Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 133: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

With a short but weighty speech, Matthias Halden Graventhal, the Arbiter of the werewolves, instantly commanded the attention of everyone present in the coliseum. Though his tone was measured and formal, each word carried immense authority and reverence. His voice didn’t need to rise above a steady pitch; it simply rippled through the crowd like an unseen force, bringing the chaos to a respectful stillness.

There were no cheers, no claps... only silence. A shared silence that bore the weight of tradition, power, and sacred expectation, as well as admiration.

After finishing his address, Matthias bowed slightly to the audience as a mark of mutual respect and stepped down from the podium. He walked with solemn grace to his seat among the other council members, where the remaining high-ranking werewolf leaders sat in quiet anticipation.

Moments later, the silence was broken by a booming voice that echoed across the coliseum like a sudden thunderclap.

"The Arbiter has spoken," the voice declared. "Now let the challenge commence!"

It was the event announcer, a member of Clan Graventhal himself, though he remained unnamed and unseen. His voice alone was enough to shape the tone of the ceremony. Deep, commanding, and precise... it was a voice carved for coliseums and battlefields.

"Now presenting, Lucian Greymoore of the Greymoore Clan!"

A roar of applause and wild howls erupted from the upper eastern gallery, where the Greymoore Clan proudly stood in unified support. Over a hundred members of the clan leaped to their feet, waving, clapping, and shouting Lucian’s name.

Lucian Greymoore strode into the arena like a conquering prince. His walk was confident, each step purposeful. Dressed in a sleeveless black combat tunic with the Greymoore crest emblazoned across his chest, he looked every bit the prodigious young alpha warrior he was hailed to be. His golden-brown hair was slicked back, revealing a face full of youthful pride and barely restrained arrogance. His muscular frame moved with a panther’s grace, and his fire-lit amber eyes scanned the crowd like a predator surveying his domain.

He raised one arm and waved proudly to his supporters, smirking as their cheers grew louder. He acted as though victory was already his. He acknowledged the crowd, basking in their admiration, and then turned toward the central circle of the arena.

Just as he lowered his hand, the announcer’s voice rang out again:

"Now presenting, Ethan Raynor of the Raynor Clan!"

The cheers diminished into a murmur of curiosity. Everyone leaned forward to catch a glimpse.

Ethan Raynor emerged slowly from a shadowed corridor beneath the galleries. His pace was calm, almost casual. He wore a simple black robe, the hood pulled low over his face so that only the lower half of his jaw and chin were visible. His appearance was starkly different from Lucian’s; there were no ornate crests, no visible muscles or intimidating posture. Just a quiet man in black, walking into the moonlight.

He did not exude the aura of a warrior. If anything, he looked like a mild-mannered scholar or a corporate analyst. Slim and toned, but not powerfully built, Ethan’s demeanor made him seem entirely unfit for a sacred werewolf duel. The murmurs turned into puzzled glances. Some even chuckled.

who had wandered into the

that impression didn’t last

a single voice from somewhere in the southern galleries shouted,

another voice joined in. Then another. And soon, the entire southern and western galleries

"Ethan! Ethan!! Ethan!!!"

of support grew so powerful that

around in disbelief. His

expected this. For a so-called underdog to garner

first time, Lucian felt a seed of doubt take root in his mind. It was small, but it was there. And it would

announcer’s voice returned, now with a tone

Holy Duel are as follows: You must rely solely on yourself and your powers. No external interference is permitted. Clans are permitted to send a representative in place of the challenger, but the

crowd listened In respectful silence. The time for spectacle had passed. Now it was

***

Notting Hill,

Notting Hill stood a majestic detached mansion... an architectural jewel of the 19th century. It was a double-fronted home built in the classic Italianate style, its white stucco

few. From the upper windows, one could see the neat lines of hedges and flowerbeds, a private paradise reserved for the elite residents of the Ladbroke

high ceilings and heavy crown moldings. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls of crystal. Large windows flooded the rooms with

John Constantine of Notting Hill inherited

of the Opposition Party Board and a man of logic, Constantine rarely gave in to irrational thoughts.

had crossed his

he had accidentally broken a mirror at noon. And just a few minutes ago, during dinner, he had knocked

blood ran through his veins, and though he called himself a modern man, now his old instincts

gnawed at him. Something was coming, something

mind, he retreated to his

his mahogany desk and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly and

a unknown deep voice of a man in front of

open your eyes and look at the