The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven-Chapter 431: Their Mother

[Meredith].

Draven and I entered the ground-floor dining hall together. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

It was larger than the one from yesterday, rectangular and lined with tall windows that poured morning light across the polished wood floor.

Dennis, Jeffery, and Oscar were already seated, steam rising from the platters on the table.

They instinctively moved to stand when Draven and I stepped in, but Draven lifted a hand to stop them.

"No need," he said.

They sank back into their seats.

A servant immediately pulled out the head chair for Draven and then the seat beside it for me. I settled down quietly, smoothing the hem of my silver top across my lap.

Just then, Dennis grinned at me from across the table. "Your choice of outfit is commendable. Looks like you’re settling into this Luna role far better than you think."

I returned his smile. "I have to play my role perfectly. I don’t intend to embarrass your brother."

Dennis chuckled, and Jeffery hid a faint smirk behind his cup. Oscar gave a polite nod but remained reserved as always.

Moments later, the creaking sound of the double doors snapped everyone to attention. Randall Oatrun entered.

Immediately, we all rose to our feet, including Draven. And that surprised me.

By rank, Draven didn’t owe anyone that courtesy. But then again, Randall was not just any wolf. He had once been Alpha of the Mystic Furs and later Alpha King of all Stormveil during his era.

Even now, as a Council Elder, his presence carried the weight of all his former crowns. And besides all that, he was still Draven’s father.

Everyone bowed their heads slightly. Then, Randall gestured with a brief sweep of his hand. "Sit."

Servants hurried forward, pulling out the large seat at the opposite end of the table for him. He sat with the stillness of someone used to commanding rooms, his gaze sharp, scanning the table—and lingering for a fraction of a second on me.

There was no warmth or change—just acknowledgement, nothing more. But I kept my face smooth.

Randall spoke first, his voice deep and even. "I trust everyone rested well after last night."

"Yes, Father," Draven and Dennis replied first. Next was Jeffery and Oscar, while I gave a simple nod in response.

Randall flicked his fingers, and the servants moved immediately, placing trays of roasted meats, eggs, bread, and fruit before each of us.

For a moment, the hall filled only with the soft clinking of cutlery. I kept my posture straight, choosing to eat quietly. Every time I felt Randall’s gaze shift in my direction—even briefly—I made sure not to shift or fidget.

I would not give this man a single crack to interpret as fear.

Draven’s advice echoed in my head. "Hide it. Or erase it."

I kept my breathing steady, my shoulders relaxed, and my expression calm.

And yet... in the quiet undercurrent of the moment, I could feel Draven’s attention on me. Subtle. Protective. Ensuring I was okay without ever letting the others know.

Across the table, Dennis gave me a small, encouraging wink. Jeffery offered a polite nod, while Oscar observed silently, but there was something sharper in his gaze this morning—an awareness I couldn’t read yet.

A few minutes later, Randall finally broke the silence.

"After breakfast," he said as he reached for his cup, "I have something important to say."

Draven lifted his gaze. "Very well."

Then Randall’s eyes shifted to me again, cool and assessing—but not dismissive. Simply measuring.

I held his stare for a breath, calm and unshaken, before looking back to my plate.

After Randall finished the last sip of his tea, he set the cup down with deliberate calm and lifted his gaze—first to Draven, then to me.

"The matter I have to discuss," he said. "We will cover them now."

My spine straightened instinctively. ’So, it wasn’t just Draven he wanted.’

Draven leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

Randall folded his hands on the table. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but not openly hostile.

This was a man who had ruled for decades without flinching—who had learned to carve truth from silence and strength from the smallest gesture.

"Last night’s banquet," Randall began, "was not merely a celebration. It was a message. Stormveil’s leaders needed to see that you"—his eyes moved briefly to Draven—"have returned. And that you," he shifted to me, "stand beside him. So, you must conduct yourself properly."

I held his gaze, calm and unblinking.

I knew this was a subtle test. His tone never wavered, but I could feel the weight behind every word: Show me you can handle this. Show me you won’t crumble.

Before I could respond, Draven spoke on my behalf. "She has already conducted herself accordingly."

Randall’s eyebrow lifted a fraction—amused or surprised, I couldn’t tell. "Confidence is one thing," he said, settling back in his chair, "but confidence must be supported by understanding. Meredith, are you aware of the expectations that come with standing as Luna of the Mystic Furs here in Stormveil, not Duskmoor?"

"I am," I answered evenly.

"Are you sure?" he pressed, tone deceptively mild. "Stormveil is home to the five royal packs. Each with their own politics, rivalries... ambitions."

Randall wasn’t done. His gaze on me now was assessing but controlled.

"Your presence as Draven’s Luna is now officially recognized," he said. "The Elders will expect decorum, steadiness... and restraint. The eyes upon you here are far sharper."

I kept my posture straight, my voice calm. "I understand, Elder Oatrun."

His eyes narrowed a fraction, as if testing the truth of my answer. "And you believe you’re prepared for that?"

"I will do my best to meet every expectation placed before me," I replied respectfully.

This time, his expression barely shifted, but it was enough for me to catch it. A small, almost grudging acknowledgement that I wasn’t a timid fool.

Draven’s hand rested lightly on the table beside mine, a silent presence reinforcing his stance at my side.

Randall exhaled slowly. "Very well." Then his gaze shifted to Draven and Dennis.

"Since you’re both back," he said, voice firm but carrying something heavier beneath it, "you should make out time, one of these days, to visit your mother."

My head lifted a little in surprise. ’Their mother?’

In all my time with Draven, and in all the months I had known Dennis, not once had either of them mentioned her. Not in passing. Not in memory. Not even indirectly.

Draven’s face right now didn’t move. There was not a flicker—but Dennis... Dennis stiffened.

The cheerful, carefree man who had always worn some kind of smile suddenly looked as though someone had stripped all the light out of him.

His jaw clenched, his eyes hardened, and for the first time since I had met him, I saw a flash of something sharp—anger. Real anger.

But Draven stayed perfectly composed.

"As you said," Draven replied evenly, "we have returned now. There is plenty of time to visit her."

Randall accepted that answer with a short nod, but his eyes slid back to Dennis, expecting the same. But Dennis didn’t give it.

In fact, he didn’t even try. "Count me out," he said flatly.

His father’s brows lowered. "Excuse me?"

Dennis met his stare without wavering. "I’m not going."

The room fell completely still. Even the servants standing by the walls dared not breathe too loudly.

Randall’s voice sharpened. "Dennis, she is your mother—"

"And she doesn’t know who I am," Dennis cut in, not loudly, but with enough bite to make the truth slam through the air. "Half the time, she doesn’t even remember she has children. So why bother?"

The weight of those words settled heavily in my chest.

’Doesn’t remember?’

’Doesn’t know them?’

Pieces began clicking into place without anyone explaining a thing.

The silence around the brothers. The reason Draven and Dennis never once mentioned a motherly presence or influence.

Of course, their mother was still alive... but lost. Not physically, but mentally.

On the other hand, Randall’s jaw tightened, his expression strained just faintly before he masked it again.

"She may not remember everything, Dennis, but she is still your mother. A visit—"

"Would change nothing," Dennis said bluntly. "She will look at me like she is seeing a stranger. Like she always does."

A muscle jumped in Randall’s cheek—anger, but maybe also pain—a pain he had never allowed anyone at this table to name.

Draven finally intervened, his voice calm but edged in quiet authority.

"That’s enough, Father. Dennis has given his answer."

Randall inhaled slowly, visibly checking himself.

His eyes shifted between his sons—first Draven, then Dennis, with an old heaviness I had never seen on him before.

Then he straightened, composure snapping back into place like armour. "Very well," he said again, but the words felt heavier this time.

The tension lingered. Thick. Unspoken. Barely contained.

I lowered my gaze to my plate, hiding the sympathy on my face. This wasn’t the time or the place for me to insert myself, but in my heart, something tightened for both brothers.

And for the first time, I understood that the Oatrun family might have wounds far deeper than the public knew.