The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven Chapter 676: Randall is Punished (I)

Stormveil reveled in festivities for a full week.

The royal twins' naming ceremony evolved into far more than a mere ritual—it transformed into an unstoppable festival that engulfed the entire kingdom.

Streets brimmed with music, rivers of wine poured without end, and joyous laughter resounded from the humblest alleys up to the palace's lofty spires.

Draven permitted it all for those seven days. He refrained from curbing the merriment. He avoided halting the revelry. He allowed the people to indulge completely.

But on the eighth day, he brought it to a close. A formal summons went out.

The council of elders, Royal Alphas, Betas, and every high-ranking official gathered in the Grand Hall for an emergency meeting.

The summons' stern tone grabbed everyone's focus right away, yet the purpose remained a mystery. Not until Draven addressed them.

Seated on his throne, with Meredith notably missing for clear reasons, Draven watched as the hall slowly filled with Stormveil's leaders. When everyone had arrived, quiet descended on its own.

Draven's eyes scanned the assembly before his voice broke the hush. “This assembly concerns Randall Oatrun,” he declared steadily.

Murmurs rippled across the room. Randall stood there among the group, face impassive, though subtle strain started to show underneath.

Draven made a small motion. “Oscar.”

Oscar advanced promptly, scroll in hand. He started reading without pause.

“Randall Oatrun, ex-Alpha King of Stormveil, stands accused of shady dealings throughout his rule. These involve illegal pacts and secret ties with Stormveil's foes.”

Whispers erupted at once. Oscar pressed on, voice firm and steady.

“Additionally, he faces charges of conspiring with Reginald Fellowes, a notorious criminal and betrayer of Stormveil, and leveraging his power to place Reginald on the council of elders—despite Reginald's utter lack of merit or status.”

The outcry grew sharper this time.

Heads turned toward Randall, struggling to process the accusations.

With Draven's overhaul of the court, the fresh council Elders remained unaware that Randall himself had installed Reginald.

Draven's command sliced through the din. “Do you confess to this?”

Randall locked eyes with him boldly. “No, Your Majesty.” His denial rang firm.

Oscar went on. Crime after crime unfolded in detail—misuses of authority, twisted influences, choices favoring self over kingdom welfare.

And with each one, Draven posed the question. “Do you confess to this?”

Randall rejected them all with “I do not,” “I did no such thing,” or “These are lies.”

Tension thickened in the hall with every back-and-forth. No one foresaw this turn, not in such fashion.

Witnessing a King judge his own father so relentlessly—it shook even the veterans present.

Still, a realization dawned that Draven proceeded with purpose. His approach was meticulously precise.

Oscar arrived at the scroll's conclusion. His tone stayed even.

“The last accusation—Randall Oatrun deceived a woman of another race for selfish benefit, aiming to sire an heir.”

Chaos exploded in the hall. Shouts overlapped in shock and conjecture.

“Another race?”

“What does that even mean?”

“Does that imply His Majesty—”

Inferences blazed through like flames.

Randall's calm shattered at last. Stark horror crossed his features as he faced Draven. He never anticipated this exposure.

Not like this.

Not in this place.

Draven lifted his hand, quelling the noise instantly. “Oscar,” he commanded.

Oscar read further. “Records show this woman endured years of imprisonment, stripped of liberty, barred from sunlight and moonlight alike.”

A deeper hush followed. No outbursts this round—just the crushing impact of the disclosure.

Draven ignored the brewing queries. He offered no defense for himself, no insight into his heritage's shadows.

He stated plainly, “Randall Oatrun.”

All attention snapped back to the man.

“For your deeds, your power abuses, your offenses against Stormveil and those you held captive... I deliver my verdict.”

Randall's jaw clenched hard.

“You stand banished from Stormveil.” The decree landed sharp and absolute. “Never again may you tread these territories.”

A moment hung, then Randall's laugh burst out—brief, incredulous, laced with rage. “Banishing me? Me? Your own father?” he challenged.

His volume surged, control gone. “I brought you up. I shaped you into what you are!”

Draven faced the outburst coolly. “Precisely why you're here facing trial rather than instant retribution upon my discovery of your sins,” he replied evenly.

The hall froze at his words, yet he pressed ahead.

“I granted you grace. I let you stay. I even permitted visits to your grandkids.” His stare intensified. “Was that not enough?”

Randall gaped, rage and astonishment warring on his face. “You—”

Words deserted him.

Draven wasted no time. “Royal guards.”

Doors swung wide as guards entered swiftly.

“Escort Randall Oatrun to his manor. Let him collect his possessions. Then see him past Stormveil's frontiers.”

No doubt tainted his tone, no chance for plea. Finality sealed it.

Meanwhile, a quiet grin of contentment played on Dennis’ mouth.

Positioned amid the gathering, he observed the scene play out undisturbed, and as judgment's gravity sank in, regret evaded him—solely satisfaction bloomed.

Draven executed precisely what justice demanded.

Before quiet lingered overlong, Royal guards advanced, encircling Randall in tight, disciplined ranks.

Two reached to seize his arms on reflex, but Randall glared fiercely, pride igniting still.

“I'll walk myself,” he snapped icily.

The guards halted, retreating a step, vigilance unbroken.

Randall shot Draven a final glare, face shadowed by leashed wrath. “I never realized I fathered a monster.”

Draven held his stare unflinchingly. “If enforcing accountability and denying evil impunity brands me a monster, then embrace it.”

His tone held no fury, just resolve.

Draven glanced at the guards momentarily. “Guide him out.”

They moved at once, signaling Randall forward. He inhaled sharply, then pivoted to the crowd.

His eyes roamed elders, Alphas, Betas, officials—each face in turn.

“None of you uttered a word,” he proclaimed, voice booming clear. “After all I've sacrificed for Stormveil... all I've forged.”

Silence met him; no challenges arose against his fate.

“Mark this day.” His edge honed sharper. “For tomorrow, one of you might face my spot.”

His focus locked on Dennis. Dennis returned it squarely, face resolute and firm.

In that instant, comprehension hit Randall. Dennis offered no backing.

A glint of remorse flashed in his eyes—piercing, momentary. Then vanished.

With a gruff exhale, he spun and strode away.

Guards closed ranks around him without delay, ushering him from the hall toward the convoy awaiting at the Oatrun Estate.