(Third Person).
Dawn came quietly, a silver mist veiling the edges of the horizon, the faint hum of tension lingering in the air like static before a storm.
Draven's estate was alive with movement. Warriors and servants moved briskly between the cars lined up in the courtyard, loading bags, weapons, and fuel tanks.
Engines were checked, radios tested. Every sound carried a purpose—the calm before a carefully timed exodus.
From the balcony above, Meredith watched everything unfold. The morning air was cold against her skin, her hair pulled back neatly, her expression thoughtful.
Below, the werewolves worked like clockwork under Jeffery's supervision, while Dennis barked the occasional order, his energy sharp but controlled.
Draven stood apart from them near the main gate, speaking quietly to a few of his top warriors.
Even at a distance, his presence commanded the space—composed, steady, and unmistakably in control.
