The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven - Chapter 423

Chapter 423: Reginald Suggests A Duel
[Third Person].

The room went silent.

Even Wanda, who had been quietly tracing the rim of her wine glass, froze. Meredith’s hand tightened faintly beneath the table, but she said nothing.

Draven’s jaw flexed before he continued. “We destroyed the lab. Every record, every vial, every piece of data that could allow another human to attempt the same thing. If they ever think to repeat that crime, they will have nothing left to work from.”

His gaze swept across the room, not challengingly, but with the authority of someone who knew he was being measured.

“But not all our people made it home. The ones Brackham experimented on—the ones we found were already gone. They were beyond saving.”

A solemn hush settled. The statement carried no embellishment, and that made it hit harder. A few of the elders bowed their heads in respect.

Randall looked toward his son—pride briefly visible through the calm façade.

Dennis and Jeffery sat taller, their eyes glinting with the memory of the mission’s cost.

When Draven finally leaned back, the silence held for several heartbeats before voices began again—low, fervent, half in admiration, half in unease.

The first Alpha to speak was Solas of the Bloodfang pack. “You did what most of us wouldn’t have thought possible. Smart tactics for a strategist,” he said, lips curving faintly. “You brought justice without open war.”

Oscar smiled quietly at that—his way of agreeing without words.

But even as the room rippled with acknowledgement, Meredith could feel the other side of the tension: the older eyes measuring, the ones who wondered whether Draven had been too careful, too composed, too hard to manipulate.

And across from her, Wanda sat with her head bowed just slightly, pretending composure as a thousand thoughts ran through her mind.

Draven’s voice carried calm confidence, and the way Meredith’s presence beside him reinforced it—it unsettled her more than she could admit.

Meanwhile, the tension in the hall had grown heavier. The first few questions from the Elders were ceremonial—praises wrapped around inquiries—but now, the real testing was beginning.

An elder with a snow-white beard leaned forward. “You said you found Brackham and his human conspirators,” he said. “What punishment did they face?”

Draven’s gaze was steady. “I left them to the vampires.”

For a moment, silence. Then outrage broke across the table.

“You what?” Elder Rowan half-rose from his chair. “You handed them to blood-drinkers?”

Draven didn’t flinch. “They created their own monsters. It was only fitting they be eaten by them.”

“Do you understand what you may have caused?” another elder barked. “The vampires could have turned them—infected them! We could face a hybrid army in the future!”

The room stirred, whispers rising like heat from coals. Even some of the Alphas exchanged uneasy looks.

Draven’s calm remained absolute. “And if that happens,” he said, “then we will deal with it. The world doesn’t wait for us to sleep in safety. If war comes again, it will find us prepared.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but the quiet conviction in it silenced the table for a beat. Still, several elders muttered, unsatisfied.

From the far end, Alpha Victor of Silvercrest muttered, “Arrogance can look like courage to those who want to be impressed.”

The tension grew thick enough to cut—until a clear female voice broke through it.

“With respect, Elder Victor,” Wanda said, rising from her seat with measured composure, “I disagree.”

All eyes turned toward her. Her chin was lifted, her confidence natural, her tone precise.

“When I was stationed in Duskmoor,” she said, “I learned one thing about vampires—they rarely attack unless provoked. Humans, however, always do. They poke at power they do not understand, and when it turns on them, they cry victim.”

A murmur of reluctant agreement swept the hall. Even some elders nodded. Wanda continued, her gaze flicking briefly toward Draven.

“Alpha Draven made a choice that ended the war without bringing it to our own gates. He saved nearly ninety per cent of all our people living among the humans. That is a victory worthy of Stormveil’s gratitude.”

She bowed her head slightly toward him—a formal gesture that made her look every inch the disciplined warrior she was.

Draven’s expression didn’t even change for one bit. He didn’t care that Wanda defended him, and it had worked.

There was no warmth in Wanda’s eyes—only a gleam of pride, and beneath it, something sharp and possessive.

Meredith saw it all, but her chest tightened in quiet realization: Wanda’s defence wasn’t just loyalty. It was a claim.

Across the table, Reginald Fellowes stroked his jaw thoughtfully before speaking. “My daughter speaks wisely,” he said, his tone surprisingly calm. “Draven did what was necessary. We must judge results, not methods.”

Randall’s eyes flicked toward him, curious but silent. The mood of the hall shifted again—less hostile now, as the weight of open opposition eased with the elders murmuring their approval.

“Indeed,” Elder Rowan said at last. “Whatever doubts we had, the result is clear. The ambassador of Stormveil returned our people safely. For that, he deserves acknowledgement.”

Glasses were lifted. Toasts were made. The clinking of goblets spread across the hall, and the tension that had coiled tight finally loosened.

The conversation drifted toward lighter talk—the condition of the city walls, the coming council season, the state of trade between the Ashfang and Silvercrest packs.

Laughter returned in soft ripples.

It was precisely then, when the warmth of relief was spreading through the room, that Reginald chose his moment.

He stood, his smile carefully measured. “If I may,” he began, voice deep and polite enough to draw attention without commanding it, “I think we can all agree that words of praise are good—but Stormveil has always valued strength shown, not only told.”

The nearby Alphas looked toward him, curious. Wanda blinked, uncertain where her father was going.

Reginald continued, “To mark our Alpha’s return and the courage he showed in Duskmoor, why not honour him in our tradition? A friendly duel, one that showcases Stormveil’s might.”

Then his gaze slid, almost lazily, across the table until it stopped on Meredith.

“Perhaps,” he said smoothly, “your Luna would not mind representing her Alpha in such a display.”

The hall froze instantly.

Even Wanda’s eyes widened slightly. She had not expected that turn. Around the table, murmurs rose again, this time tinged with disbelief.

Meredith felt every stare fall on her. Her pulse didn’t quicken, but her fingers tightened in her lap.

Beside her, Draven’s expression darkened in the warning silence of a predator measuring his next move.

Randall’s face stayed composed, though his eyes gleamed faintly. “Reginald,” he said, “this is a banquet, not an arena.”

But Reginald only spread his hands lightly. “Of course, my Lord. I mean only a friendly display. To let the court see the strength that carried our Alpha home.”

The words were smooth, but everyone heard the provocation underneath.

Wanda’s jaw tensed. She stared at her father, realization dawning that he had used her moment to turn attention back toward Meredith.

Draven leaned slightly toward his wife, his voice low and quiet but edged with steel. “You won’t lift a finger tonight,” he said.

Meredith didn’t argue. She simply nodded once—knowing the fire behind his calm would burn for both of them if pressed further.

Meanwhile, the silence after Reginald’s words stretched long enough for the hum of torches to fill the gaps between heartbeats.

Every face at the table had turned toward Draven and the woman beside him.

Meredith could feel the scrutiny—curiosity from some, calculation from others, and quiet malice from a few who would have loved to see her stumble.

Reginald’s suggestion was bold, but to Wanda, she was now thinking that this was perfect—a chance to expose the woman who had somehow won the man she could never let go of.

Her lips parted slightly, a memory flashing unbidden — that afternoon, months ago, when she had been assigned to “instruct” Meredith in combat at the training grounds.

Meredith, smaller and hesitant, had lasted only a few blows before Wanda put her on the ground. The look in Meredith’s eyes back then—defiant but broken, still replayed sweetly in her mind.

Now, as the Elders murmured in intrigue, Wanda felt a flicker of triumph building in her chest.

‘Yes, Father,’ she thought, ‘you have finally done something right.’

Just then, Randall cleared his throat, about to steer the conversation away, but Draven was already standing.

“Enough,” he said quietly.

The word cut through the murmurs like a blade.

Every sound in the hall stilled. Draven’s tone hadn’t risen, but his presence filled the space as surely as thunder fills a valley.

“I appreciate the thought behind the suggestion,” he continued, his voice calm but coldly measured, “but there will be no duels tonight. Not friendly, not symbolic, not otherwise.”

Reginald’s brows rose in feigned confusion. Then he said, “It’s only a harmless display, Alpha Draven. Surely a warrior like yourself understands the spirit of—”