The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven Chapter 659: Sending for The Royal Healer

One full month had elapsed.

For the first time in an age, a sense of tranquility settled over Stormveil—a steadier peace that only follows the end of chaos, once every necessary task has been brought to its conclusion.

My grandmother’s letter arrived yesterday. I had already read it multiple times.

That was how the message began.

Further down the parchment, she spoke of Draven, noting that the fae would be open to assisting him with the Great Wall. However, she attached conditions that would only be disclosed when they were face-to-face.

That revelation did not catch me off guard. The final line, however, was what lingered in my thoughts.

I still struggled to grasp its full significance. At first, I assumed the sentiment related to the events that had unfolded—the defeat of our long-standing foes and the stability we had labored to restore.

Acknowledging those victories felt appropriate for her, yet there was an underlying nuance that felt deeply different.

—

When I awoke this morning, I felt strange. It was not a feeling of alarm, but rather a profound sense of heaviness.

My limbs were uncharacteristically weary, as though I had failed to benefit from any rest overnight. Even the act of raising my arm demanded more effort than it should have.

I remained sprawled in bed for a long time, eyes fixed on the ceiling, struggling to summon the willpower to rise. I simply wanted to remain there.

“Are you still sleeping?” Draven’s voice reached me from beside me.

“I am awake,” I whispered.

“It certainly does not appear that way.”

I offered no reply. A few heartbeats passed, then I sensed the mattress shift as he turned toward me. “Do you intend to languish there for the entire day?”

“Yes,” I answered dully.

He let out a low, vibrant chuckle. “That is truly a pity,” he countered. “Because I do not recall granting the Queen permission to neglect her royal duties.”

I frowned slightly, though my body remained motionless. This prompted him to lean forward.

“Or, has my Queen become feeble?” he added, his tone careless.

That provocation made me turn my head. “I am not weak.”

“Then prove your words.”

I glared at him for a heartbeat. Annoyance flickered through the layers of my exhaustion. Nonetheless, with a soft exhale, I forced myself to sit up.

“See?” he teased lightly.

I chose not to honor him with a retort. Yet, as soon as I stood, that crushing heaviness returned. Every step felt sluggish, my reserves of vitality noticeably drained.

Draven noted my difficulty at once. Before I could venture another stride, his arm encircled me, and with one fluid motion, he hoisted me into his arms.

“Draven—”

“You are moving poorly today,” he remarked simply, already carrying me toward the bathing room.

I saw no reason to argue with him.

—

We were visible in the mirror together. I stood at the washbasin attending to my grooming, while he stayed just behind me, engaged in his own morning routine.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over me. I came to a halt, hands gripping the edge of the basin tight as the sensation intensified unexpectedly.

I leaned forward, but there was nothing to expel—only a hollow, wretched feeling in my gut. I furrowed my brow and stood up straight once more.

In the glass, I met Draven’s sharp, observant gaze. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.

“I am fine,” I lied, rinsing my mouth. “Just a minor headache.” I wiped my lips and added, “I suppose I pushed myself too hard during training yesterday.”

He gave no immediate reply. Instead, he stepped closer, reaching out to press his palm against my forehead.

It looked like a simple gesture, yet his expression underwent a rapid transformation. His brows furrowed slightly, and then his eyes drifted down to my abdomen.

Confused, I tracked his gaze. “What is it?” I questioned.

He remained silent for a long moment. Then, a subtle shift occurred—something faint and entirely foreign rippled through our matebond. It was not mine, and it was certainly not his. It was something far more delicate.

Draven’s hand slid slowly from my brow to rest gently against my belly. His touch remained fixed there. For the first time since our meeting, he looked utterly uncertain.

“Meredith,” he murmured.

My respiration slowed. “What do you see?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

Draven took a slow breath, then lifted his eyes to meet mine through the reflection. There was a new light in them—something I had never witnessed before.

“You are not ill,” he declared. “You are carrying my cub.”

For a few seconds, I could only stare at him. The weight of his words did not immediately sink in. They hovered in the edges of my mind, as if I had caught the sound but failed to comprehend the meaning.

“...What?” I whispered.

Draven held my gaze. If anything, his focus became more intense. Through our matebond, I felt it now—his absolute certainty and his heightened instincts.

“I can detect it,” he replied, his tone deepened by emotion. “It is faint… but it is there.”

My brows pulled together. “That cannot be possible,” I argued, though my voice lacked its usual conviction.

I turned my focus inward. At first, there was nothing, but then a strange, subtle warmth brushed against my senses. It was faint—almost too soft to capture—but once I recognized it, it became impossible to ignore.

I remained perfectly still.

Draven’s hold on my waist firmed, as if he sensed that precise moment of realization.

“You feel it,” he said.

It was not a question.

“I…” I let out a slow, shaky breath. “It is very faint.”

“That is enough to know,” he said.

Before I could interject, he acted. In one swift, protective movement, he swept me up again.

“Draven—”

“No.” His single command was absolute. “You are not walking.”

I blinked at his stoic expression. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“You will not.”

There was no space left for debate. His hold was secure and careful, yet completely unyielding.

Through the bond, I felt it once more. It was not mere certainty this time; it was something far more profound—it was intense protectiveness and a searing, possessive awareness that had completely transformed in an instant.

I exhaled softly, allowing him to carry me.

By the time we returned to the bedchamber, the very essence of the room seemed to have shifted. Draven did not set me down upon the surface immediately; instead, he glanced toward the entryway.

“Oscar.”

The command was heard, for by some stroke of luck, Oscar was stationed just outside the door. He materialized within seconds.

“Your Majesty.”

“Send for the royal healer. Immediately,” Draven commanded without hesitation.

Oscar hesitated only for a fleeting heartbeat before offering a bow. “At once.”

He vanished just as quickly as he had arrived.

Draven finally eased me down onto the bed, his movements tender and incredibly deliberate. He rearranged the pillows behind me before stepping back a short distance, though his focus remained entirely on me.

His eyes never once drifted away.

“You are overreacting,” I protested, although the strength had bled out of my words by then.