Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 117: The Council Members-1

When Fiona stepped out of her car in front of the King’s Castle, she wore an elegant business suit. Her royal navy coat, perfectly tailored, was trimmed with silver thread that shimmered when she moved. Beneath it, her style was effortless: high collars, fitted gloves, and jewelry inherited from her ancestors. A single pearl at her throat. A signet ring bearing the Raynor crest. Nothing loud. Everything intentional.

Fiona Elizabeth Raynor, the Ambassador of the Werewolves, head of the Raynor Clan, managed diplomacy with humans, other supernatural beings, and foreign werewolf territories.

Her hair was pinned with precision, not a strand out of place, though the glint in her steel-blue eyes suggested she’d been through storms few could survive. She did not smile often, but when she did, it cut sharper than any fang. She wasn’t beautiful in a fragile way... she was the kind of beautiful that made kings hesitate and assassins think twice.

Fiona climbed the steps and found two other council members already waiting.

One was Stellan Ragnar Fenroth, the Warlord of the werewolves and leader of the Fenroth Clan. As Supreme Military Commander of the werewolf forces, he was responsible for war, defense, and strategic mobilization.

Stellan looked like he had been carved from ice and iron. Broad-shouldered and towering, he carried a warrior’s frame forged by generations of survival and battle. His hair, the color of storm clouds... pale ash threaded with silver... fell in loose waves to his shoulders. He usually tied it back before entering combat. A short, rough beard shadowed his jaw, which he thought of as a symbol of his strength.

His glacier-blue eyes were cold and sharp, piercing through lies and diplomatic pretenses. They held the stillness of winter hunts and the promise of violence just beneath the surface. People said he could look at a man and imagine a thousand ways to end him.

A wolf pelt was draped across his back... not ornamental, but worn and battle-scarred, a trophy from an ascended beast he had slain singlehandedly in his youth. His leathers were reinforced with dark steel at the shoulders and forearms, shaped not for ceremony but for war. Etched runes marked his bracers and collar, symbols of his lineage.

Arara Neblina, the Watcher of the werewolves and head of the

rooted in illusions or cloaking magic but rather in extreme short-range speed that let them vanish between blinks. She was tall and lithe, carrying the grace of a jaguar stalking through dense

earthy bronze of the Amazon sun, toughened by years in the wild. Her eyes, sharp and deep amber, glinted like molten

flowed in thick waves down her back, braided with feathers and beads... symbols of her heritage and vigilance. Her features were strong yet elegant, with

jungle. There was a wildness to her, a connection to the ancient forest she called home, but beneath that lay a razor-sharp mind and a soul fiercely devoted to

was about to greet them, a

turned to see Dalisay stepping out of her car. She smiled. "No. In fact, you

good. I’ve advanced a small realm in ascendance in

course she had. Now, she stood on the

we can have a proper

the Cordillera Clan from the Philippines, oversaw bloodlines, mating, marriage, and family lineage within

silenced conversations and straightened postures. She wore woven robes dyed in deep indigo and forest earth, stamped with sigils passed down for generations. A cloak stitched from ancestral threads whispered in the breeze like the voices

within her clan. Her obsidian eyes held the

quiet authority... neither demanding attention nor needing it. The air around her pulsed with something sacred. To the werewolves, she was the Matron. To her people, she was the keeper of

platform. When Dalisay reached her, they