[Third Person].
As the night deepened, the torches along the great hall burned lower, their golden glow softening to a dim amber hue.
The musicians played one last gentle melody before retreating to the sides of the hall. The murmur of conversation slowed.
Even the Elders, who had lingered over their wine and quiet debates, began to lean back in their chairs, content or exhausted.
Randall Oatrun rose from his seat at the head of the table. Despite the long evening, his bearing was still regal, his tone clear.
"It has been a night well spent," he said, his gaze sweeping the length of the hall. "Our people have returned, our trust in Stormveil's strength is renewed, and our Alpha son has shown once again that the Oatrun bloodline stands for resilience and loyalty."
The room stirred with agreement—light applause, murmurs of approval. Randall waited for the sound to fade before continuing.
