throne looming over him, this knowledge might crush him. But he had chosen to hear it, so she began.
She told him about the visit. About the strange calm in his mother’s deanour, the mory lapses that didn’t align, the caregiver’s over-vigilance, the dicated food administered without consent.
redith spoke evenly, carefully, recounting every detail. Then she reached into her bag.
"I recorded part of our conversation," she said. "You need to hear this yourself."
She played the recording, and imdiately, his mother’s soft, distant, yet eerily lucid voice filled the room.
"My na is Rosalie Edward... I am a vampire."
Draven froze. The colour drained from his face so fast that redith almost reached for him.
The recording continued. "I am not a pure old blood..."
Draven’s jaw clenched hard as his hand curled slowly into a fist.
Then Rosalie spoke of Estella. "My daughter... Estella. She was just like her father. A full-blood vampire. Fierce. Strong."
The glass in Draven’s hand cracked.
redith flinched as a thin fracture spidered across it, mango sorbet seeping through his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice.
His breathing had changed—slow, controlled, but edged with sothing volatile as he thought of his estranged older sister, Estella. The one their father had banished years ago.
She was the rebel, the problem child.
Instantly, a realization struck Draven like a blade. "That’s why," he said hoarsely.
redith looked at him.
"That’s why my father banished her," he continued, his voice darkening. "Not just because she rebelled. Not just because she refused to submit." His lips twisted bitterly. "She was a reminder."
A reminder of Rosalie. Of vampire blood.
Draven’s shoulders tensed, and suddenly he stood, turning away from redith. His wolf surged violently beneath his skin, rage rippling through him in waves.
"A vampire," he spat. "My mother is a vampire."
redith rose slowly but didn’t touch him.
"And Estella..." Draven laughed once—short, humourless. "A full-blood vampire."
His hands dragged through his hair. "So what does that make ?" he demanded, more to himself than to her. "What does that make the future King of Stormveil?"
redith stayed silent, not knowing how to comfort him.
At the sa ti, Draven’s mories ca crashing in uninvited. He recalled the endless training, his rciless discipline, and the way his father had pushed him harder than any other child—harder than Dennis.
Faster.
Stronger.
Again!
Draven had always believed his strength was earned. That his title—the fastest wolf alive—was forged through blood, discipline, and pain.
But now the truth burned.
"It wasn’t just training," he said quietly with realization sharpening his tone. "It was the blood."
His fists trembled. "The speed. The endurance. The way my body heals faster than others." He turned back to redith with blazing eyes. "That wasn’t just wolf strength."
It was vampiric blood.
"I’m not pure," he said, anger finally breaking through restraint. "Not a pure werewolf."
The word tasted like poison.
"And I’m supposed to ascend the throne," he continued, his voice rising without control. "Rule Stormveil. Lead werewolves who would tear a vampire apart on sight."
His chest heaved.
"Do you know what they will say if this ever cos out?" he asked bitterly. "That my claim is false. That my power is stolen. That I’m not legitimate."
redith stepped closer now, careful, grounding. "You are legitimate," she said firmly.
Draven scoffed. "Tell that to the Council. To the Elders. To the packs who worship purity."
Silence fell between them, heavy and volatile.
Draven finally sank back onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed.
"Everything I am..." he muttered. "Everything I thought I earned."
redith stood before him, watching the storm rage behind his eyes, while thinking that the truth had been unleashed, and it had changed everything.
Draven’s breathing grew heavier and more uneven as the weight of the truth continued to press down on him.
"My wolf knew," he said suddenly, his voice sharp with accusation, though he wasn’t sure who it was ant for. "Rhovan knew."
redith stiffened, though she wasn’t surprised, as Valmora had told her months ago that Rhovan was hiding this truth from Draven.
But now, seeing Draven realize this, she could not begin to imagine the confrontation that would transpire between him and his wolf later.
Inside him, Rhovan stirred. But it wasn’t with protest or denial. Instead, there was a slow, uneasy retreat.
"You always knew," Draven accused inwardly.
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