[Third Person].
The following morning, the Council of Elders entered the Grand Hall in measured silence and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty."
Draven did not immediately ask them to rise. He remained seated on the throne, one arm resting on the intricately carved armrest, his gaze heavy and unreadable. Meredith sat at his right, composed, regal, her silver hair falling neatly over her shoulders. Not a flicker of unease crossed her face.
The silence stretched, and the Elders slowly straightened on their own, shifting under the weight of it.
Draven's voice finally cut through the hall. "I have received your petitions. I have read your concerns." Then, he continued with an even tone, "About my Queen. About her blood. About what you call… instability."
An elder cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Your Majesty, our intentions are not rebellious. The people are unsettled. Stormveil has always been ruled by pure Werewolves. The revelation of Her Majesty's fae blood has caused fear."
