Chapter 609

[ 1,061 words ]

[Third Person].

Morning came gently.

Meredith woke slowly, warm and cocooned, only to realize she was wrapped in Draven’s arms, his chest solid beneath her cheek, his scent surrounding her completely. For a moment, she forgot crowns, councils, and enemies.

Then his lips brushed her temple. Another kiss followed, this time on her cheek. Then, she felt him smile against her skin.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured lazily, nibbling lightly along her jaw, “are you going to ignore your King?”

She huffed softly, pretending to remain asleep. He bit her cheek, just enough to make her yelp.

“Draven!”

He chuckled, stealing a proper kiss this time, unhurried and warm. “Good. You’re alive.”

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You are impossible.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb over her lower lip, “are mine.”

They eventually forced themselves out of bed. The shower was quick, though not without stolen touches and quiet laughter. By the time they were dressed, the weight of the crown felt less foreign than it had the morning before.

When they stepped out of the royal chamber, the palace steward was already waiting.

He bowed deeply. “Your Majesties. The people have gathered below. They request to pay their respects.”

Meredith glanced at Draven, and he glanced at her. No words were needed.

—

They walked side by side through the grand corridor, guards falling into step behind them. When the tall balcony doors opened and the morning light spilt in, a roar followed.

The courtyard below was filled. Men, women, young warriors, elderly matrons, and children perched on shoulders. Banners bearing the Mystic Furs pack’s crest fluttered in the wind.

The moment Meredith and Draven stepped out together, the cheers swelled.

“Long live the King!”

“Long live the Queen!”

“Queen Meredith!”

Meredith’s breath caught. She hadn’t anticipated so many people. Draven stepped slightly closer to her, enough that their shoulders brushed. Then, he lifted one hand in acknowledgement. The crowd roared again.

Meredith followed his lead and raised her hand. The people bowed, row after row, lowering themselves in unified respect. Her throat tightened.

Draven leaned subtly toward her and murmured, “This is yours too.”

She swallowed and nodded, blinking back the sudden sting behind her eyes.

After several minutes, they withdrew, the doors closing behind them as the cheers continued below.

—

The private dining hall prepared for the royal family was nothing short of abundant.

A long polished table stretched down the centre of the room, adorned with golden cutlery and crystal goblets. Platters of roasted meats, fresh fruits, warm pastries, honeyed bread, cheeses, and steaming tea filled the surface.

Two servants bowed deeply as the King and Queen entered.

Chairs were pulled out at opposite ends of the table. Meredith moved toward hers automatically.

But Draven frowned as he sat down. His gaze shifted from her seat to the distance between them. He did not like it.

“My Queen, come to me,” he said calmly.

The servants froze, but Draven’s gaze was still on Meredith. “Come sit here,” he added.

She raised a brow. “Your Majesty, that is not my assigned—”

“Meredith.” His tone was gentle, but final.

She smiled and rose without argument, walking down the length of the table to his right side.

The servants scrambled efficiently. Plates, goblets, and cutlery all relocated within seconds.

Draven watched until Meredith was properly seated beside him. Then he gestured toward the now-empty seat at the far end of the table.

“Remove it permanently,” he ordered.

The servants blinked before hurriedly obeying. One carefully moved the chair away, and soon, the far end of the table was vacant.

Draven leaned back slightly, satisfied. “A Queen sits beside her King, not across from him,” he said.

Meredith suppressed a laugh. But leaning closer, she whispered, “Why do I feel like I am the air you breathe?”

Draven turned his head and looked at her openly. Without lowering his voice, he said, “Without you, I would die.”

The servants stiffened. One nearly dropped a serving spoon, while another suddenly found the wall extremely interesting. Yet, no one dared react.

They continued moving quietly, pretending blindness and deafness had struck them simultaneously.

Meredith felt her cheeks warm. “You are embarrassing,” she muttered softly.

He leaned closer still. “Then, so be it.”

—

The morning meal had scarcely finished when Oscar stepped forward, his posture upright.

“Your Majesties,” he bowed deeply, acknowledging both Meredith and Draven before fixing his sole attention on Draven.

Then he said respectfully, “It is almost nine. The Council of Elders has arrived and is waiting in the Grand Hall.”

Draven did not rush. He dabbed his lips with a cloth, set it aside, and rose smoothly. “Good,” he said. “Let them wait no longer.”

Meredith watched him carefully. There was no visible rage on his face this morning. No outward hostility. That, more than anything, told her that this would be a calculated confrontation.

Just then, Draven leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Have a good day. I will see you later.”

“Mmm…” She hummed and then watched him leave the dining hall.

—

The Grand Hall of the palace felt different today. It seemed more like a throne room than a place where equals gathered.

Draven entered first, robes flowing behind him, the royal crest pinned proudly at his chest. Oscar followed at his right. Guards lined the sides. Randall was already present, standing among the elders.

Every single elder bowed deeply. “Your Majesty.”

Even Randall bowed.

Draven ascended the steps and took his seat on the throne. He did not speak immediately. He simply rested one elbow on the armrest and surveyed the room.

“Rise.”

They stood. Then, his gaze moved slowly across their faces, and he noticed it at once. “One seat is empty,” he said mildly. “Where is Reginald Fellowes?”

The elders shifted uncomfortably on their seats. Finally, one cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty… Elder Fellowes reported that he was ill and that a healer was attending to him. And that he regrets being unable to attend court.”

Draven scoffed softly . ’Ill? Of course.’

His fingers began tapping lightly against the armrest. He knew exactly what game Reginald was playing—avoid the first blow, regroup, attempt to gather sympathy.

Unfortunately for Reginald, his absence had just handed Draven the perfect blade.

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