Clara and Tiara sat in the spacious drawing room of their grand townhouse in the capital, the soft hum of the city's bustle filtering in through the open windows. The room was richly decorated, reflecting their success as prominent merchants. Clara, the elder of the two, leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful as she twirled a delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. Tiara, her younger sister, paced back and forth, her brow furrowed in frustration.
"I still can't believe it," Tiara said, her voice tinged with disbelief. "How can Draven, of all people, suddenly become this celebrated figure? It doesn't make sense."
Clara sighed, setting her teacup down on the polished mahogany table. "I've been thinking the same thing, Tiara. It's completely out of character for him. The Draven we know is cold, ruthless, and obsessed with his own power. He never cared about the earldom's prosperity, let alone saving queens and impressing students with his lectures."
