The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven-Chapter 593: Risen Against Her

[Third Person].

One full month passed after the official announcement that Draven Oatrun would be crowned the next Werewolf King—King of Stormveil.

The news spread quickly through the packs. Among the people, there was excitement, pride, and anticipation. Draven had proven himself in strength, leadership, and battle. His ascension felt inevitable.

But the people were not the final authority. The Council of Elders was. But they were divided, and far from pleased.

The council chamber was steeped in age and authority. Stone pillars carved with ancient sigils stood like silent witnesses, and the long table bore the weight of generations of rule. The Elders sat in a rigid semicircle, their expressions guarded, sharp, and far from welcoming.

Draven stood alone before them.

The discussion began civilly—formal acknowledgements of his achievements, restrained approval of his claim to the throne. Then, inevitably, the conversation shifted.

"Your coronation is not in question," one Elder said, his tone cool and deliberate. "But your mate is."

Draven’s expression hardened. "She is not part of this meeting," he replied evenly.

Another Elder leaned forward. "She is the reason for it."

A murmur spread through the chamber.

"Meredith Carter is wolfless," another voice added. "Cursed by the Moon Goddess herself. A woman without a wolf cannot stand beside a crowned King."

Reginald Fellowes rose from his seat without hesitation.

"This council speaks wisely," he said smoothly. "Stormveil has never been ruled by a Queen without a wolf. No matter how capable she may appear, tradition exists for a reason."

He paused, then continued with calculated care. "Alpha Draven need not abandon his mate. Their marriage can remain intact. But crowning her Queen would be reckless. He should choose another woman for that role."

The chamber echoed with approval.

Draven’s jaw tightened. "My mate will be crowned Queen," he said, his voice low but unwavering.

An Elder scoffed openly. "You ask us to defy centuries of law."

"I am not asking," Draven snapped. "I am declaring."

Still, he did not reveal the truth. He did not tell them that Meredith was not wolfless. He did not tell them that the curse they whispered about no longer existed.

The Elders exchanged cold, measured looks. Then one of them finally said, "Until this matter is resolved, no date will be fixed for your coronation."

The words fell like a deliberate insult, and Draven’s patience finally broke in resolve.

"Then you will delay the inevitable," he said coldly.

Without another word, he turned and left the chamber, his footsteps sharp against the floor. The doors closed behind him.

Inside the chamber, silence lingered. Randall Oatrun remained seated. He waited until the tension settled before speaking.

"And what would satisfy this council?" he asked calmly. "What would make you crown Draven’s mate as Queen?"

The Elders looked among themselves. Then, Reginald answered with confidence. "If she has a wolf, she may be crowned."

A pause followed, then Randall nodded slowly. But at the corner of his lips, a smirk appeared—brief, controlled, and unnoticed by all.

---

Draven returned to the estate late in the afternoon. He entered their chambers with measured steps, removed his coat, and set it aside with deliberate care.

His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, the calm around him strained like a blade held too long under pressure.

That alone told Meredith how serious the situation was. She turned to him immediately and asked, "What happened?"

"The council refused to fix a date for the coronation. They won’t move forward," Draven said evenly.

Meredith felt the weight of those words settle, but she did not flinch. "Because of me?"

"Yes." Draven did not deny it, though his expression was hard. "But they think they can dictate who stands beside me. As if the crown gives them that right."

Then, he added with bitterness, gauging his tone, "Reginald Fellowes was especially vocal. He proposed that I take another woman to be crowned beside me as Queen."

Meredith inhaled slowly. "You told them no."

"Of course." Draven spoke without hesitation, "I told them there will be no Queen but my mate, or there will be no coronation."

Silence stretched between them. Meredith took a breath. She could feel the weight of what he was holding back.

"Then let me prove myself."

His head snapped toward her. "No."

"Draven," she said calmly, "listen to me."

He did not interrupt this time.

"If you force my coronation without addressing their concerns, they will undermine me from the start," Meredith continued. "They will poison the people against your rule and paint me as a weakness you refused to correct."

Draven’s eyes darkened. "And if you prove yourself, you become a target."

"I already am one," Meredith said quietly. "Whether I speak or remain silent."

She stepped closer. "If I stand beside you as Queen without resistance, they will claim you were ruled by emotion. If I earn it openly, they lose that weapon."

Draven exhaled slowly, tension rippling through him.

"You don’t understand what they will do if they start digging," he said. "If they suspect anything unusual about you—"

"Then let them test what I choose to show them," Meredith replied. "Not what they demand."

Draven searched her face, conflicted. "You’re asking me to gamble with your safety."

"I’m asking you not to protect me in a way that makes me weaker," she said gently.

Another round of silence stretched between them.

At last, Draven looked away. "I won’t decide this tonight."

Meredith nodded. "I wouldn’t expect you to."

She reached for his hand, and he let her. "But think about this," she added. "If I’m to be your Queen, then I can’t ascend the throne as something fragile they can challenge whenever it suits them."

Draven squeezed her fingers once, tightly.

"You are not fragile," he said. "That is the one thing they will never understand."

Meredith only hoped that Draven would understand her perspective and let her prove herself before that bunch of crafty old men already challenging him.

Later, when they left together for dinner, neither spoke of the council again, but both knew the matter had to be resolved.