Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 118: The Council Members-2

At this time, three cars stopped one after another. Baatar, Amir, and Matthias stepped out from their vehicles.

Baatar Erdene Altanshagai, the Lorekeeper of the werewolves and head of the Altanshagai Clan, served as the guardian of history, traditions, prophecies, and ancient wisdom. He maintained ancestral records with a devotion few could fathom.

Baatar bore the stillness of an ancient mountain and the fire of stories untold. His weather-worn cloak, stitched with thread dyed from mountain herbs, whispered as he moved... each step deliberate, as if he were treading through time itself. His black hair was braided into a warrior’s tail, silver strands glinting like frost over stone.

Eyes like obsidian slits scanned the world not for threats, but for truths... those hidden beneath dust, blood, and legend. A carved wolf-tooth talisman hung from his chest, said to have belonged to the first guardian of the steppes. Around his shoulders was a heavy scarf patterned with ancient clan symbols.

He greeted the others with a rumbling voice that rolled like distant thunder. "Looks like we are the last ones."

This Mongolian born was the one who remembered what others forgot. Some said he could recite a thousand years of werewolf lore from memory. Others swore that his clan’s bloodline awakening process passed memories as though he had lived them himself.

Beside him stood Amir Anpukhet Ahmose, the Scholar of the werewolves. He was responsible for updating werewolf teaching modules and conducting supernatural research.

like the fertile Nile under a moonless night, reflecting the secrets of forgotten knowledge. His tall, lean frame

bronze of desert sun and river clay, smooth but marked with faint, intricate tattoos resembling ancient hieroglyphs. These traced his forearms and neck, shimmering subtly when touched by light, alive with

dark hair flowed to his shoulders, streaked with threads of silver that spoke of wisdom earned. He wore robes woven from fine linen dyed in deep ochres and lapis blues...

presence exuded a quiet power... reserved, yet undeniable. When Amir spoke, his

of Clan Graventhal of Switzerland. He was

precision in the Graventhal tradition, bore the insignia of balanced scales over a howling wolf... an emblem that spoke

missed nothing. Those who met his gaze felt exposed... measured not by status or strength, but by truth. He wore a ring forged from steel mined in the heart of the Alps, passed down through twelve generations of Arbiters. It never left

Matthias did not dominate with raw power. His influence was quieter... like snowfall that covered

But there’s another car behind us,"

each word seemed chosen with surgical precision. He spoke like a man accustomed to ending feuds with a sentence...

the lesser packs, he was a shield. To the proud clans, a mirror. To the Council, the

all three men placed their palms on their chests and bowed slightly, offering the proper respect due

Priest of the werewolves and head of the Harivamsa Clan of India, led the