[Third Person].
By midday, whispers had already begun among the trees. By sunset, irritation simmered openly. When the horn sounded to signal the end of the hunt, the participants returned to camp dragging their game.
The clearing stirred with anticipation as the kills were counted. Then the final tally was announced.
The Fellowes siblings and three other wolves had the highest count.
A ripple passed through the crowd. Some impressed, some resentful.
Draven's expression did not change. He rose from his seat, regal and composed. "As promised," he declared evenly, "Stormveil rewards excellence."
Then, gold tokens were presented, and public recognition granted. Applause followed—measured but audible.
People whispered as the winners stepped back.
"The Fellowes blood is still strong."
"They are not weak."
"Perhaps their fall was political."
Reginald stood among the observers, posture calm, eyes bright with contained satisfaction.
