[Third Person].
~Oatrun Estate~
A few hours after lunch…
Draven sat before the wide mahogany desk, the afternoon light angling across the shelves packed with ancient scrolls and leather-bound records of Stormveil's history.
He had just finished recounting the whole arc of the war in Duskmoor, or rather, his curated version of it.
He deliberately omitted Meredith's role in the battle. Not a whisper of how fearlessly she fought at his side.
He refused to let anyone, even his own father, drag Meredith into a political dissection she didn't deserve.
Randall exhaled, fingers tapping once on the desk. When he spoke next, his tone sharpened.
"Now… about Meredith."
Draven felt his spine stiffen as his father's gaze locked onto his.
"Draven, I know she is your mate," he began, voice steady, "but I want to use this opportunity to remind you once again that the council will never agree to her crowning."
Silence pressed into the room. Then—
