The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven-Chapter 617: Looming Danger Ahead

[Third Person].

In the familiar village far from Stormveil’s capital, Meredith’s grandmother sat by the window where sunlight poured in gently.

Though only white clouds filled her eyes, her fingers were steady as they traced the raised ink of Meredith’s letter. She moved slowly, carefully, feeling each line as though it were carved into memory.

Then a small smile curved her lips when she reached the part describing the coronation. "My child..." she murmured softly.

Her granddaughter had risen beyond what most thought possible. A Queen.

But as her fingers moved lower, reaching the portion where Meredith asked about the future, the smile on her face faded. The room grew still.

The old woman’s hand paused. She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to something beyond the physical world. The air around her seemed heavier, touched by thought and memory.

After a long moment, she folded the letter gently. Then she reached for fresh parchment. Her reply was shorter and more careful.

When she finished, she sealed it and handed it to the woman standing beside her. "Give this only to the one who brought the first," she instructed quietly.

The woman nodded and stepped outside.

Jeffery stood waiting at a respectful distance. She offered him a small bow and passed him the sealed letter.

Jeffery inclined his head and departed without delay.

A few hours later, he returned to the palace, but Draven was unavailable.

In the council chamber, Draven sat at the head of a long table as the remaining Elders discussed the upcoming Annual Hunt Festival—a tradition deeply rooted in Stormveil’s identity.

"This year’s hunt must be larger," one elder suggested. "It is the first under Your Majesty’s reign."

Draven listened without interruption.

Routes were discussed—northern forest boundary, southern ravines, and the old ridge near the valley. Security protocols were revised. Patrol units would be doubled along the outer territories. Only registered packs could participate in the central hunt.

"And the ceremonial first strike?" another elder asked.

Draven answered evenly. "I will lead it."

A ripple of approval moved through the room.

They discussed feast preparations, the allocation of game to poorer districts, and reinforcing border watch during the festival, when territories would be active, and movement would be heavy.

Finally, Draven dismissed the elders.

As the chamber cleared, Oscar stepped forward. "Your Majesty. Jeffery has returned. He is waiting."

Draven’s gaze sharpened immediately. "Send him in."

Jeffery entered and bowed, presenting the letter with both hands. "Your Majesty."

"Well done." Draven accepted it

Jeffery inclined his head.

"Have lunch before you leave," Draven added.

"Your Majesty, that isn’t necessary—"

"It is," Draven cut him off lightly.

Before Jeffery could protest further, the steward stepped in smoothly, guiding him away with polite insistence.

Alone, Draven examined the envelope. He recognized that familiar fragrance immediately, and a quiet breath left him. Meredith would be relieved.

Without delay, he made his way through the palace corridors.

---

Draven found Meredith in a sunlit annexe chamber overlooking the lower courtyard. Tables were covered in herbs, parchment notes, and architectural sketches.

She was speaking to two attendants about storage methods and distribution channels.

He paused at the doorway, simply watching her. She was engrossed—her hair slightly loose, sleeves rolled up, completely unaware of his presence.

It was her maidservants who noticed him first and bowed immediately. "Your Majesty."

Right then, Meredith turned, so Draven raised the letter slightly in his hand. Her eyes widened.

Even before she saw the seal clearly, she recognized it. She could smell it.

"Grandmother..." she breathed.

Work forgotten, she stepped toward him, every trace of queenly composure replaced by pure granddaughter.

---

Meredith and Draven retreated to her private drawing room, away from attendants and curious ears.

The door closed softly behind them.

Meredith broke the envelope’s seal and unfolded the parchment. It was blank as expected.

Draven’s brows drew slightly together, but Meredith did not panic. She moved to the low table where a candle burned steadily and held the paper just above the flame.

Slowly, faint lines began to darken across the surface, and words surfaced from nothing.

This was the first time Draven had witnessed it himself—the hidden ink revealing secrets only to flame. He was amazed.

Meredith began to read silently at first. Her grandmother’s familiar tone unfolded across the page.

"My child, I have missed you as well. Do not let your heart be troubled on my account. The wind still knows my name, and the earth still answers when I call. I am well."

Meredith’s shoulders eased slightly. She continued.

"You and your mate have persevered through storms and mockery, and now you sit where destiny always intended you to sit. I am proud of you both. A throne gained through endurance stands firmer than one inherited without struggle."

Draven’s gaze softened as Meredith had read that part aloud.

But as Meredith’s eyes moved lower, her tone shifted into silence.

"Now you ask me about the future. Listen carefully, my granddaughter. There are wounds that do not heal simply because time has passed. Some scars were not accidents—they were inflicted with intention. When resentment is born from such scars, it does not sleep peacefully. It grows teeth.

And when the time comes for that resentment to seek its due, it will not only strike the guilty. Innocent ones may stand in the way and bear the first blow."

Meredith’s brows knit together. She lowered the page slightly. "I don’t understand this," she murmured quietly.

Draven frowned. "What does it say?"

She did. When she finished, he exhaled slowly. "It seems like she is trying to warn us that someone will cause trouble soon."

At that very moment, Rhovan’s presence pressed into their bond. "Indeed, someone is planning a revenge mission."

Valmora’s voice followed in a colder tone. "And it will not be gentle. Blood will answer blood."

Meredith swallowed and continued reading as more words deepened over the flame.

"When the situation turns ugly—and it will—you must not hesitate. There will come a moment when restraint will endanger your King. When that moment arrives, you must let everything loose.

Do not fear the revelation of what you truly are. The truth of your blood will stir Stormveil. It will divide tongues and shake loyalties. There will be uproar. But know this: it is inevitable. And it is the only way your King will be saved."

Meredith’s heart skipped. Then, she looked up slowly.

"Grandma is saying I will be forced to reveal my fae powers," she said carefully. "That it will cause unrest... but it will save you."

Draven’s expression darkened instantly. Just the thought of Meredith revealing her true identity to others irked him. He didn’t want her to be put in a dangerous position.

Inwardly, he wondered what could possibly force her into that position.

Meredith continued reading the final lines.

"The Moon Goddess does not abandon her chosen. What rises in chaos will settle in time. Stormveil will not fall. But the path to its balance will not be easy. When it has passed, write to me again."

Meredith lowered the letter fully now, and silence filled the room.

Draven’s jaw was tight. "If this has anything to do with Reginald," he said lowly, "I will end him myself."

Meredith stepped closer and took his hand. "There may be nothing we can do to stop what’s coming," she said softly. "But when judgment comes, when accusations rise... I trust you to stand with me."

Draven pulled her into him without hesitation. "You will never face Stormveil alone," he promised.

The fire flickered, consuming the last of the invisible ink.

And in the quiet warmth of the drawing room, both of them understood from the clear warning that something long-buried was about to surface.

***

Three Days Later...

The Fellowes residence seemed quieter than before, stripped of its former status.

Reginald sat alone in the sitting room, a glass of untouched whiskey resting on the table beside him.

But today, he was doing more thinking than drinking. His expression was rigid, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the estate—beyond Stormveil itself.

Just then, the door opened softly, and Wanda stepped in. She had finally left the house today after weeks of hiding indoors. But the air outside had not been kind.

Where once people had lowered their gazes in respect, now they looked at her with curiosity, and worse, pity. She still felt those looks clinging to her skin.

"Father," she greeted quietly.

Reginald gave a short nod as she came to sit across from him.

"Today, I heard the annual hunting season is being prepared," she said, trying to sound indifferent. "The council has begun organizing it."

Reginald’s eyes shifted to her at that. "How long," he asked calmly, "until this absurd house arrest is lifted?"

"Two weeks," Wanda replied. "Exactly two."

Reginald leaned back slowly. His gaze drifted again, his mind already moving ahead of the present.

"Stormveil’s borders will be open during the hunt," he murmured under his breath.

Wanda frowned slightly. "What?"

He did not repeat himself. Instead, his fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as calculations settled into place in his mind.

The Annual Hunt Festival was the one time each year when restrictions loosened. Borders were monitored, but not sealed. Warriors were spread across forests and fields. Attention was divided.

On the other hand, Wanda watched him for a moment, but she was too preoccupied with her own humiliation to press further.

When she had stepped into a shop earlier that afternoon, the silence had been immediate. Conversations had lowered, and eyes had followed her.

Releasing a sigh, she got up from the sofa and excused herself. Though her father was already far too lost in thought to acknowledge her exit.